THAT FATEFUL FORTNIGHT AT ZUM SCHWEDENKÖNIG

I was, while writing this segment, getting all worked up about Beauty and the Beast (2017) and the Satomi Hakkenden, and later on about Kirakira Pretty Cure à la Mode, reminded me that I had barely posted any Baratheon Saga --including those missing snippets I promised. This one is some serious Jaimienne: this takes place during WW1 during the journey to Potsdam. Emotional turmoil, gender confusion, and final Jaimienne and gender reveal. Also some Savitri imagery... There will also ultimately be, later on between assignment and assignment on this struggle with Terminology, some Renloras shenanigans in the same AU. Mostly involving Rainer's promotion to lieutenant, and their reaction to the outbreak of war. But for now it's Jaimienne, white lies, and realizations.
(This is a quote from 2017 ;) sorry for the delay 'cause a lot got in the way)...


THAT FATEFUL FORTNIGHT AT ZUM SCHWEDENKÖNIG

The inn is called Zum Schwedenkönig. A portrait of a clean-shaven, messy-haired Charles XII in blue uniform is hanging from the wooden sign against the darkening evening twilight. She would have preferred Gustavus Adolphus; anyway, Charles XII was the original loser, the Don Quixote of the North. As Brünnhilde has learned by heart even since her early childhood:

"His fate was consigned to a barren strand,
a petty fortress, and a dubious hand;
he left a name, at which the world grew pale,
to point a moral, or adorn a tale."

"Sein Schicksal endete an fremdem Strand
vor schwacher Feste und durch niedre Hand.
Einst machte jedes Herz sein Name höher schlagen,
jetzt ist er nur ein Stoff, an Lehren reich und Sagen."

What a stark contrast to Gustavus Adolphus reeling on horseback and falling upon the battlefield of Lützen, indeed! In fact, the demise of Charles XII in a muddy trench and his utter lack of facial hair are also too reminiscent of the present, of the Great War, of the War to End All Wars. Still, it would be better off there than in the freezing outdoors for a change. So she tucks the handkerchief she wears in between the legs of her worn though elegant trousers --those of a lieutenant's mess uniform-- to make it a little bit puffier and for none of these strangers to suspect. They will see a young man, tall, blond, and freckled, with short messy hair and dreamy azure eyes. Surely an aide-de-camp or a royal guard, given that most striplings of his rank and youth are currently on either the Eastern or Western Front and "he's" stayed behind at court or at High Command, only to be recently sent to the war front as a messenger. The little girls will skip right before the dashing officer, and the little lads with wooden swords will gasp at the sight of a real lieutenant and ask about the frontline, to receive a cold and indifferent, short reply. The maidens will swoon at the sight, like they've done in every village or roadside tavern "he" has entered before, and the older ladies --their mothers, guardians, chaperones-- will caution them about not getting too close to a man in uniform during wartime. Some curious, indiscrete childlike voice will ask "what is the name of the Herr Leutnant?" And he will reply "Siegmund von Tarth." Right before Rainer fell, she had already lost her father to what appeared to be a stroke or a heart condition, and thus, Brünnhilde's male persona, who, about a fortnight ago, fled the front in a lieutenant's mess uniform --Rainer's mess uniform-- took the name of her single parent to honour his memory and as an anchor to her childhood. As a child, staying in Stralsund during the cold seasons, she often climbed up the ramparts of Fort Charles XII, remembering when her provincial outpost of a native hometown was besieged on three fronts -by Danes, Prussians, and Saxons- and that mockery of a Schwedenkönig held the last stand for the empire he had mostly lost at Poltava. Like always for King Charles, it proved a failure, and thus he sailed up north, while the blood-red Dannebrog flew from the ramparts of the fort and from the church towers. Then he would find a death not unlike her countless friends', in a muddy trench, thanks to a sudden headshot in the middle of the night.
The reaction of the female innkeeper, a hefty peasant woman who introduces herself as Mascha and appears to the "lieutenant" as enough amiable not to be a Madame Thénardier at all, and that of the other guests, is exactly as she expected. "Well, Herr Leutnant, since you have come all the way from Potsdam... I hope you will be so kind by giving the latest news to the Herr Oberst, right?" Mascha and then "Siegmund" turn their gaze towards a lonely table by the southern window, where an ostensibly thirtyish officer in an even more worn, yet even higher-ranking mess uniform (colonel or at least lieutenant colonel, she can tell from the insignia on his shoulder pads) is sitting alone before a one-liter tankard. It's an unkempt, surely half-drunken, stubbled, long-haired, filthy shadow of his former self. Looks a bit like a fallen-on-hard-times Charles XII when he stayed in Stralsund, then a provincial outpost under Swedish reign, and later on when he was killed in that Scandinavian trench. Coming closer to the Herr Oberst to sit by his side, wincing at his strong musk laced with blood, liquor, and perspiration, she asks... "May a middling lieutenant have the honour to sit by your side?" He merely nods listlessly in reply; she notices the sorrowful and irate look, of despair, in his absinthe-green eyes, the dark patina laid upon his shoulder-length hair and stubbled face, the scabbard hanging on his right side (since left-handers have always been an unusual sight, yet she holds no prejudice against them)... and the fact that his right arm is hanging as an empty sleeve, like a ragdoll's. A good wash and a clean shave are all this beast, this soldier in a bear-skin, needs to become a man again, for the gold to surface from underneath the grime.
Mascha returns; the Herr Oberst asks for some good strong Weinbrand ("Heavens know I am dying of thirst!"), while the younger Leutnant asks for the same kind of beer that the other officer had drunk. The expected question for news from Potsdam. Time to make up some white lies. "How fares Count Theibald von Lännister?" She's barely heard that name, saying he's all right and tending deftly to the affairs of war. "And how fares his daughter?" It's that question that turns "Siegmund von Tarth" off-kilter. He tucks his left forearm into his cleavage, struggles with opening the locket he has produced with awkward sinistral fingers, asks if the Herr Leutnant would be so kind to open it. The tokens of a beautiful lady come to view: on one half, a lock of shining golden hair that might be taken for thread of gold; on the other, a daguerreotype coloured with crayons of a noblewoman from right before the war, in corset and crinoline. Her eyes are coloured absinthe-green, just like the colonel's, and her hair is coloured golden blond. And he sighs as she shuts the locket and he tucks it back under his shirt.
"I have barely seen her, Herr Oberst. The duties of attending to the generals at High Command occupy most of my time nowadays..."
"So, the Herr Leutnant thus is not conveying any message of importance for a disgraced officer from Count Theibald or Countess Elisabeth von Lännister?"
As she innocently shakes her head, the older officer drains his cup of Weinbrand and falls reeling forwards on the table. Still breathing, yet feverishly, and his face is ablaze.
"We should bring the Herr Oberst to bed, and fetch the surgeon, or at least the wise crone!" At this point, that voice of command sounds like a real officer's. Everyone stares at the lieutenant and wonders why he would bring the drunken colonel to bed... "He's not only dead drunk... he's ill, with a bad fever indeed!" Seeing that not even the innkeeper herself seems willing to aid, Brünnhilde herself decides to spring into action, grabbing the unconscious man by the waist and trying to lift him up, feeling his arms lash against her sides. And then she realises that his right arm is missing from the elbow downwards. The pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place: the Herr Oberst, or so Hilde thinks, was betrothed to his beloved Elisabeth von Lännister, lost his right hand on the war front in one way or another, and, after convalescence, had to leave both the war and the engagement; now he's hoping for his bride or prospective father-in-law to reinstate his name and bring this tale of star-crossed lovers to a happy ever after, while he drowns his sorrows in a tavern in the middle of nowhere, as condemned as Charles XII. It's nice to see there is romanticism out there in this now heartless and disenchanted world. This would make a wonderful ballad, a feuilleton, or even an opera...
A deserter and a cripple, both of them wearing officers' uniforms as worn and bleached as their hearts, both worshipped by the locals and regarded by the military as outsiders. Wouldn't that make an even better opera? Finally, the innkeeper and some of the good countryfolk paid heed to the uniformed drunkard's real state. Now he lay tossing and writhing in a bed the Gasthaus had to offer, flared up, thirsty, drenched in perspiration, stark naked under the covers, his right stump having come to view. It was even suppurating, oozing pus or serum: the combination of filth and strong drink was allowing poison to enter his blood. This could be a deathbed scene as inglorious as that of Charles XII redivivus in her many frontline comrades; the heartrending climax of the feuilleton, the opera, or the ballad.
"Sissi!" he whispers, then he roars, every now and then. Commanding, giving orders for Sissi or for drink, or for both of them, every now and then. Eyes sometimes shut, sometimes wide open and blazing. So he loved the Countess von Lännister... The locket pendles on the cross-dresser's chest, right above her ambiguous bosom. They've sent for Kai Brunner, the local surgeon...  and thus, Hilde wonders whether the life of the febrile colonel will be saved. She pours a draught of berry lemonade (not beer, or brandy) down his parched throat, as he eagerly drinks it in, a deep draught. She touches his neck at the side of the throat that has risen and fallen with the welcome drink, feeling a throbbing, intense heartbeat like a roll of drums or a cavalry charge. This is a wavering heart, whose erratic pounding may suddenly be still when it's expected the least.
"Sissi...!!" he calls her. A loud gasp, glazed peridot eyes startled wide open before they wearily close again.
In his fever dream, he is standing in the middle of the vast throne room, staring at his own lovely reflection, left-handedly fingering and piecing together the answer to the riddle.
The throne room is made of gold, with emerald window-panes and scarlet tapestries dyed with the blood of the weak whom the strong have oppressed. A baroque golden throne stands empty behind the Oberst; the Queen has left her court and realm to inspire the souls of the generals and the high officers who are moving pieces of flesh and blood on their ominous chessboards.
"If you succeed in finding out the answer to the puzzle, I will give you the whole wide world finally at peace and a brand new right hand of solid gold."
Yet, no matter how much he combines the golden puzzle pieces in all different and most peculiar ways on the emerald floor, the answer has hitherto always eluded his grasp. Maybe because this puzzle was meant to be solved right-handed, which means that the Heartless Queen has always had a soft spot for paradox.
There are no affairs of state to tend to at this court, neither any childish amusement such as a tea party for the clockwork figurines or a little maypole dance in the garden of emerald hedges. All there is is splendour, vastness, and serious fun, her searing kisses having scarred his throat, his lungs, his heart to the point that he is barely capable of feeling anything but thirst for the air she breathes and arousal when they enter one another, right here on her now empty throne.
The air is also suffocatingly hot, but the hard-hearted officer, scarred within and without, can barely feel this sensation. The throne room contains an ovoid island made out of a single polished emerald, on which he sits, dressed in a mess uniform of scarlet brocade, his face clean shaven with whiskers and his long hair tied backwards into a queue, like royals and high officers look in storybooks, with the empty baroque seat and the golden puzzle pieces, a scarlet gold-lined cloak concealing his half right arm. This emerald island is surrounded by an ovoid lake whose crimson currents swirl around dizzily and seethe like oil in a frying pan; only the Queen may cross it --she brought the colonel on piggyback to her throne--, and she calls it the Phlegethon, the best, the loveliest out of all currents.
Never has he seen anyone so lovely; she reminds him of his late mother, of his estranged sister, clever and piercing emerald orbs framed in cascades of golden light, ripe peach-bosoms and curving hips framed even more in her ballgown of absinthe-green brocade.
But what was this sudden deep draught of cool, fruity liquid that suddenly trickled down his throat? A test from the Queen... or something completely different? It floods his pores, his throat, his vitals,  coursing through his veins and knocking at his heart to quench the painful fire... and, at one sole deep draught, he is finally laid to rest.
Pleasure past and anguish past.
Is this death or is it life?
Life out of death.
A fiftyish gentleman, with a friendly grey-whiskered face and a doctor's bag, entered the sickroom where the one-handed man lay, tossing feverishly under the covers, by the watch of a young lieutenant and in the light of a kerosene lamp. Kai greeted the younger officer with a friendly smile and eyes full of kindness -he certainly meant no evil- before auscultating the wounded one's erratic heartbeat and breathing, and examining his purulent stump. The heart and arteries barely reply; the wounded officer does not even blink an eye in reaction. The mercury column he places through the parted lips of the one-handed colonel rises up to slightly over forty degrees Celsius.
"These field surgeons know little to nothing... how much haste they make during the wars; this amputation was not performed properly... in fact, the same would have happened if it had been severed one or two decades ago. The prospect looks certainly grim..."
All the while Hilde sat back, anxiously awaiting the outcome of this struggle between life and death now that the cavalry of science had arrived. Was there no hope left, even with the healing arts of the newborn century? She had seen some wounded men die and others survive... and the Herr Oberst was still young and strong...
Please, young man, bring me a ewer and a large tub, and clean cloth... So did Hilde, hoping that Kai should be able to save the one-handed officer's life. "And pass me the needle," he continued after daubing the patient's throbbing brow with cold water and washing his purulent stump, giving him to drink from a little glass vial (which was always drained at a deep draught) every now and then, which gradually made the tossing Oberst relax and fall peacefully asleep, though his breathing was still shallow and strained.
Plunging the hypodermic needle into another, shut little vial, the surgeon injected that crystalline liquid into a blue vein that surfaced on the inner side of the colonel's left elbow, as Hilde watched closely and was astonished by his incredible sang-froid. How concentrated Kai was throughout the night, how he cut through right arm flesh as rosy as raw chicken (due to blood loss) to expose and stitch the severed artery, how he sliced up and cleaned, poured icy water upon and stitched the stump, paying special attention to stanch the blood flow (the one-handed officer shuddered a little, and his lips quivered, in response to the cold water poured on his stump), and how he fixed a steel hook to the end of the patient's right humerus, caring thoroughly for the fact that the system would not treat the hook as a foreign object.
By the time the sun was rising, the surgeon was ready to leave. Yet he felt the young lieutenant tug at his coattails, wondering how such a skilful healer, far more efficient than any frontline surgeon, had wound up in the middle of nowhere.
"But first I would like to know about why you care so much for... is he your commanding officer?"
Of course "Siegmund" denied it. Just saying that "he" was good-natured and that kindness to a stranger was all that he was obliged.
And thus Kai replied that he had found a kindred spirit, equally good-natured and earnest; definitely some glad company for the next days, when he would frequent the King of Sweden Inn to check the convalescent's recovery, as his skin was washed fair and clean, the stubble shaved away --whiskers and all--, and the golden head-hair finally shimmering like Jason's Fleece, bereft of all the dark grime.
"Sissi!" he had gasped, opening his startled peridot eyes for an instant, before sinking peacefully back into the pillows, the first time he came to his senses.
During those days of convalescence, of cool spoonfuls of foxglove syrup, and later of cordial, put to parched lips and drained at deep draughts --the rising and falling throat being the only visible sign of life--; of old gauze unwrapped and new gauze wrapped around the stump; of feeling for breath and pulse, each day slightly steadier, in a pocket-watch while applying fingertips to the carotid... during that eventful fortnight at Zum Schwedenkönig, these three wayward strangers got to know each other and a friendship blossomed, a friendship that gradually, upon reaching the stage of full blossom, would burst into even more intense feelings and realizations of the truth.
For how long had he rested? Weeks, days, a whole season? The wounded officer's sense of time had sped away with his state of health, his head not ceasing to swim. It was then that those unquiet fever dreams, his constantly parched mouth, and the pain in a right wrist blown away time and again in searing pain, made him look backwards at what had brought him to this sickbed. All the way long before he and Sissi were born. There was a reason for all that had occurred.
In his youth, just like Napoleon Bonaparte, Theibald von Lännister had once been a cadet, a lieutenant, an army captain... and a socially awkward stripling who preferred perusing military history books to engaging in the "serious" pleasures of strong drink and playing cards. Charles Bonaparte had been an outlaw in Corsica and breathed his last in a cliffside cave; Titus Flavius and his wife Regina von Lännister had died, for being liberals and Bonapartists, in a dungeon in Küstrin Fortress: the man of a heart condition and the woman in bringing her fifth and youngest child Gerhard to the world. The five orphans were taken in by different local officers' families; and so it came to be that a lieutenant and his wife in their late twenties took in Gerda and Gerhard, an older captain adopted Konrad and Heinrich, and the colonel of the regiment, the commander of the local garrison, took the eldest of the disowned lordlings for himself and his childless wife, Frau von Tharbeck, seeing in the defiant look in his eyes that this boy was worth far more than a middling life as the child of a subaltern officer. Theibald von Lännister (or rather, Theibald von Tharbeck) had been a thoughtful child, reluctant to make friends, ambitious, stubborn, and drinking in every last sip of knowledge within his reach. As a stripling, he was sent to military academy in Magdeburg --for Lichterfelde had not been founded yet--, that self-same Magdeburg on the Elbe which the Catholic League had once overrun; yet found no friends among the cadets, furthermore he heard whispers behind his back about a lad born in jail, a traitor's bastard, who aimed to give and take orders for Crown and Country, and Heavens knew if that was his true purpose. These rumours, and the perceived hostility of even his roommates, barely affected the young Theibald (in spite of his surname change)... except for hardening his heart and his backbone. It was then that his fear of weakness began to manifest. And that he began to look up to the Corsican Monster, whom the teachers and history books he adored portrayed as the wicked enemy, as a role model. The life of Napoleon Bonaparte had begun to mirror his own... Not to mention the one of Gérard de Villefort, né Noirtier, another descendant of liberal revolutionaries forced by the absolute monarchy to distance himself utterly from the shadows of his parentage, by becoming as harsh and stern and ruthless and conservative as possible. In fact, Gérard de Villefort, né Noirtier, held up a far better mirror to a young Theibald (or so he would always see himself identified, a parallel that would gradually unfurl more and more with each and every lustrum). Theibald had even gone as far as to change his surname by force, just like his fictional role model. He had for once had the surname of the commandant of Küstrin, his guardian, as Theibald von Tharbeck, before they told him of his true parentage and his eyes were forced wide open. 
And de Villefort had married a young marquise, whom he loved not too well but wisely, to find his niche... while his Prussian counterpart did exactly the same.
He first met Johanna, from the leading right-wing branch of House von Lännister, during her summer holiday in his first provincial assignment. She was a Potsdam debutante, not as much his senior as Josephine had been to the Corsican; Johanna was merely five years older than Theibald and still unmarried, her lady mother concerned that she should die an old maid, and her suitor loved her, not passionately, but reasonably (all of which were, by chance, exactly the same circumstances of Gérard and Renée de Villefort!). The friendless, awkward lieutenant, flustered whenever she was near, was sure that she, a soon-to-be court lady, would be betrothed to a man of her own standing and completely out of his reach... It came as a surprise like right out of a dream --and Theibald von Lännister was wide awake and despised intoxicants-- that her parents accepted his suit, seeing that, though ill-reputed, reserved, and cold, he was of von Lännister blood at the end of the day. And, seeing the situation through his eyes, she was, for once and for all, the Madame Renée de Villefort in this real-life retelling of the saga. While the von Tharbecks had fallen on hard times, and lived retired in what was called Schloss Tharbeck, but was essentially a glorified fruit farm.
It was Johanna who, before and after their wedding, had encouraged him to make the right friends and gain a foothold in high society; to rise up through the ranks of the Prussian military and get assigned to the royal guard itself, to relocate to Potsdam; she had furthermore given him two lovely children, as bright as twin stars... Theibald would never speak of the kobold or of the profuse bleeding, when she brought it to light, that ended his lady's life... He simply gave the kobold away to a servant to sell to a freakshow, announced in public that it had been a stillbirth, and then mourned his beloved Johanna. Tears he shed few, rather few, but his heart bled as if they had stabbed him in the left side, yet he still concealed it behind a façade as hard and cold as a display of strength in a statesman can muster.
He would never remarry and find a stepmother for the twins, knowing --after much meticulous pondering-- that the second Madame de Villefort, that poison snake called Heloïse, had been Gérard's downfall and that of the whole clan. It would have been far better if he had clung to the memory of Renée, never to have met his match. No. Maybe Gérard de Villefort, né Noirtier, had made that mistake; but Theibald von Lännister, formerly von Tharbeck, would never fall into that same pitfall. Or any other pitfall (or so he thought himself). The von Lännisters had to stick together, never to share the tragic fate of their fictional French counterparts the de Villeforts (which sounds ironic if we look forwards, considering that these tactics shoved them --not the de Villeforts, but the von Lännisters-- towards the opposite extreme, into equally drastic dysfunction and tragedy).
Jakob's father had been a detached parent, proud of his rank and gold, more concerned with affairs of state and the military than anything else. Yet the Count was quite harsh and stern on both the twins' shortcomings. For Sissi, it was maybe her tendency to pilfer liquor from the cupboard in the drawing room. For her brother, it was his left hand.
As a child, Jakob von Lännister was taught, or rather forced, to write with his left arm tied to his back.
He was far from the only sinistral to have been set right by their elders, but still one of those who took their new handedness most seriously.
"Really?" Brünnhilde asked, her eyes widening.
"They would smack me with a ruler quite frequently as well... I have always hated to read and write, preferring more physically active pursuits, because the letters danced before my eyes. I would have found it easier if I had been left-handed all life long... But of course my wrist was tied so tight that it hurt, and I had no other choice than to get it right, no matter how hard the task. Even though I, though born into privilege, have always been unlearned and only enjoyed literature if it was read out loud."
"It must have been hard for you to become an officer," the maiden and the surgeon sympathised. What had been quite easy for them had been a path of thorns for the wounded man due to his plight.
The Colonel sighed and sank once more into the pillows, as if his head were plunging into a cream cake, his bright green eyes firmly shut. He had always been ashamed of his left-handedness and, after he had been set right, of his strange way with the written word, of being unlearned in spite of the rank he held within society. But the warmth in those eyes and in those smiles above his feverish face was reassuring.
It was as if chance had chosen to sever his right hand for a good reason.
"I think I must have made friends among the officers of the regiment I led, if not such a lasting impression that they were ready to conspire to save my life; they were even wiping off their tears upon their sleeves. I will never know whether Count Theibald was unaware of it...  At the crack of dawn, as I was told to kneel and the black cloth was tied tightly before my eyes, my aide-de-camp tucked a sprig of larkspur into my buttonhole, and whispered in my ear to fall upon the ground forwards, face first, and hold my breath as soon as I heard the gunshot. I had also been told before to wear a watch in my breast pocket to stop the bullet. Left for dead before the firing squad, I would be quickly carried by Petite Curie to a fort, where I would remain as a friendly 'prisoner' under an assumed name until the close of the war. As an officer, of course I was unafraid to shed my blood upon the field of battle... but it is a very different thing to kneel, with bandaged eyes, and have a comrade aim at one's heart for disobedience of orders. I believe that my head began to swim, and then I was unconscious, for I remember nothing of falling, or being carried away, my first knowledge being that I was on my way to the fort... then this searing flame in my right wrist... When I came to, I was bedridden, my right hand gone, the stump well bandaged to stanch the blood flow, and the soldiers around me were strangers speaking Russian. The enemy had taken the fort, and, furthermore, my sword hand as well."
The closure of the wounded man's tale told without sugarcoating, of how he fled in spite of the Russian surgeon's recommendations, and his worries that his dear Sissi may have heard of his death either upon the battlefield or --far more inglorious-- by firing squad, brought tears to the eyes of the listeners.
"You were and are a brave warrior," Hilde sighed, playing with his now damp, newly washed locks. "To confront your old man, a more fearsome enemy than the French or the Russians, even if it meant to die an ignoble death, and to leave your post in such haste for a good cause... that takes real courage. You must have loved her dearly, as much as to have her to wife..."
Tears sprung up to his eyes. "I am doing all of this because of the weariness and the sheer absurdity of this bloody war. Think, poisoning our own men as well as the enemy, and maybe even innocents... As for my love life, I will never take up a wife..."
"Married to Prussia, right?" she asked, winking a blue right eye. He nodded listlessly, and she saw herself mirrored in his reply. She knew what it was like to admire someone beyond her reach with all her heart and soul. She would not even have taken Rainer to husband, only as her commanding officer. Married to Prussia as well.
The next day, his fever having cooled down, yet still pale and breathing shallowly, drenched in perspiration, the one-handed officer thought about the meaning of what had just happened, of the secret and cathartic events that he had told two people who were far less friends than strangers... yet somehow he had the gut feeling that they would keep the secret. The friendly surgeon and the stripling of a freckled lieutenant were trustworthy, they had been kind, they were nursing him back to health, to life, to hope. Hope that wavered like a flame in the storm, but still a strong flame at the end of the day.
Right after confronting his father and commander, and staging his own inglorious traitor's death, he had lost his right hand, the self-same right hand which he had been forced to use against his will, then accustomed to mechanically regard as the good one. He was now far more Jakob and far less von Lännister. He still kept the sinister hand, the sinister arm, those he had left were the good ones from the start, but the right --as with all the other things he had hitherto thought were right-- were dead and gone. Upon thinking of this twist of fate, the frog-woman's cards, before he left for the front, came to his mind's eye.
Death for change, the Hanged One for the world turned upside down and for self-sacrifice, the Five of Coins for destitution, the Four and the Nine of Swords for rest and despair respectively, most ominously the Tower for the fact that everything cherished would crumble... yet, at the end of the day, the Star for hope and the Queen of Swords for a broken, yet intelligent and freethinking woman. And now he had experienced change, spiritually died once if not twice, struggled to stay alive as he trudged through friendly and enemy country, and was right now confronting his demons and resting from the wounds of both his body and his spirit... the Tower of the Kaiserreich maybe struck down by lightning already, maybe reeling and falling apart as the German hosts wavered before the Allied counterattack... Who was the Queen of Swords? Not Sissi, that was for sure. Though completely unaware of his twin sister's fondness for Wenzel von Lännister and her cold utter disregard of her twin's alleged death on the field of battle, the Colonel could feel that she was worlds away. But did he know that the freckled stripling who assisted Doctor Kai was actually a maiden? So far, he had taken "Siegmund" being male for granted. Yet, as his recovery unfurled, he would soon discover the truth about her as well.
Yet the ice broke quite slowly and quite gradually. It was not until the bedridden officer could leave his sickbed that he discovered what lay between her legs, as he went down to quench his thirst from the village pond while she had a rudimentary wash.
She covered her muscle-like bosom with her right hand and her wispy blond bush with the left, like Botticelli's Venus; a mannish and awkward, flustered Venus, while he watched from among the brown bulrushes. And Hilde splashed him in the face, as if by reflex. That evening, she turned her blushing face away from both men.
"You know, I never had time for a wife," von Lännister said to himself with a sigh.
"I never had time for a wife either," Kai replied as he popped the customary mercury column through the convalescent's parted lips. "I never felt in love, never felt attracted... sexually. To men or women. I'm sure asexuality is a thing, Herr Oberst. This is, after all, a free country, even though I have been expelled from university after university. Humboldt, Leipzig, Jena, the Ruperto Carola, even Ingolstadt. Lovely fortress town, isn't it? They say the Baron von Frankenstein made his monster and brought him to life there... Ingolstadt, grave of Count Tilly and cradle of the Illuminati. Ironically, not even there could a degree be attained."
"And why?" both young people wonder.
"Because this thirst for knowledge, like Odin's, cannot be quenched. I sought the secret of life itself, the primeval reason why our lives unfurl as long as our systems function the right way, and why they fail beyond repair at the bitter end. Science has come a long way, and soon we will reach the adulthood of humankind, when everyone at least in Europe will be freethinkers. But there have always been powers that have barred this threshold. The Church, state authorities, right-wing in general. Some members of the intelligentsia spend too long looking at cells under their magnifying tubes for the establishment not to notice. Anyway, Wallenstein was a university dropout and still grew into a remarkable scholar by simply garnering real-life experience... Likewise, these wartime years as a regimental surgeon may give me the experience needed to carry out my research."
As a man of action rather than an intellectual, the Count of Lännister is at first unable to understand this revelation. It is the cross-dressing maiden who chimes in and breaks the heavy silence:
"We are outsiders, all three. Each in their own special way. A mannish girl under the flags, a high officer missing his sword hand, and a researcher whose quest led to the fact that a degree is still beyond his reach."
"Siegmund is right," the one-handed count replies as the surgeon takes the thermometer out of his mouth. "Siegmund... or rather..."
"Brünnhilde," she finally replies in a sincere contralto, neither looking away nor blushing, feeling completely unabashed.
"Like the leader of the valkyries." Looking down on his right stump, the Count feels a strange surge of emotions swirling through him: hope and shock and elation and impatience throbbing all at once.
"Thirty-eight degrees, Herr Oberst. Your system, though still recovering, is on the right path..."
Taking his right stump, all wrapped in freshly-changed gauze, she has slightly bent forwards and kissed it.
As both their healing hearts skip a beat. Though his non-existant wrist hurt again, the convalescent did not even wince, putting on a brave face as he counted the freckles in his new friend's face. She was, in turn, so flustered that it had made her thirsty, and asked for a glass of lemonade. "Make it two," the bedridden one replied. They clinked their cups, both held in the left hand, before draining them at one fell swoop.
Now there's no longer any need for cross-dressing at least for now, Hilde thinks. I am what I am, and it was not in vain that I crossed the paths of both of these men. I may not be a proper lady, but I am someone at the end of the day. Heart upon my sleeve. No longer reserved and shy.
It's hard to be left-handed if you have been set right from childhood, the Oberst, the Count... no, Jakob von Lännister the man has thought to himself. To learn to write anew, to wield a sword or a tennis racket (though this was neither the time nor the place for rackets) anew... with Brünnhilde tutoring him, like a young child worlds away from striplinghood would be by the best of governesses. But soon all of those weeks of training gave fruit; his pen danced deftly upon a snow-white sheet to write "Liebste Elisabeth!", and the letters no longer scrambled before his eyes.
He could read without any complications.
No longer would literature --whether prose, poetry, drama, or essay-- feel like a strange land to his eyes, no longer would he be feel unlearned.
She reassuringly held his stump and gave it now a kiss, now a warm caress, as a sign of warts-and-all acceptance. He lost himself not in those large azure eyes like summer lakes, but in the freckles that so often had been concealed by make-up during society events: he could see the North Star, the Seven Sisters, Cassiopeia... Those freckles never danced before his eyes either. And the severed wrist hurt no longer. The pain, the thirst, the fever dreams... all of that had faded away as well.
During all this time, he had forgotten that he had been a royal guard, a count, a colonel, and even right-handed.
While Hilde had reconciled herself with her awkward femininity and found constellations within those freckles which the world had hated, yet her father had called sunspots in an affectionate tone. Rainer Baratheon had not even breathed a word about that, in such cool and wistful tones that he was known for, and she had wondered why. Let him love another, let the storm of war claim him, for the right one is mine at last. We are ourselves, two lost souls who have found one another and who have found hope along the way we share.
In late August, the shire hosts a harvest ball. It is then that Hilde receives the folk-dress.
No breeches or cravat. Not sky blue to fit her bright eyes and fair skin... but rather the colours she hates the most.
Warm colours, shades that go from peach to scarlet through various shades of pink: the puffy-sleeved blouse is a very faint shade of peach, the waistcoat or corset bright scarlet, the apron a light shade of pink over a skirt just like a peony in shape and colour, underneath pale pink petticoats. A sharp, stark contrast to those sharp features and those rippling limbs that had enticed her to wear trousers since she reached puberty.
Still the local tailor, invited by Kai, had taken the unusual measurements and sewn it by hand especially for Brünnhilde von Tarth. Even if it's not the way she expected it.
Corsets and petticoats!
Now she stands in front of the bathroom mirror, completing the ensemble with a peony-pink shawl over her muscular shoulders and a matching flower-embroidered headdress in the same shade.
The constraints of the headdress, the corset, the petticoats make her long for the freedom of the uniform, of having a free waist and both legs free range.
Her face is freckleless in the mirror, as peony-pink as if it had been meant to suit the ensemble. She's so tall that the dress does not reach her ankles; in fact, it scarcely covers her knees. The pressure against the sides of her ribcage is stifling.
"Good afternoon, my valkyrie," the colonel says with sparkles in his peridot eyes, a wistfulness in his voice that sounds far more mature than Rainer Baratheon's. This is not a boy, not a stripling, but a grown man making a sharp remark.
She laughs heartily. Even at being called a "valkyrie" while wearing this awkward pink posy. Of course she had been called that, especially as a child, but Rainer had always seen her as a male friend and never said "valkyrie" to her in that manner.
While he will wear not his grimy bloodstained uniform, but the matching male ensemble, which mixes elements of the military --the brightly-coloured military of yore-- and those of peasants' holiday best: clad in lederhosen and a cream double-breasted doublet under a snow-white shirt, a fine silken scarlet cravat perfectly tied, his golden locks crowned with a fox-tailed top hat (decorated with the real tail of a red fox), and wearing shiny low shoes with shiny buckles instead of his worn Wellingtons.
If she were wearing that uniform as well... what would they say?
Deftly and courteously entwining her right arm in his left, both head to the shade of the village linden, where all the young people clad in similar attire have been waiting for the strangers, for the dance to begin.
His left arm in her right.
Both of them flustered with excitement and with awkwardness at the same time.
They will never forget that polka.
A band in the same regional attire playing a lively polka, and every man taking a maiden up to dance.
Even though they felt a tad strange, what with a missing right arm and an oversized, muscled frame in frills (in a skirt and petticoats that scarcely reach her knees), they had to dance as well.
"I have always had two left feet," she sighs, as his left arm wraps around her suffocating, corsetted waist. The light in those green eyes is warm, reassuring, as he smiles painfully to her alone.
"Thirsty?" he asks. She nods. "Lemonade... or something stronger?"
Lemonade is just fine. She has no need for liquid courage. And yet he's poured some brandy into her cup as well, without her knowing it. It tastes a bit odd and sears her throat. The better; though putting up a front, her face is still as pink as that frilly dress, erasing every single freckle.
Like a peony in full bloom.
And soon she's all flustered as the first movement, of the three every polka consists of, begins. Every man seizes his girl by the hands and vice versa, Hilde feeling the stump awkwardly resting on her left palm as he leads her, eyes wide shut, lightly tripping and skipping. Slightly bowing as the dance partner's leg advances forth towards one's own. Hopping on one leg and then on another. Left right left, briskly and brightly, but not to a military tread. She thought she was too heavy, and feeling all eyes upon her was something that definitely had never put her in the best of moods. That was the reason why she admired the unabashed Rainer Baratheon.
It was ages ago he swept her off her feet at that waltz at the engagement ball, a waltz far gentler and less lively than this folk polka. The rhythm is cheerful and carries anyone away, drunk or sober, no matter if it's a one-handed veteran or a mannish girl who looks ridiculous in pink. "Hopsasa! Watch out when you're about to swing! Hopsasa! Watch out when you're about to swing!"
The first and second movements pass thus swiftly by.
Now the last movement has come at last: all young men form a circle, clapping hands, while the maidens twirl around. "Rija faderija faderija faderallala, trallala!" When this movement is over, all men will turn around and each one will pick a girl for the next polka as dancing partner.
It hurts Jakob von Lännister and the boy on his right, a stripling spared the draft because of his slightly hunched back, that the stump gets in the way of their clapping. But it's how things are, he whispers to himself with a smirk and a smile of content. Hoping that she -the tallest girl, with the dress down to her knees and short messy wheaten hair, the valkyrie- will be the one closest to his back.
In the meantime, Brünnhilde von Tarth towers above all the other girls. She decides to stop behind the Colonel -after all, most of the other men, or rather blighters, are drunk and look really fierce. Best to take a safe choice of partner, one who cares for her, who can defend her. Though all eyes are upon her, she finally has found her center, the confident mood that she admired so much in her commanding officer.
"Rija faderija faderija faderallala, trallala! Uh, hopsasa!" At this "hopsasa!", when all the gentlemen turn around and all the maidens stop in their dance, standing right behind Jakob, he is as positively surprised upon seeing Hilde as she is at her choice of partner. Somehow, they have been able to read one another's minds.
They dance another polka, then a third, then it's the Count who gets thirsty and his valkyrie who goes forth for a tankard of Radler, ie lemonade-laced beer, to put into his left hand; hoping he will drink a deep draught and she is to reply smiling as honestly as she can.
It is then that the bear tamer of the fête troupe and his pet join the fun. The bear tamer is a foreigner, or a Romany, with a sharp Balkan accent and a sharp moustache and goatee. The female Ursus arctos, who answers to the name of Kaiserin, is two meters tall and of a respectable age, her fur the colour of chocolate. She had been taught to dance the polka by the fortunately discontinuated and cruel method of chaining her with hot steel beneath her feet (we are so lucky that few plantigrades are given this torture nowadays!) as the goateed man, Vladislav, played polka tunes on his accordion.
The sight of the one-handed man and the "valkyrie" caught his eye as well, and he resolved to put on a show... Smirking as he produced a flask of rakija, he strode towards the officer --for, though he was dressed in civilian attire, the thirtyish fellow wiping the perspiration from his forehead left-handed had the dignified air of an officer--, waving his flask and addressing the blond in German laced with a strong Slavic accent.
His throat parched with thirst, yet his eyes fixed on those sinister piercing black eyes, von Lännister stands transfixed in doubt. It is then that the valkyrie appears with a tankard of lemonade-laced lager. The performer asks her if she is thirsty as well, as she looks shyly away. As the Count puts the tankard to his lips to refresh himself, the Slav, pretending to trip, pours a generous dose of rakija in. "Excuse me," he then says with a low bow, as Hilde leaves the stand to bring more lemonade lager, looking over her shoulder upon leaving her partner on his own.
Raillery from that goateed fellow about his missing arm and about his choice of sweetheart, encouraging a toast to the end of the war, his own throat feeling dry and irritated... in the end, the officer drinks a deep draught and feels the foreign liquor searing, burning the inside of his chest as it goes down. Never had von Lännister drunk rakija before, and the strong draught storms into his bloodstream to take over completely from within.
"Whatever...?" he steels himself, his head beginning to swim, his consciousness struggling not to drown in rakija. The dark-haired fellow has, in the meantime, swept down to clasp his valkyrie in pink and frills.
Though she struggles herself to break free from Vladislav's cufflike wrists, she is caught in a vice grip and forced to dance with this violent stranger against her will. Left right left, but now it's more of a military pace, kicking his shins in rage while he has not even winced. Seeing her real partner stagger into the dancefloor --weary as a sleepy child--, Hilde gulps hard and steels herself as well: at the third movement of the polka, she will be able to break free and find Jakob von Lännister once more. No matter if he has been drugged: the effect will wear off sooner or later.
When finally the men close the circle and the maidens twirl around it once more, but the Colonel is feeling far too drowsy to join the dance... it is then that the bear enters the scene.
Kaiserin, set free by the troupe to enjoy the polka in the meantime, stands on her hind legs and dances among the maidens as awkwardly as a circus bear can  -and believe me, dear readers, it is really awkward-.
The paths of the valkyrie and the plantigrade have crossed quite unexpectedly.
....
(the count suddenly sobers up in seeing this scene; the "bear and the maiden fair" scene ensues)
....
"Wounds are for the desperate, blows are for the strong, balm and oil for weary hearts..." The verses pour like honey, deep and dark contralto honey, from her throat into his ears.
 "all cut and bruised with wrong..." he replies, choking back the tears. Though the author is British, this pair of lines is lovely. Somehow, those verses mirror their own feelings, earnest and open-hearted at last.
At last the day has broken, and the shadows and the creatures of the night are too light-shy to dare come out, even though the cruel storm of war still rages.
This is their rightful place. Their haven, their Eden, where both young lovers have found hope, rest, and respite.

INNKEEPING AND INCAPABILITY

https://rorymuses.wordpress.com/2020/07/26/healin-good-%e2%99%a1-precure-episode-17-core-of-the-job/
https://www.angryanimebitches.com/2020/08/healin-good-precure-episode-17-18/

MY OWN HUMBLE OPINION:
So Chiyu is not the only child I imagined...
Emily the Anglo girl:
Maybe Emoji (Emily/Toji) is the next OTP...

Dark Side of the Moony

A Remus J. Lupin musical by loki based on The Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd

Don't Bite Me/Grief
Based on Speak To Me/Breathe
During the first part of the song, one can hear biting noises, Greyback barking and young Remus Lupin yelling before being brought back home by a desperate Mr Lupin.
MR. LUPIN
Grief, Grief for my son
Shouldn't have left him alone.
I offended Greyback,
This is how this monster strikes back.
Bitten by nasty werewolves,
There's no chance his wounds will close
Will my young Remus study ?
Maybe if we can count on Dumby.
Die, Greyback, die
Hear the curses in my sighs
Poor Remus didn't deserve that bite
At full moon he will become a cause of fright
DUMBLEDORE
Don't worry, I will help him
In a shack we will put him
A Willow planted nearby
Will make Remus as harmless as a fly.

Not So Fun
Based on On The Run
Instrumental. Moony's screams as he transforms into a werewolf can be heard in the background instead of the original laughing.

Moon Time
Based on Time
Hogwarts' bell rings, dismissing the students
THE CHOIR:
Four boys of Gryff are hanging around since their first year
One is named James, and he seems to have no fear
Sirius Black is the group's playboy, and Pettigrew
Is a moon-faced boy who admires them because they're cool.
What they don't know is that Remus Lupin transforms every month
At full moon, goes in the Shack, and he becomes a werewolf
He is so terrified of what might happen the day
When his friends learn his nature, they will dump him for sure
solo
And he hides, and he hides from his three best friends, but they find out
Instead of dumping him they try to help him out
Become Animagi during their fifth year and from now on
During full moons, Moony's no longer alone.
Every night has become funner, as when in the Shack they're four
When he transforms at twilight, he's not a threat any more
Hanging out in the Hogwarts' park, and the Forbidden Forest
They call themselves the four Marauders, for Remus those days are the best.
JAMES, PETER & SIRIUS
Shack, Shrieking Shack
We like to go there at moon time
And when Remus has become Moony
We come to pick him up behind his tree
Wormtail first handles the root,
Followed by Prongs and Padfoot
Sneaking under the Willow,
Ain't we the Hogwarts' desperados?

The Grey Wolf in the Shack
Based on The Great Gig in the Sky
Instrumental. During the whole song, the high-pitched screams of a werewolf can be heard, more desperate and painful than ever.

Mooney
Based on Money
Instead of a coins nose, one can hear the stomping of an impatient stag and the barking of a black hound (and maybe a squeaking rodent too?) in the background.
JAMES, PETER & SIRIUS
Moony, get away.
Your pals come to check if you're okay.
Moony, no hassle.
Just come and we'll explore the castle.
Padfoot, Wormtail, Prongs, come on, Moony
It's full moon and time to party.
Moony, in the Shack.
It's all right, James' here and so is Black.
Moony, we're a hit.
A dog, a stag and a rat named Pete.
We are heading to Hogsmeade where Lily Evans
Chats and Prongs is having a glance.
Moony, what a night.
We four are marauding well out of sight.
Moony, did you see ?
Here comes Snape and he's looking wary
I know you don't want us to tease him
But let's see if he fears the Grim…
The Grim… The Grim…

Us and Snape
Based on Us and Them
SIRIUS:
Us, and Snape
That Slytherin guy is so uptight and lame.
He, hates us
If he had friends, perhaps he wouldn't make a fuss
Right from the start
Snivellus was never much apart,
He wants us expelled and he tries to spy
On us just like a mean bat.
JAMES:
Snape, is mad
No one knows why that lad… dresses so bad.
Look, Evans
Check out his nose, his dirty underpants
Hanged in the air, Snivellus wouldn't dare
To call Evans a Mudblood
I let him go, but he didn't mellow
He's such a disgusting bud
Buy, new pants
You are friendless, and jealous of all my talents.
Get, get out
You will never manage to turn us out, and out…
Out of my way, I'll hex you if you stay
One more second in my path.
Snog your cauldron, go out with a potion
We'll have both peace and a laugh.

Animagi You Like
Based on Any Colour You Like
Instrumental : during which a delightful Remus meets his animagi friends and visit Hogwarts' grounds.

Snape Damaged
Based on Brain Damage
THE CHOIR:
The werewolf is in the shack
The werewolf is in the shack
Here comes a man, he was informed by Black
Doesn't know he's risking an attack.
The werewolf is transforming
The werewolf is transforming
Snape finds the passage, he's already smirking
Doesn't know Lupin is awaiting.
If Potter hadn't come to stop his enemy
The wolf would have shown him no mercy
And though he has been saved, Snape saw it quite clearly
He's discovered the dark side of the Moony
The werewolf is R. Lupin
The werewolf is R. Lupin
Black's joke was mean, could have been killed,
Snape has to take it out on him.
He has a debt, he owes Potter his life
He's never been more upset in his life.
Behind his greasy nose Snape is resentful
He can't believe he has been fooled
And if someday he can reveal it properly,
He's discovered the dark side of the Moony.

The Marauders
Based on Eclipse
Here is Padfoot
Here is Wormtail
Here is Remus
Here is James.
Here is Lily
Who married Potter
And here they come
The Marauders.
Here is Voldy
Don't join him, Pete
Don't betray them,
You've always lacked wits.
Lily and James
Unexpectedly
Made Pete the Keeper
Instead of Moony.
And when came July
At Godric's Hollow
Wormtail sold Lily
To Lord Voldemort
Voldemort came
James, Lily slain
But their son survived
And Padfoot in jail, Pettigrew went hiding
And the only remainder was Moony.

SCENES FROM PROVINCIAL DENMARK (ANDERSEN)

All the scenes from "the strange town" or "den fremmede by" in Lykke-Peer - Lucky Per by HC Andersen Just to give you a taste of what provincial life, as opposed to both rural and capitaline life, was like in old Scandinavia in the Victorian era. It may be Andersen satirising provincialism (and thus calling the kettle black, for he was a born and bred provincial)... This could as well be general provincialism anywhere in any Western hinterland, including Stratford or Hasetsu, Lützen or my own native Castellón, in the same not-so-distant past. In fact "det fremmede by", the provincial town in Lykke-Peer, is based upon Slagelse... 
(please google "andersen slagelse" or click on this link to the local wiki for more on this community and its impact on HC Andersen's life!)

Summary: "... is sent to school in a provincial town. Here ... is recruited into the town's acting company and creates a local sensation playing Romeo opposite the Juliet of the apothecary's daughter with whom ... falls in love. [···]  At this happy moment, ... learns that the apothecary's daughter has married.
[···]
... endures a period of exile in a distant provincial town. That this event represents a turning point in ... 

 is obvious enough (Peer has just been confirmed into the church [LP, 259]). That it is to start him down the path that will ultimately lead him to his death is less clear - unless the reader pays close attention to the somber imagery of the rail journey which takes him away from his happy childhood into the complexities of adulthood. ... travelling companion is the blackclad "Enkemadame" whose entire conversation revolves around death and the grave:

Hun talte om sin Grav, sin Liigkiste og sit Liig, det vil sige om sit Barns. Det var en stor Lettelse for hende og det lille Lam, at det sov ind. (LP, 260)

It is under the dark cloud of this morbid reminder of an early grave that ... arrives at ... destination to begin this critical phase of ... life. Despite the ironic humor with which the narrator has described the rail journey, ... circumstances can hardly be deemed unequivocally auspicious. ..., after all, ... now faces an uncertain future. Nor is ... first night at the home of the Gabriel family at all reassuring:

Hvad man drømmer den første Nat, man sover i et fremmed Huus, har Betydning, havde Farmoer sagt. Peer drømte, at han tog Ravhjertet, han endnu bestandig bar, lagde det i en Urtepotte, og det voxte til et høit Træ, gjennem Loftet og Taget; det bar i tusindviis Hjerter af Sølv og Guld; Urtepotten revnede derved, og der var intet Ravhjerte meer, det var blevet Muld, Jord i Jorden - borte, altid borte. (LP, 26465)

This dream encapsulates the tragic irony that is to be Peer's fate: his genius, represented by the amber heart, will swell to great proportions but will in the process destroy Peer's fragile earthly existence, symbolized by the mundane flower pot.

Another unmistakable allusion to Peer's death, and one that suggests that Peer would welcome such a demise, occurs shortly after Peer has taken the provincial town by storm as the illstarred lover in the local production of "Romeo and Juliet". The pedantic Hr. Gabriel attempts to bring Peer back to his studies by setting up as role models great men of the past. One of Hr. Gabriel's examples is the aged Sophocles, who "havde i sin høie Alder skrevet en af sine bedste Tragedier og vundet Seiersprisen over alle de Andre; i denne Hæder og Lykke brast af Glæde hans Hjerte" (LP, 269-70). What is particularly striking about this passage is Peer's reaction to it: Not only does Peer accept the possibility of death at the hour of supreme triumph, he embraces it: "O hvor velsignet at døe midt i sin Seiers Glæde! hvad kunde være lykkeligere! Tanker og Drømmerier fyldte vor lille Ven" (LP, 270). Note that the narrator has here given us a parallel to the prophetic dream of the amber heart discussed above; both foreshadowings include the motif of death at the apex of success. And both contain the motif of the heart's "bursting", which is precisely what happens to Peer (a coronary artery stroke) at the conclusion of the novel. During his second year with the Gabriels, Peer has another portentous dream.

En Nat drømmer han, at det var Pintse, og han var ude i den deilige, grønne Skov, hvor Solen skinnede ind imellem Grenene, og hvor hele Skovbunden stod fyldt med Anemoner og Kodriver. Saa begynder Kukkeren: "kukkuk!" Hvor mange Aar skal jeg leve, spørger Peer, for det spørger man altid Kukkeren om, naar man første Gang i Aaret hører den kukke, og Kukkeren svarede: "kukkuk!" men heller ikke mere, saa taug den.
" Skal jeg kun leve endnu i eet Aar!" sagde Peer, "det er virkeligt altfor lidt. Vær saa god at kukke om!" saa begyndte ogsaa Kukkeren: "kukkuk! kukkuk!" ja, den fik ingen Ende ". (LP, 275)

Initially, the narrator makes a point of having the cuckoo give but one trill and then fall silent, an ominuous warning that Peer finds unsatisfactory and chooses to ignore. By compelling the cuckoo-bird to sing again, he attempts to avert his "fate"; but both Peer and the reader should realize that it is the first, and not the second, cuckooing that is the valid predictor of the future. - In actuality, of course, Peer does live more than the single year prophesied by the original solitary trill of the cuckoo. Furthermore, as the quiet dreamsinging portends, Peer does recover his singing voice but he does not enjoy the long life that the bird was coerced into singing out to him the second time.

After more than two years in limbo,  Peer is allowed to return home. At this juncture, yet another prefigurative event intrudes. Peer becomes ill and nearly dies. The illness alone would be foreboding enough, occurring as it does when Peer's happiness is about to reach one of its highest points. Making the situation symbolically more sinister is Peer's delirious dream in which the "Elverpiger" nearly succeed in seducing him into forsaking both human companionship and life itself. To insure that this message is not lost on the reader, the narrator remarks that the feverish Peer happens to think of:

den gamle Sang om Ridder Oluf, der red ud at byde Gjester til sit Bryllup, men standsedes af Elverpigerne, som droge ham ind i deres Dands og Leeg, og det voldte hans Død. (LP, 278)¹¹

Peer manages to break the spell of the "Elverpiger" and regain his health only by crying out to heaven and by singing hymns with his grandmother. Peer has narrowly averted death this time, but the reader has been given a sobering reminder that Peer is all too mortal, that death lurks unnervingly around the corner.

... despondency over the news of the marriage of ... first love, the daughter of the apothecary in the provincial town where ... had previously been "exiled".

modstykke, som på flere måder er ufin overfor ham, bl.a. i forholdet til hans første kærlighed, den ganske vist meget småborgerlige apotekerdatter Julie; 

[···]

Centrale i bogens midterdel er rektor Gabriel og sceneriet om ham, især hans kone. Med de førstnævnte bipersoner er de fælles om at give grinagtige indtryk af en indespærret småborgerlighed; men Johan de Mylius5 påpeger præcist, at denne latterliggørelse har sin pris, fordi den ikke giver noget andet billede af almindelig menneskelighed, men graver grøfter mellem borgerlighed og dannelse.

***************************

IV

... was to go one hundred and twenty miles (from the capital), to board with a schoolmaster (ie headmaster) who boarded a couple of other young men. There one was to learn language and science, which someday would be useful to one. The charge for a year's course was three hundred dalers, and that was paid by a "benefactor who does not wish his name to be known."

... the hundred and twenty miles on the railway, out into the wide world. It was Whitsuntide. The sun shone, and the woods were fresh and green; the train went rushing through them; new fields and villages were continually coming into view; country manors peeped out; the cattle stood in the pastures. Now they passed a station, then another, and market town after market town. At each stopping place there was a crowd of people, welcoming or saying good-by; there was noisy talking, outside and in the carriages. ... there was a lot of entertainment and chattering by a widow dressed in black. She talked about his grave, his coffin, and his corpse - meaning her child's. It had been such a poor little thing that there could have been no happiness for it had it lived. It had been a great relief for her and the little lamb when it had fallen asleep.

"I spared no expense on flowers on that occasion!" she said; "and you must remember that it died at a very expensive time, when the flowers had to be cut from potted plants! Every Sunday I went to my grave and laid a wreath on it with great white silk bows; the silk bows were immediately stolen by some little girls and used for dancing bows; they were so tempting! One Sunday I went there, and I knew that my grave was on the left of the main path, but when I got there, there was my grave on the right. 'How is this?' says I to the gravedigger. 'Isn't my grave on the left?'

" 'No, it isn't any longer!' the gravedigger answered. 'Madam's grave lies there all right, but the mound has been moved over to the right; that place belongs to another man's grave.'

" 'But I want my corpse in my grave,' says I, 'and I have a perfect right to say so. Shall I go and decorate a false mound, when my corpse lies without any sign on the other side? Indeed I won't!'

" 'Then Madam must talk to the dean.'

"He is such a good man, that dean! He gave me permission to have my corpse on the right. It would cost five dollars. I gave that with a kiss of my hand and walked back to my old grave. 'Can I now be very sure that it is my own coffin and my corpse that is moved?'

" 'That Madam can!' And so I gave each of the men a coin for the moving. But now, since it had cost so much, I thought I should spend something to make it beautiful, and so I ordered a monument with an inscription. But - will you believe it - when I got it, there was a gilded butterfly painted at the top. 'Why, that means Frivolity,' said I. 'I won't have that on my grave.'

" 'It is not Frivolity, Madam; it is Immortality.'

" 'I never heard that,' said I. Now, have any of you here in the carriage ever heard of a butterfly as a sign for anything but Frivolity? I kept quiet. I don't like long conversations. I composed myself, and put the monument away in my pantry. There it stood till my lodger came home. He

is a student and has so many, many books. He assured me that it really stood for Immortality, and so the monument was placed on the grave."

And during all the chatter, ... arrived at the station of the town where ... 

was to live, and become just as wise as the student, and have just as many books.

V

Herr Gabriel, the honorable man of learning with whom Peer was to live as a boarding scholar, was at the railway station, to call for him. Herr Gabriel was a man as thin as s skeleton, with great, shiny eyes that stuck out so very far that one was almost afraid that when he sneezed they would pop out of his head entirely. He was accompanied by three of his own little boys; one of them stumbled over his own legs, and the other two stepped all over Peer's feet in their eagerness to get a close view of him. Two larger boys were with them, the older about fourteen years, fair-skinned, freckled, and full of pimples.

"Young Madsen, who will be a student in about three years, if he studies! Primus, son of a dean." That was the younger, who looked like a head of wheat. "Both are boarders, studying with me," said Herr Gabriel. "Our small stuff," he called his own boys.

"Trine, bring the newcomer's trunk on your wheelbarrow. The table is set for you at home."

"Stuffed turkey!" said the other two young gentlemen boarders.

"Stuffed turkey!" said the "small stuff"; and again one of them fell over his own legs.

"Caesar, look after your feet!" exclaimed Herr Gabriel.

And they walked into town and then out of it. There stood a great half-tumbled-down timber house, with a jasmine-covered summerhouse, facing the road. Here Madam Gabriel waited with more "small stuff," two little girls.

"The new pupil," said Herr Gabriel.

"A most hearty welcome!" said Madam Gabriel, a youthful, well-fed woman, red and white, with spit curls and a lot of pomade on her hair.

"Good heavens, how grown-up you are!" she said to Peer. "Why, you are a fully developed gentleman already. I thought that you were like Primus or young Madsen. Angel Gabriel, it's a good thing the inner door is nailed. You know what I think." "Nonsense!" said Herr Gabriel. And they stepped into the room. There

was a novel on the table, lying open, and a sandwich on it. One might have thought that it had been placed there as a bookmark - it lay across the open page.

"Now I must be the housewife!" And with all five of her children, and the two boarders, she showed Peer through the kitchen, and the hallway, and into a little room, the windows of which looked out on the garden; that was to be his study and bedroom; it was next to Madam Gabriel's room, where she slept with all the five children; the connecting door, for decency's sake, and to prevent gossip "which spares nobody," had been nailed up by Herr Gabriel that very day, at Madam's express request.

"Here you can live just as if you were at your parents'. We have a theater, too, in the town. The pharmacist is the director of a private company, and we have traveling players. But now you are going to have your turkey." And so she showed Peer into the dining room, where the wash was drying on a line.

"That doesn't do any harm," she said. "It is only cleanliness, and that you are surely accustomed to."

So Peer sat down to eat the roast turkey while the children of the house, but not the two boarders, who had withdrawn, gave a dramatic show for the entertainment of themselves and the stranger. There had lately been a traveling company of actors in town, which had played Schiller's The Robbers. The two oldest boys had been immensely taken with it. And they now performed the whole play at home - all the parts, notwithstanding that they remembered only these words: "Dreams come from the stomach." But they were spoken by all the characters in different tones of voice. There stood Amelia, with heavenly eyes and a dreamy look. "Dreams come from the stomach!" she said, and covered her face with both her hands. Carl Moor came forward with a heroic stride and manly voice, "Dreams come from the stomach," and at that the whole flock of children, boys and girls, rushed in; they were all robbers, and murdered one another, crying out, "Dreams come from the stomach."

That was Schiller's The Robbers. This performance and stuffed turkey were Peer's first introduction into Herr Gabriel's house. He then went to his little chamber, where through the window, into which the sun shone warmly, he could see the garden. He sat down and looked out. Herr Gabriel was walking there, absorbed in reading a book. He came closer and looked in; his eyes seemed fixed upon Peer, who bowed respectfully. Herr Gabriel opened his mouth as wide as he would, stuck out his tongue, and let it wag from one side to the other right in the face of the astonished Peer, who could not understand why he was treated in

such a manner. Whereupon Herr Gabriel left, but then turned back to the window and again stuck his tongue out of his mouth.

Why did he do that? He was not thinking of Peer, or that the panes of glass were transparent from the outside; he saw only the reflection of himself in them, and he wanted to look at his tongue, as he had a stomach-ache, but Peer did not know all this.

Early in the evening Herr Gabriel went into his room, and Peer sat in his. Much later in the evening he heard quarreling - female quarreling - in Madam Gabriel's bedroom.

"I am going up to Gabriel and tell him what rascals you are!"

"We will also go to Gabriel and tell him what Madam is!"

"I shall have a fit!" she cried.

"Who wants to see a woman in a fit! Four skillings!"

Then Madam's voice sank deeper, but was distinctly heard. "What will the young man in there think of our house when he hears all this vulgarity!" At that the quarrel subsided, but then again rose louder and louder.

"Period! Finis," cried Madam. "Go and make the punch; it's better to agree than to quarrel!"

And then it was still. The door opened, and the girls left, and then Madam knocked on the door to Peer's room.

"Young man, now you have some idea of what it is to be a housewife. You should thank heaven that you don't have to bother with girls. I want to have peace, so I give them punch. I would gladly give you a glass - one sleeps so well after it - but no one dares go through the hallway door after ten o'clock; my Gabriel will not permit it. But you shall have some punch, nevertheless. There is a big hole in the door, stopped up with putty; I will push the putty out and put a funnel through the hole; you hold your waterglass under it, and I shall pour you some punch. Keep it a secret, even from my Gabriel. You must not worry him with household affairs."

And so Peer got his punch, and there was peace in Madam Gabriel's room, peace and quiet in the whole house. Peer went to bed, thought of his mother and grandmother, said his evening prayer, and fell asleep. What one dreams the first night one sleeps in a strange house has special significance, Grandmother had said. Peer dreamed that he took the amber heart, which he still constantly wore, laid it in a flowerpot, and it grew into a great tree, up through the ceiling and the roof; it bore thousands of hearts of silver and gold, so heavy that the flowerpot broke, and it was no longer an amber heart - it had become mold, earth to earth - gone, gone forever! Then Peer awoke; he still had the amber heart, and it was warm, warm against his own warm heart.

VI

Early in the morning the first study hours began at Herr Gabriel's. They studied French. At lunch the only ones present were the boarders, the children, and Madam. She drank her second cup of coffee here; her first she always took in bed. "It is so healthy when one is liable to spasms." She asked Peer what he had studied that day.

"French," he answered.

"It is an expensive language!" she said. "It is the language of diplomats and one used by distinguished people. I did not study it in my childhood, but when one is married to a learned man one gains from his knowledge, as one gains from his mother's milk. Thus, I have all the necessary words. I am quite sure I would know how to express myself in whatever company I happened to be."

Madam had acquired a foreign name by her marriage with a learned man. She had been baptized Mette after a rich aunt, whose heir she was to have been. She had got the name, but not the inheritance. Herr Gabriel rebaptized Mette as Meta, the Latin word for measure. At the time of her wedding, all her clothes, woolen and linen, were marked with the letters M. G., Meta Gabriel; but young Madsen, who was a witty boy, interpreted the letters M. G. to be a mark meaning "most good," and he added a big question mark in ink, on the tablecloths, the towels, and the sheets.

"Don't you like Madam?" asked Peer, when young Madsen made him privately acquainted with this joke. "She is so kind, and Herr Gabriel is so learned."

"She is a bag of lies!" said young Madsen; "and Herr Gabriel is a scoundrel. If I were only a corporal, and he a recruit, oh, how I would discipline him!" And a bloodthirsty expression came to young Madsen's face; his lips grew narrower than usual, and his whole face seemed one great freckle.

There were terrible words to hear, and they gave Peer a shock; yet young Madsen had the clearest right to think that way. It was a cruel thing on the part of parents and teachers that a fellow had to waste his best time, delightful youth, on learning grammar, names, and dates, which nobody cares anything about, instead of enjoying his liberty relaxing, and wandering about with a gun over his shoulder like a good hunter. "No, one has to be shut in and sit on a bench and look sleepily at a book; Herr Gabriel wants that. And then one is called lazy and gets the mark 'passable'; yes, one's parents get letters about it; that's why Herr Gabriel is a scoundrel."

"He gives lickings, too," added little Primus, who agreed with young Madsen. This was not very pleasant for Peer to hear. But Peer got no lickings; he was too grown-up, as Madam had said. He was not called lazy, either, for that he was not. He had his lessons alone. He was soon well ahead of Madsen and Primus.

"He has ability!" said Herr Gabriel.

"And one can see that he has been to dancing school!" said Madam.

"We must have him in our dramatic club," said the pharmacist, who lived more for the town's private theater than for his pharmacy. Malicious people applied to him the old stale joke that he must have been bitten by a mad actor, for he was completely insane about the theater.

"The young student was born for a lover," said the pharmacist. "In a couple of years he could be Romeo; and I believe that if he were well made up, and we put a little mustache on him, he could very well appear this winter."

The pharmacist's daughter - "great dramatic talent," said the father; "true beauty," said the mother - was to be Juliet; Madam Gabriel had to be the nurse, and the pharmacist, who was both director and stage manager, would take the role of the apothecary, which was small but of great importance. Everything depended on Herr Gabriel's permission for Peer to play Romeo. This had to be worked through Madam Gabriel; one had to know how to win her over - and this the pharmacist knew.

"You were born to be the nurse," he said, and thought that he was flattering her exceedingly. "That is actually the most important part in the play," he continued. "It is the comedy role; without it, the play would be too sad to sit through. No one but you, Madam Gabriel, has the quickness and life that should sparkle here."

All very true, she agreed, but her husband would surely never permit the young student to contribute whatever time would be required to play the part of Romeo. She promised, however, to "pump" him, as she called it. The pharmacist immediately began to study his part, and especially to think about his make-up. He wanted to look almost like a skeleton , a poor, miserable fellow, and yet a clever man - a rather difficult problem. But Madam Gabriel had a much harder one in "pumping" her husband to give his permission. He could not, he said, answer for it to Peer's guardians, who paid for his schooling and board, if he permitted the young man to play in tragedy. We cannot conceal the fact, however, that Peer had the greatest desire to do it. "But it won't work," he said.

"It's working," said Madam; "only let me keep on pumping." She would have given him punch, but Herr Gabriel did not like to drink it. Married people are often different; this is said without any offense to Madam.

"One glass and no more," she thought. "It elevates the mind and makes one happy, and that's what we ought to be - it is our Lord's will with us."

Peer was to be Romeo; that was pumped through by Madam. The rehearsals were held at the pharmacist's. They had chocolate and "genii" - that is to say, small biscuits. These were sold at the bakery, twelve for a penny, and they were so exceedingly small, and there were so many, that it was considered witty to call them genii.

"It is an easy matter to make fun," said Herr Gabriel, although he himself often gave nicknames to one thing and another. He called the pharmacist's house "Noah's ark, with its clean and unclean beasts," and that was only because of the affection which was shown by that family toward their pets; the house was full of all kinds of animals. The young lady had her own cat, Graciosa, which was pretty and soft-skinned; it would lie in the window, in her lap, on her sewing work, or run over the table spread for dinner. The wife had a poultry yard (ie a chicken coop), a duck yard, a parrot, and canaries - and Polly Parrot could outcry them all together. Two dogs, Flick and Flock, walked about in the living room; they were by no means perfume bottles, and they lay on the sofa and on the family bed.

The rehearsal began, and it was only interrupted a moment by the dogs slobbering over Madam Gabriel's new gown, but that was out of pure friendship and it did not spot it. The cat also caused a slight disturbance; it insisted on giving its paw to Juliet and sitting on her head and wagging its tail. Juliet's tender speeches were divided equally between cat and Romeo. Every word that Peer had to say was exactly what he wished to say to the pharmacist's daughter. How lovely and charming she was, a child of nature, who, as Madam Gabriel expressed it, was perfect for the role. Peer began to fall in love with her.

There surely was instinct or something even higher in the cat. It perched on Peer's shoulders as if to symbolize the sympathy between Romeo and Juliet. With each successive rehearsal Peer's fervor became stronger, more apparent; the cat became more confidential, the parrot and the canaries noisier; Flick and Flock ran in and out. The evening of the performance came, and Peer was a perfect Romeo; he kissed Juliet right on her mouth.

"Perfectly natural!" said Madam Gabriel.

"Disgraceful!" said the Councillor, Herr Svendsen, the richest bourgeois and fattest man in the town. The perspiration poured from him; it was warm in the house, and warm within him as well. Peer found no favor in his eyes. "Such a puppy!" he said; "a puppy so long that one could break him in half and make two puppies of him."

Great applause - and one enemy! That was having good luck. Yes, Peer was a Lucky Peer. Tired and overcome by the exertions of the evening and the flattery shown him, he went home to his little room. It was past midnight; Madam Gabriel knocked on the wall.

"Romeo! I have some punch for you!"

And the funnel was put through the hole in the door, and Peer Romeo held his glass under.

"Good night, Madam Gabriel."

But Peer could not sleep. Everything he had said, and particularly what Juliet had said, buzzed through his head, and when he finally fell asleep he dreamed of a wedding - a wedding with Miss Frandsen! What strange things one can dream!

VII

"Now get that play-acting out of your head," said Herr Gabriel the next morning, "and let's get busy with some science."

Peer had come near to thinking like young Madsen, that a fellow was wasting his delightful youth being shut in and sitting with a book in his hand. But when he sat with his book, there shone from it so many noble and good thoughts that Peer found himself quite absorbed in it. He learned of the world's great men and their achievements; so many had been the children of poor people: Themistocles, the hero, son of a potter; Shakespeare, a poor glover's boy, who as a young man held horses outside the door of the theater, where later he was the mightiest man in poetic art of all countries and all time. He learned of the singing contest at Wartburg, where the poets competed to see who would produce the most beautiful poem - a contest like the old trial of the Grecian poets at the great public feasts. Herr Gabriel talked of these with especial delight. Sophocles in his old age had written one of his best tragedies and won the award over all the others. In this honor and fortune his heart broke with joy. Oh, how blessed to die in the midst of one's joy of victory! What could be more fortunate! Thoughts and dreams filled our little friend, but he had no one to whom he could tell them. They would not be understood by young Madsen or by Primus - nor by Madam Gabriel, either she was either in a very god humor, or was the sorrowing mother, in which case she was dissolved in tears.

Her two little girls looked with astonishment at her. Neither they nor Peer could discover why she was so overwhelmed with sorrow and grief.

"The poor children!" she said. "A mother is always thinking of their future. The boys can take care of themselves. Caesar falls, but he gets up again; the two older ones splash in the water tub; they ought to be in the navy, and would surely marry well. But my two little girls! What will their future be? They will reach the age when the heart feels, and then I am sure that whoever each of them falls in love with will not be at all after Gabriel's liking; he will choose someone they'll despise, and that will make them so unhappy. As a mother, I have to think about these things, and that is my sorrow and grief. You poor children! You will be so unhappy!" She wept.

The little girls looked at her. Peer looked at her and felt rather sad; he could think of nothing to say, so he returned to his little room, sat down at the old piano, and tones and fantasies came forth as they streamed through his heart.

In the early morning he went to his studies with a clear mind and performed his duties, for someone was paying for his schooling. He was a conscientious, right-minded fellow. In his diary he recorded each day what he had read and studied, and how late he had sat up playing the piano - always mutely, so that he wouldn't awaken Madam Gabriel. It never said in his diary, except on Sunday, the day of rest, "Thought of Juliet," "Was at the pharmacist's," "Wrote a letter to Mother and Grandmother." Peer was still Romeo and a good son.

"Very industrious!" said Herr Gabriel. "Follow that example, young Madsen! Or you'll fail!"

"Scoundrel!" said young Madsen to himself.

Primus, the Dean's son, suffered from sleeping sickness. "It is a disease," said the Dean's wife; he was not to be treated with severity.

The deanery was only eight miles away; wealth and comfort were there.

"That man will die a bishop" said Madam Gabriel. "He has good connections at the court, and the Deaness is a lady of noble birth. She knows all about heraldry - that means coats of arms."

It was Whitsuntide. A year had passed since Peer came to Herr Gabriel's house. He had gained much knowledge, but his voice had not come back; would it ever come?

The Gabriel household was invited to the Dean's to a great dinner and a ball later in the evening. A good many guests came from the town and from the manor houses about. the pharmacist's family was invited; Romeo would see his Juliet, perhaps dance the first dance with her.

The deanery was a well-kept place, whitewashed, and without any manure heaps in the yard, and it had a dovecot painted green, around which twined an ivy vine. The Deaness was a tall, corpulent woman; "Athene, Glaucopis," Herr Gabriel called her; "the blue-eyed," not "the ox-eyed," as Juno was called, thought Peer. There was a certain distinguished kindness about her, and an effort to have an invalid look; she probably had sleeping sickness just like Primus. She was in a light-blue silk dress and wore great curls; the one on the right side was fastened with a large medallion portrait of her great-grandmother, a general's wife, and the one on the left with an equally large bunch of grapes made of white porcelain.

The Dean had a ruddy, plump face, with shining white teeth, well suited to biting into a roast fillet. His conversation always consisted of anecdotes. He could converse with everybody, but no ever succeeded in carrying on a conversation with him.

The Councilor, too, was there, and among the strangers from the manors was Felix, the merchant's son; he had been confirmed and was now a most elegant young gentleman, both in clothes and manners; he was a millionaire, they said. Madam Gabriel did not have courage enough to speak to him.

Peer was overjoyed at seeing Felix, who came to him in a very genial manner and said that he had brought greetings from his parents, who read all the letters Peer wrote home to his mother and grandmother.

The dancing began. The pharmacist's daughter was to dance the first dance with the Councilor; that was a promise she had made at home to her mother and to the Councilor. The second dance had been promised to Peer; but Felix came and took her with a good-natured nod.

"Permit me to have this one dance; the young lady will give her permission only if you say so."

Peer kept a polite face; he said nothing, and Felix danced with the pharmacist's daughter, the most beautiful girl at the ball. He also danced the next dance with her.

"You will grant me the supper dance?" asked Peer, with a pale face.

"Yes, the supper dance," she answered with her most charming smile.

"You surely will not take my partner from me?" said Felix, who stood close by. "That's not being very friendly. We two old friends from town! You say that you are so glad to see me. Then you must allow me the pleasure of taking the lady to supper!" And he put his arm around Peer and laid his forehead jestingly against him. "Granted, isn't it? Granted!"

"No!" said Peer, his eyes sparkling with anger.

Felix gaily raised his arms and set his elbows akimbo, as if he were trying to look like a frog ready to leap. "You are perfectly right, young man! I would say the same if the supper dance were promised me, sir!" He drew back with a graceful bow to the young lady.

But shortly after, when Peer stood in a corner and adjusted his necktie, Felix returned, put his arms around his neck, and, with the most coaxing look, said, "Be bighearted! My mother and your mother and old grandmother will all say that is is just like you. I am leaving tomorrow, and I will be terribly bored if I do not take the young lady to supper. My own friend, my only friend!"

Peer, as his only friend, could not resist that; he personally led Felix to the young beauty.

It was bright morning of the next day when the guests drove away from the Dean's. The Gabriel household was in one carriage, and the whole family went to sleep, except Peer and Madam.

She talked about the young merchant, the rich gentleman's son, who was really Peer's friend; she had heard him say, Skaal, my friend! To Mother and Grandmother!" There was something so "uninhibited, gallant in him," she said; "one saw at once that he is the son of rich people, or a count's child. That, the rest of us can't acquire. One must bow to that!"

Peer said nothing. He was depressed all day. At night, when bedtime had come and he lay in bed, sleep was chased away, and he said to himself, "One has to bow; one has to please!" That's what he had done; he had obeyed the rich young fellow; "because one is born poor, he is placed under obligation and subjection to these richly born people. Are they then better than we? And why were they created better than we?"

There was something vicious rearing up in him, something that his grandmother would be grieved at. He thought of her. "Poor Grandmother! You have also known what poverty is. Why has God permitted that?" And he felt anger in his heart, and yet at the same time he was conscious of having sinned in thoughts and words against the good Lord. He was grieved to think he had lost his child's mind; and his faith returned, as wholesome and rich as before. Happy Peer!

A week later a letter came from Grandmother. She wrote in the only way she could, mixing up big letters and small letters, but all her heart's love was in everything, big and small, that concerned Peer:

My own sweet, blessed boy:

I am thinking of you; I am longing for you, and so is your mother. She is getting along well; she takes washing. And the merchant's Felix came up to see us yesterday, with a greeting from you. You had both been at the Dean's ball, and you had been such a gentleman; but that you will always be, and make your old grandmother and your hardworking mother happy. She has something to tell you about Miss Frandsen.

And then followed a postscript from Peer's mother:

Miss Frandsen is going to be married, the old thing. The bookbinder, Herr Hof, has been appointed court bookbinder, in accordance with his petition. He has a great new sign, "Court Bookbinder Hof." And she will become Madam Hof. It is an old love that does not rust, my sweet boy.

YOUR MOTHER

Second Postscript: Grandmother has knitted you six pairs of woolen socks; you will get them at the first opportunity. I am also sending you a pork pie, your favorite dish. I know that you never get pork at Herr Gabriel's, since his wife is so afraid of what I have difficulty in spelling - "trichinosis." You must not believe in these, but just go ahead and eat.

YOUR OWN MOTHER

Peer read the letter, and it made him happy. Felix was so good; what a great injustice he had done him! They had separated at the Dean's without saying good-by to each other.

"Felix is better than I," said Peer.

VIII

In a quiet life, one day slips into the next, and month quickly follows month. Peer was already in the second year of his stay at Herr Gabriel's, who with great earnestness and determination, though Madam called it obstinacy, insisted that he should not again on the stage.

Peer received from the singing master, who monthly paid the stipend for his instruction and support, a serious reminder not to think of the stage as long as he was placed there. And he obeyed; but his thoughts frequently traveled to the theater at the capital - they carried him, as if by magic, onto the stage there, where he was to have appeared as a great singer. Now his voice was gone, and it did not return, which often deeply grieved him. Who could comfort him? Neither Herr Gabriel nor Madam, but our Lord surely could. Consolation comes to us in many ways. Peer found it in sleep; he was indeed a Lucky Peer.

One night he dreamed that it was Whitsunday, and he was out in the beautiful green forest, where the sun shone through the branches and where all the ground was covered with anemones and primrose. Then the cuckoo began, "Cuckoo!" "How many years shall I live?" asked Peer, for one always asks the cuckoo that, the first time in the year one hears it cuckoo; and the cuckoo answered, "Cuckoo!" but no more; it was silent.

"Shall I live only one more year?" asked Peer. "That is really too little. Be so good as to cuckoo again!" Then the bird began again, "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" Yes, and it went on without stopping, and Peer cuckooed with it, as realistically as if he, too, were a cuckoo; but his notes were stronger and clearer. All the songbirds joined in the warbling. Peer sang their songs, but far more beautifully. He had all the clear voice of his childhood, and rejoiced in song; he was so happy at heart. And then he awoke, but with the assurance that the "soundboard" was still in him, that his voice still lived and, some bright Whitsun morning, would burst forth in all its freshness; and so he slept, happy in this assurance.

But in none of the following days, weeks, or months did he have any feeling of his voice returning.

Every bit of news he could get of the theater at the capital was a true feast for his soul; it was spiritual bread to him. Crumbs are also bread, and he received crumbs thankfully - the smallest bits of news.

There was a flax dealer's family living near the Gabriels'. The mother, a highly respectable housewife, lively and laughing, but without any acquaintance or knowledge of the theater, had been at the capital for the first time and was delighted with everything there, even with the people, who had laughed at all she had said, she assured - and that was very likely.

"Were you at the theater also?" asked Peer.

"That I was," replied the flax dealer's wife. "How I steamed! You should have seen me sit and steam in that heat!"

"But what did you see? What play?"

"I will tell you that," she said. "I shall give you the whole play. I was there twice. The first evening it was a talking play. Out came the princess - 'Ahbe, dahbe! Abe, dabe!' - how she could talk! Next came a man - 'Ahbe, dahbe! Abe, dabe!' And then down fell Madam. Now they began again. The prince - 'Ahbe, dahbe! Abe, dabe!' Then down fell Madam. She fell down five times that evening. The second time I was there, it was all singing - 'Ahbe, dahbe! Abe, dabe!' And then down fell Madam again. It so happened that a countrywoman was sitting next to me; she had never been in the theater, and thought the show was all over; but I, who now knew all about it, said that when I was there last, Madam fell down five times. The singing evening she only did it three times. Yes, there you have both the plays, as true to life as I saw them."

Was it tragedy she had seen, since she said that Madam always fell down? Then it dawned on Peer what she meant. The great theater curtain that fell between the acts had a large female figure painted on it, a Muse with the comic and the tragic masks. This was the Madam who fell down. That had been the real comedy; what they had said and sung had been only "Ahbe, dahbe! Abe, dabe!" to the flax dealer's wife; but it had been a great pleasure, and so it had been to Peer, too, and not less to Madam Gabriel, who had heard this recital of the plays. She had sat with an expression of astonishment and a consciousness of mental superiority, for the pharmacist had said that she, as the nurse, had "carried" Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. "Down fell the Madam," as explained by Peer, afterward became a witty byword in the house every time a child, a cup, or one or another piece of furniture fell on the floor in the house.

"That is the way proverbs and familiar sayings are created," said Herr Gabriel, who carried everything into the sphere of learning.

New Year's Eve, at the stroke of twelve, the Gabriels and their boarders stood, each with a glass of punch, the only one Herr Gabriel drank the whole year, because punch is bad for a weak stomach. They drank a toast, "Skaal," to the new year, and counted the strokes of the clock, "One, two - " to the twelfth stroke. "Down fell the Madam!" they said.

The new year rolled up and rolled along. By Whitsuntide, Peer had been two years in the house.

IX

Two years were gone, but the voice had not returned. How would the future be for our young friend?

He could always be a teacher in a school, opined Herr Gabriel; there was a livelihood in that, though nothing to be married on; however, that hadn't entered Peer's mind, no matter how large a place in his heart the pharmacist's daughter had.

"Be a teacher!" said Madam Gabriel; "a headmaster! Then you'll be the most boring individual on earth, just like my Gabriel. No, you were born for the theater. Be the greatest actor in the world; that is something more than being a teacher."

An actor! Yes, that was the goal.

Grandmother had a horror of railways; to travel by rail was to tempt the Lord. Nothing could induce her to travel by steam; she was an old woman, and she was not going to travel until she traveled up to heaven.

That she said in May, but in June the old woman would travel, and all alone, the one hundred and twenty long miles, to the strange town, to strange people, and all to get to Peer. It would be a big occasion, yet the most dismal one that could occur to Mother and Grandmother.

The cuckoo had said "Cuckoo!" without end when Peer had asked it the second time, "How many years shall I live?" His health and spirits were good, and the future looked bright. He had received a delightful letter from his fatherly friend, the singing master. Peer was to go home, and they would see what could be done for him - what course he should take now that his voice was still gone.

"Appear as Romeo!" said Madam Gabriel. "Now you are old enough for the lover's part and have some flesh on your bones. You don't need to use make-up."

"Be Romeo!" said the pharmacist and the pharmacist's daughter.

Many thoughts went through his head and heart. But "Nobody knows what tomorrow will bring."

He sat down in the garden that stretched out to the meadow. It was evening, and there was moonlight. His cheeks burned; his blood was on

fire; the air brought a delightful coolness. Over the moor hung a mist that rose and sank and made him think of the dance of the elfin maidens. Then into his mind came the old ballad about Knight Olaf, who rode out to ask the guests to his wedding, but was stopped by the elfin maidens, who drew him into their dance and play and thereby caused his death. It was a piece of folklore, an old poem. The moonlight and the mist over the moor formed pictures of it this evening.

Peer was soon in a state of half dreaming, looking out upon it all. The bushes seemed to have shapes of both humans and beasts; they stood motionless, while the mist rose like a great waving veil. Peer had seen something like this in a ballet at the theater, when elfin maidens were represented whirling and waying with veils of gauze; but here it was far more charming and more wonderful. A stage as large as this, no theater could have; none had so clear an air, so shining a moonlight.

Right in front in the mist, there distinctly appeared a female shape; the one became three, and the three became many; hand in hand they danced; they were floating girls. The air bore them along to the hedge where Peer stood. They nodded to him; they spoke; it was like the sound of silver bells. They danced into the garden about him; they enclosed him in their circle. Without thought, he danced with them, but not their dance. He whirled about, as in the unforgettable vampire dance, but he didn't think of that; he really didn't think at all; he was completely overwhelmed by all the magnificent beauty he saw about him.

The moor was a sea, so deep and dark blue, with water lilies that were bright with all conceivable colors. Dancing over the waves, they carried him upon their veil to the opposite shore, where the old viking burial mound had thrown aside its grassy turf and risen into a castle of clouds, but the clouds were of marble. Flowering trees of gold and costly stones twined about the mighty blocks of marble; each flower was a brilliantly colored bird that sang with a human voice. It was like a choir of thousands and thousands of happy children. Was it heaven, or was it Elfin Hill?

The castle walls moved; they glided toward each other. They closed about him. He was inside, and the world of man was outside. He then felt anguish, a strange fear, as never before. There was no exit to be found, but from the floor way up to the roof, and from all the walls, there smiled at him lovely young girls; they were so lifelike to look at, and yet he thought: Are they but paintings? He wanted to speak to them, but his tongue found no words; his speech was completely gone; not a sound came from his lips. Then he threw himself upon the earth, more miserable than he had ever been.

One of the elfin maidens approached him; surely she meant well, for she had taken the shape he would most like to see; she looked like the

pharmacist's daughter; he was almost ready to believe that it was she, but soon he saw that she was hollow in back and had only a beautiful front - open in the back, with nothing at all inside.

"One hour here is a hundred years outside," she said. "You have already been here a whole hour. Everyone you know and love outside these walls is dead. Stay with us! Yes, stay you must, or the walls will squeeze you until the blood flows from your brow!

And the walls trembled, and the air became like that of a glowing bake oven. He found his voice.

"O Lord, O Lord, have You forsaken me?" he cried from the depths of his soul.

Then Grandmother stood beside him. She took him in her arms; she kissed his brow; she kissed his mouth.

"My own sweet little one!" she said. "Our Lord will not forsake you; He forsakes none of us, not even the greatest sinner. God be praised and honored for all eternity!"

And she brought forth her psalmbook, the same one from which she and Peer had sung on many a Sunday. How her voice rang! How full were her tones! All the elfin maidens laid their heads down for a well-needed rest. Peer sang with Grandmother, as before he had sung every Sunday; how strange and powerful, yet how soft, his voice was all at once! The walls of the castle moved; they became clouds and mist. Grandmother walked with him out of the hill into the tall grass, where the glowworms gleamed and the moon shone. But his feet were so tired now he could not move them; he sank down on the turf; it was the softest bed; there he rested well and awoke to the sound of a psalm.

Grandmother sat beside him, sat by his bed in the little chamber in Herr Gabriel's house. The fever was over; health and life had returned. He had been deathly ill. They had found him in a faint on that evening down in the garden; a violent fever had followed. The doctor had thought that he would not get up from it, but would die, and they had written to his mother about it. She and Grandmother had wanted to, and felt they must, go to him; both had not been able to leave, and so the old grandmother had gone, and gone by the railway. "That I would only do for Peer," she said. "I did it in God's name; otherwise I would have had to believe that I flew with the evil ones on a broomstick on Midsummer Eve!"

X

The journey home was made with a glad and light heart. Grandmother deeply thanked our Lord that Peer was to outlive her. She had delightful traveling companions in the railway carriage - the pharmacist and his daughter; they talked about Peer, and loved Peer as if they were of the same family. He was to become a great actor, said the pharmacist. His voice had now returned, too, and there was a fortune in such a throat as his.

What a pleasure it was to the grandmother to hear such words! She lived on them; she believed them thoroughly. And then they arrived at the station in the capital, where the mother met her.

"God be praised for the railway!" said Grandmother, "and be praised, too, that I quite forgot I was on it! I owe that to these splendid people." And she pressed the hands of the pharmacist and his daughter. "The railway is a blessed discovery when one is through with it! One is in God's hands!"

And then she talked of her sweet boy, who was out of all danger, and who lived with well-to-do people, who kept two servant girls and a manservant. Peer was like a son in the house, and on the same footing with two children of distinguished families, one of whom was a dean's son. The grandmother had lodged at the post inn; it was terribly expensive, but then she had been invited to Madam Gabriel's; there she had stayed five days, and they were simply wonderful people, particularly the wife; she had urged her to drink punch, splendidly made but strong.

With God's help, Peer would be strong enough to come home to the capital in a month.

"He must have become very elegant and spoiled," said the mother.

"He will not feel at home here in the garret. I am very happy that the singing master has invited him to stay with him. and yet," cried the mother, "it is awfully sad that one should be so poor that one's child cannot live in his own home!"

"Don't say those words to Peer!" said Grandmother. "You don't understand him as I do." "But he must have food and drink, no matter how fine he has grown, and he shall not go hungry so long as I can move my hands. Madam Hof has told me that he can eat his dinner twice a week with her, now that she is well off. She has known both prosperity and hard times. She has told me herself that one evening, in the box at the theater where the old danseuses have a place, she felt sick. The whole day long she had only had water and a caraway-seed bun, and she was ill from hunger, and very faint. 'Water! water!' cried the others. 'No! Some food!' she begged. 'Food!' She needed something nourishing, and had not the least need of water. Now she has her own larder and a wellspread table."

Peer was still one hundred and twenty miles away. Happiness sang and resounded within him and all about him; there was sunshine everywhere, in this happy time of youth, the time of hope and expectation. Every day he grew stronger; his good spirits and his color returned. But Madam Gabriel became very moved as the time for departure drew near.

"You are on your way to greatness; and there will be many temptations, for you are handsome - that you have become in our house. You are natural, just as I, and that will help when temptations come. One must not be too sensitive or unruly - sensitive like Queen Dagmar, who on Sunday laced her silk sleeves and then had pangs of conscience over such a minor thing; it should take more than that to affect one. I would never have grieved as Lucretia did. What did she stab herself for? She was pure and honest; she knew that, and everybody in the town knew that. What could she do about the misfortune which I won't talk about but which you at your age understand perfectly well? So she gave out a shriek and the dagger! That wasn't necessary at all. I would not have done it, and neither would you; we are both natural people; one should be natural at all times, and that you will continue to be in your artistic career. How happy I shall be to read about you in the papers! Perhaps sometime you will come to our little town and appear as Romeo, but I shall not be the nurse then. I shall sit in the parquet and enjoy myself."

Madam had a lot of washing and ironing done the week he went away, so Peer could go home with a clean wardrobe, as he had had on his arrival there. She drew a new, strong ribbon through his amber heart; that was the only thing she wanted as a "remembrance souvenir," but she did not get it.

From Herr Gabriel he received a French lexicon, the one he had used during his school hours, and it had marginal notes in Herr Gabriel's own hand. Madam Gabriel gave him roses and quaking grass. The roses would wither, but the grass would keep all winter if it wasn't put into the water but was kept in a dry place. And she wrote a quotation from Goethe on a kind of album leaf: Umgang mit Frauen ist das Element guter Sitten. She gave a translation of it: "Companionship with women is the foundation of good manners. Goethe."

"He was a great man!" she said. "If he had only not written Faust, for I don't understand it. Gabriel says so, too."

Young Madsen presented Peer with a not badly done drawing he had made of Herr Gabriel hanging from the gallows, with a birch rod in his hand, and the inscription, "A great actor's first conductor on the road of science." Primus, the Dean's son, gave him a new pair of slippers, which the Deaness herself had made, but so large that Primus could not fill them for a year or two yet. Upon the soles was written in ink, " A reminder of a sorrowing friend. Primus."

Herr Gabriel's entire household accompanied Peer to the train.

"It shall not be said that you left us sans adieu!" said Madam, and she kissed him at the railway station.

"I am not bashful!" she said. "When one does not do a thing secretly, one can do anything!"

The signal whistle blew - young Madsen and Primus shouted hurrahs; the "small stuff" joined in with them; Madam dried her eyes and waved with her pocket handkerchief; Herr Gabriel said only the word, "Vale!"

The villages and stations flew by. Were the people in them as happy as Peer? He thought of that, praised his good fortune, and thought of the invisible golden apple that Grandmother had seen lying in his hand When he was a child. He thought of his lucky find in the gutter and, above all, of his new-found voice and of the knowledge he had now acquired. He had become altogether another person. He sang inwardly with happiness; it took great self-control for him to keep from singing aloud in the car.

XIII

...a letter from Madam Gabriel. She was in a state of ecstasy over the splendid accounts in the papers of his debut and over what he would become as an artist. She and the girls had drunk a toast to him with punch. Herr Gabriel also had a share in his honor, and was quite sure that he, beyond most others, could pronounce foreign words correctly. The pharmacist ran about town and reminded everyone that it was at their little theater they had first seen and admired his talent, which now for the first time was recognized in the capital. "The pharmacist's daughter would surely be irritated," added Madam, "now that he could propose to baronesses and countesses." The pharmacist's daughter had been in too much of a hurry and given in too soon, for a month earlier she had become betrothed to the fat Councillor. The banns had been published, and they were to be married on the twentieth of the month.
Madam Gabriel's letter was not read again. She never dreamed what sorrow it had brought.
A few days later a letter arrived from Herr Gabriel; he also wished to offer his congratulations and "a commission," which perhaps was the real reason for the letter. He asked Peer to buy a little porcelain figure, namely, one of Cupid and Hymen, Love and Marriage. "It is all sold out here in town," he wrote, "but can easily be bought in the capital. The money is enclosed with this. Send the thing as quickly as possible; it is a wedding present for the Councilor, at whose marriage I was with my wife." Moreover, Peer was told: "Young Madsen never will become a student; he has left the house and has painted the walls with embarrassing remarks against the family. A bad subject, that young Madsen. Sunt pueri pueri, pueri puerilia tractant! i.e., 'Boys are boys, and boys do boyish things.' I translate it since you are not a Latin scholar." And with that Herr Gabriel's letter closed.


IV
... skulde tredive Mile fra sit Hjem, i Kost hos en Skolemand, der havde endnu et Par unge Mennesker i Pension, som det kaldes; han skulde lære Sprog og Videnskab, der engang kunde komme ham tilgode. Det Hele kostede i Aarets Løb trehundrede Rigsdaler, og de bleve betalte af »en Velgjører, der ikke vilde nævnes«.
  og saa kjørte Peer paa Jernbanen tredive Mile ud i den vide Verden.

Det var Pintsetid; Solen skinnede, Skoven stod frisk og grøn, Toget foer igjennem den; Marker og Landsbyer skiftede om; Herregaarde tittede frem; Qvæget stod paa Hovmarken. Nu kom en Station, nu en anden, Kjøbstad paa Kjøbstad. Ved hvert Holdested var en Mylren af Mennesker til Velkomst og Afsked; der var høirøstet Tale, udenfor og inde i Vognen. Hvor Peer sad, lød stor Snaksomhed og Underholdning af en Enkemadame i Sort. Hun talte om sin Grav, sin Liigkiste og sit Liig, det vil sige om sit Barns. Det havde været saa usseligt, at det ingen Glæde var om det havde levet. Det var en stor Lettelse for hende og det lille Lam, at det sov ind.

»Jeg sparede i den Anledning ikke paa Blomster!« sagde hun, »og nu maa De betænke, at det døde i den dyre Tid, hvor de maae skæres af Potte! hver Søndag gik jeg til min Grav og lagde en Krands med stor, hvid Silkesløife. Sløifen blev strax stjaalen af Smaapiger og brugt til Balbaand. Det var saa fristende! Nu kommer jeg en Søndag, jeg vidste, at min Grav var i Hovedgangen til Venstre, men som jeg kommer, saa er min Grav til Høire. Hvad er det, siger jeg til Graverkarlen, har jeg ikke min Grav til Venstre?« - »»Nei, ikke længer!«« svarede Karlen, »»Madamens Liig ligger der nok, men Gravens Overdeel er flyttet til Høire, da Stedet er en Andens Begravelses-Plads.«« - »Men jeg vil have mit Liig i min Grav, sagde jeg og det havde jeg jo min lovlige Ret til at sige. Skal jeg her gaae og pynte en falsk Overdeel, mens mit Liig ligger uden noget Tegn paa den anden Side, det vil jeg ikke!« - »»Ja, saa maa Madamen tale med Provsten!«« - »Det er saadan en yndig Mand, Provsten! han gav Lov til at mit Liig kom til Høire. Det vilde koste fem Rigsdaler. Det gav jeg med Kyshaand og stod selv ved min gamle Grav. Kan jeg nu være vis paa, at det er min Liigkiste og mit Liig at de flytte?« - »»Det kan Madamen!«« og saa gav jeg hver en Mark for Flytningen. Men da det nu havde kostet mig saameget, meente jeg at burde anvende Noget paa Forskjønnelsen, og saa bestilte jeg et Monument med Indskrift. Men vil De nu tænke Dem, da jeg faaer det, har de sat i Forgyldning øverst en lille Sommerfugl. Men det er jo Letsindigheden! sagde jeg, den vil jeg ikke have paa min Grav.« »»Det er ikke Letsindighed, Madame, det er Udødelighed!«« - »Det har jeg aldrig hørt! sagde jeg. Har nu Nogen af dem herinde i Vognen hørt Andet, end at Sommerfuglen er Letsindighedens Tegn? Jeg taug, jeg holder ikke af lang Snak. Jeg fattede mig, tog Monumentet og satte det i mit Spisekammer; der stod det til min Logerende kom hjem, han er Student med mange Bøger; han bekræftede at det var Udødelighed, og saa kom Monumentet paa Graven!«

Og under al den Talen kom Peer til Stationen, hvor han skulde opholde sig for at blive ligesaa klog som Studenten med mange Bøger.

V

Hr. Gabriel, den hæderlige Lærdoms-Mand, hos hvem Peer skulde i Pension, var selv paa Banegaarden for at tage imod ham. Hr. Gabriel var en beenradmager Mand med store glindsende Øine, der sad saa yderligt frem, at om han nøs, kunde man være bange for, at de fløi ham ud af Hovedet. Han ledsagedes af tre af sine egne Smaadrenge. Den Ene faldt over sine egne Been, og de to Andre traadte Peer heelt op ad Fødderne for at see ham rigtig nær; desuden fulgte to større Drenge, den ældste omtrent fjorten Aar, hvidhudet, fregnet og rig paa Filipenser.

»Unge Madsen, Student om tre Aar, naar han læser! Primus, Provstesøn!« Det var den Yngre; han saae ud som en Hvedeknop. »Begge to Kostgængere, Studerendes hos mig!« sagde Hr. Gabriel. »Smaathustøi!« kaldte han sine egne Drenge.

»Trine, tag den Ankomnes Koffert paa Trillebøren. Mad er sat hen til Dem hjemme!«

»Fyldt Kalkun!« sagde de to Herrer Kostgængere.

»Fyldt Kalkun!« sagde »Smaathustøi«, og den Ene faldt igjen over sine egne Been.

»Cæsar, see til dine Fødder!« udbrød Hr. Gabriel, og de gik ind i Byen og ud af Byen. Der laae et stort, halvt forfaldet Bindingsværks Huus med Jasminhytte ud mod Veien; her stod Madame Gabriel med mere »Smaathustøi«, to Pigebørn.

»Den nye Studerendes!« sagde Hr. Gabriel.

»Inderlig velkommen!« sagde Madame Gabriel, en ungdommelig, trivelig Kone, rød og hvid, med Spytkrøller og megen Pomade i Haaret. »Gud, hvor De er fuldvoxen!« sagde hun til Peer. »De er jo et ganske udviklet Mandfolk! jeg troede, at De var som Primus eller unge Madsen. Engle-Gabriel, det var godt at Mellemdøren blev sømmet til. Du kjender mine Anskuelser!«

»Vrøvl!« sagde Hr. Gabriel, og de traadte ind i Stuen. Der laae paa Bordet en opslaaet Roman med et Smørrebrød; man skulde troe, at det var lagt som Bogmærke, det laae tværs over den aabne Bog.

»Maa jeg nu være Husmoder!« og med alle fem Børn og de to Kostgængere førte hun Peer over Kjøkkenet, ud paa Gangen og ind i en lille Stue med Vindue til Haven, det var nu hans Studere- og Soveværelse, det stødte op til Fru Gabriels, hvor hun sov med alle fem Børn, og hvor Mellemdøren for Sømmeligheds Skyld, og for Bysnak, »der Ingen skaaner«, i Dag paa Madamens udtrykkelige Forlangende var bleven spigret til af Hr. Gabriel.

»Her skal De være, som hos Deres Forældre! Theater have vi ogsaa i Byen. Apothekeren er Directeur for »Privat-Selskabet«, og vi have reisende Skuespillere. Men nu skal De have Deres »Kalkun«.« Og hun førte igjen Peer ind i Spisesalen, hvor der blev tørret vaadt Tøi paa Snore.

»Det gjør vel ikke noget!« sagde hun, »det er bare Reenlighed, og den er De vistnok vant til.«

Og Peer satte sig til Kalkunstegen, imedens Husets Børn, ikke de to Kostgængere, de havde trukket sig tilbage, gave en dramatisk Forestilling til Fornøielse for dem selv og for den Fremmede.

Der havde nyligt været reisende Skuespillere i Byen og opført Schillers »Røverne«; de to ældste Drenge vare aldeles opfyldte heraf og spillede strax hjemme hele Stykket, alle Rollerne, uagtet de af disse kun huskede de Ord: »Drømme komme fra Maven«. Men de bleve sagt af dem Allesammen, hver til sit Brug, i de forskjelligste Betoninger. Der stod Amalie med himmelvendte Øine og drømmende Blik: »Drømme komme fra Maven!« sagde hun og skjulte sit Ansigt i begge Hænder. Carl Moor traadte op med Helteskridt og mandig Røst: »Drømme komme fra Maven!« og derpaa styrtede hele Børneflokken ind, Piger og Drenge, alle vare de Røvere, og myrdede hverandre under Raabet: »Drømme komme fra Maven!«

Det var Schillers »Røverne«. Denne Forestilling og »fyldt Kalkun« fik Peer ved sin første Indtrædelse i Hr. Gabriels Huus. Nu begav han sig til sit lille Kammer, hvis Vindue, med de af Solen stærkt brændte Ruder, vendte ud mod Haven. Han satte sig, saae ud; der gik Hr. Gabriel fordybet i Læsningen af en Bog. Han nærmede sig og saae ind, hans Øine syntes fæstede paa Peer, der bukkede ærbødigt. Hr. Gabriel aabnede sin Mund saa vidt han kunde, rakte Tungen ud og lod den bevæge sig til alle Sider lige imod Ansigtet af den forskrækkede Peer, der ikke kunde forstaae, hvorfor han fik denne Behandling. Derpaa gik Hr. Gabriel, men vendte om igjen hen foran Vinduet og rakte Tungen ud ad Munden.

Hvorfor gjorde han det? Han tænkte ikke paa Peer, eller at Ruderne vare gjennemsigtige, han saae kun, at man udenfra kunde speile sig i dem og vilde derfor, da han led af en daarlig Mave, see sin Tunge; men den Kundskab havde Peer ikke.

Tidlig paa Aftenen gik Hr. Gabriel til sin Stue, og Peer sad i sin. Det var blevet seent paa Aftenen. Han hørte Skjænderi, qvindeligt Skjænderi inde i Madame Gabriels Sovekammer.

»Jeg skal gaae op til Gabriel og sige ham, hvad Rak I er!«

»Vi skulle ogsaa gaae op til Gabriel og sige ham, hvad Madamen er!«

»Jeg faaer Krampe!« raabte hun.

»Hvem vil see Fruen faae Krampe! fire Skilling!«

Da lød Madamens Stemme dybere, men forstaaeligt: »Hvad maa det unge Menneske derinde tænke om vort Huus ved at høre al den Simpelhed!«

Og Skjænderiet sank, men løftede sig igjen høiere og høiere.

»Punktum fynalis!« raabte Madamen, »gaa og lav Punsch! hellere Forlig end Trætte!«

Og der blev stille; Døren derinde gik, Pigerne gik, og Madamen bankede paa ind til Peer: »Unge Menneske! ja, nu har De Begreb om en Husmoder! Tak De Himlen, at De ikke holder Piger. Jeg vil Fred, og saa giver jeg Punsch! Gjerne undte jeg Dem ogsaa et Glas, man sover deiligt paa det, men Ingen tør gaae med Gangdøren efter Klokken ti, vil min Gabriel. Punsch skal De alligevel faae! I Døren er et stort tilkittet Hul; jeg støder Kittet ud, sætter en Tragt ind, De holder Deres Vandglas under, saa skal jeg skjenke Punsch. Det er i al Hemmelighed, ogsaa for min Gabriel; ham maa De ikke fatigere med Husholdningssager!« Og saa fik Peer Punsch; og der var Fred i Stuen hos Madame Gabriel, Fred og Stilhed i hele Huset. Peer lagde sig, tænkte paa Moder og Faermoer, læste sin Aftenbøn og sov.

Hvad man drømmer den første Nat, man sover i et fremmed Huus, har Betydning, havde Faermoer sagt. Peer drømte, at han tog Ravhjertet, han endnu bestandig bar, lagde det i en Urtepotte, og det voxte til et høit Træ, gjennem Loftet og Taget; det bar i tusindviis Hjerter af Sølv og Guld; Urtepotten revnede derved, og der var intet Ravhjerte meer, det var blevet Muld, Jord i Jorden - borte, altid borte.

Saa vaagnede Peer; Ravhjertet havde han endnu, og det var varmt, ved hans eget varme Hjerte.

VI

Tidligt paa Morgenen begyndte den første Underviisningstime hos Hr. Gabriel; der blev læst Fransk.

Ved Frokosten var kun Pensionærerne, Børnene og Madamen; hun drak sin anden Kaffe; sin første drak hun altid paa Sengen; »det er saa sundt, naar man har Muligheder til Krampe!« Hun spurgte Peer, hvad han havde læst i Dag. »Fransk!« svarede han.

»Det er et dyrt Sprog!« sagde hun, »det er Diplomat-Sproget og de Fornemmes Sprog. Jeg har i min Barndom ikke lært det, men naar man lever med en lærd Mand, saa faaer man af hans Kundskab, som havde man den med Modermelken. Jeg har saaledes alle de nødvendige Ord. Jeg troer nok, jeg skal kunne compromittere mig i hvilketsomhelst Selskab, det skal være!«

Et fremmed Ord, et Navneord, havde Madamen vundet ved sit Ægteskab med en lærd Mand. Hun var døbt Mette, efter en rig Moster, hun skulde arve, Navnet fik hun, men ikke Arven. Hr. Gabrielomdøbte Mette til Meta, Latinsk: »Maalet«. Ved Udstyret blev syet paa alt hendes Tøi, Uldent og Linned, Bogstaverne »M. G.«, Meta Gabriel, men unge Madsen havde Drenge-Vittighed og læste i Bogstaverne »M.G.« Charakteren »Meget godt«, hvorfor han med Blæk tilføiede et stort Spørgsmaalstegn og det baade paa Dug, Haandklæder og Lagener.

»De ynder ikke Madamen?« spurgte Peer, da unge Madsen indviede ham i sin Vittighed. »Hun er saa mild, og Hr. Gabriel saa lærd.«

»Hun er en Løgnepose!« sagde unge Madsen, »og Hr. Gabriel er en Skurk! gid at jeg var Corporal og han Rekrut, uh, hvor jeg skulde fugtle ham!« og der viste sig noget Blodtørstigt i hele unge Madsens Udtryk; Læberne bleve smallere end de ellers vare, hele Ansigtet syntes en eneste Fregne.

Det var forfærdelige Ord at høre udtale; de gave et Sæt i Peer, og dog havde unge Madsen den soleklareste Ret i sin Tanke: Det var en Grusomhed af Forældre og Lærere, at et Menneske skulde spilde sin bedste, deilige Ungdomstid paa at lære Grammatik, Navne og Aarstal, som Ingen bryder sig om, istedetfor at nyde sin Frihed, rigtigt trække Veiret, slentre om med Bøsse paa Nakken, som god Skytte. »Nei, lukkes inde skal man, sidde paa Bænken og see sig søvnig i en Bog; det vil Hr. Gabriel, og saa bliver man kaldet doven og faaer Charakteren »Maadelig«, ja, Ens Forældre erholder Brev herom! derfor er Hr. Gabriel en Skurk!«

»Han giver ogsaa Haandtager!« tilføiede lille Primus og syntes enig med unge Madsen. Det var ikke glædeligt for Peer at høre.

Men Peer fik ikke Haandtager, han var saa udvoxet, som Madamen sagde; han blev ikke kaldt doven, for han var det ikke; han skulde have Timer alene. Han stod snart i Fremgang over Madsen og Primus.

»Han har Evner!« sagde Hr. Gabriel.

»Og man kan see, han har gaaet paa Dandseskolen!« sagde Madamen.

»Vi maae have ham ind i vort Dramatiske!« udtalte Apothekeren, der levede mere for Byens private Theater, end for Apotheket. Ondskaben anvendte paa ham den gamle, forslidte Vittighed, at han vist var bidt af en gal Skuespiller, han var reent theatergal.

»Den unge Studerende er født til Elsker,« sagde Apothekeren: »Om to Aar kan han være Romeo! og jeg troer, naar han bliver godt malet og faaer en lille Moustache, kunde han godt træde op i Vinter.«

Apothekerens Datter, »stort dramatisk Talent«, sagde Faderen, »sand Skjønhed«, sagde Moderen, skulde være Julie, Madame Gabriel maatte være Ammen, og Apothekeren, der baade var Directeur og Regisseur, vilde overtage Apothekerens Rolle, den var lille, men af stor Vigtighed.

Det Hele beroede paa at erholde Hr. Gabriels Tilladelse til at Peer udførte Romeo.

Man maatte see at virke gjennem Madame Gabriel, forstaae at vinde hende og det forstod Apothekeren.

»De er født til at være Amme!« sagde han og troede at sige hende noget Smigrende. »Det er egenligt den sundeste Rolle i Stykket!« vedblev han, »den er Humeurets Rolle! uden den er Stykket ikke til at holde ud i sin Sørgelighed. Ingen uden De, Madame Gabriel, har den Qvikhed og det Liv, som her skal sprudle!«

Det var ganske sandt, fandt hun, men hendes Mand tillod vist aldrig den unge Studerende at anvende den Smule Tid, der maatte anvendes for at være Romeo. Hun lovede imidlertid »at lirke«, som hun kaldte det. Apothekeren begyndte strax at indstudere sin Rolle, især at tænke paa Masken; han vilde være aldeles Skelet, Armod og Elendighed, og dog den brave Mand; en svær Opgave; men en langt sværere havde Madame Gabriel med »at lirke« sin Mand op til dem; han kunde jo ikke, sagde han, forsvare for Peers Foresatte, der betalte dennes Kost og Logis, at han lod Mennesket spille Tragedie.

Vi tør iøvrigt ikke skjule, at Peer havde den inderligste Lyst til det. »Men det gaaer ikke!« sagde han.

»Det gi'er sig!« sagde Madamen. »Lad mig bare lirke!« hun havde hellere givet Punsch, men den drak Hr. Gabriel ikke gjerne. Ægtefolk ere tidt forskjellige; dette være nu sagt uden at fornærme Madamen.

»Eet Glas og ikke mere!« meente hun, »det løfter Sindet og gjør Mennesket glad, og saaledes bør vi være, det er Vorherres Villie med os!«

Peer skulde være Romeo, det blev lirket igjennem ved Madamen.

Læseprøven holdtes hos Apothekeren; de fik Chocolade og »Genier«, det vil sige smaa Tvebakker. Der leveredes i Bageriet tolv for een Skilling, og da de vare saa bitte smaa og saa mange, blev det en Vittighed at kalde dem Genier.

»Det er en let Sag at gjøre Nar!« sagde Hr. Gabriel, og saa gav han dog selv Spotnavn til Eet og Andet. Apothekerens Huus kaldte han »Noæh Ark med de Rene og de Urene!« og det alene for den Kjærlighed, hvormed Husdyrene der vare optagne i Familien. Frøkenen havde sin egen Kat: »Graciosa«, yndig og blød i Skindet; den laae i Vinduet, i Skjødet, paa Sytøiet eller løb hen over det dækkede Middagsbord; Fruen havde Hønsegaard, Andegaard, Papegøie og Canarifugle; Poppedreng kunde overskrige dem Allesammen. To Hunde, Flick og Flock, gik i Stuen, de vare aldeles ikke Potpourrikrukker, de laae i Sopha og i Ægteseng.

Læseprøven begyndte og blev kun et Øieblik afbrudt ved at Hundene oversavlede Madame Gabriels nye Kjole, men det var af bare Venlighed og det plettede ikke. Katten bragte ogsaa lidt Forstyrrelse, den vilde endelig give Pote til Julies Fremstillerinde, sidde paa hendes Hoved og vifte med Halen. Julies ømme Tale deelte sig lige meget mellem Katten og Romeo. Hvert Ord, Peerhavde at sige, var netop det, han vilde og maatte sige til Apothekerens Datter. Hvor var hun yndig og rørende, et Naturens Barn, der, som Madame Gabriel kaldte det, gik ved Siden af sin Rolle. Peerblev ganske varm derved.

Det var vistnok Instinctet eller noget Høiere hos Katten: den satte sig paa Peers Skulder og ligesom billedliggjorde Sympathien mellem Romeo og Julie.

Ved hver senere Prøve blev Inderligheden klarere, fyldigere, Katten fortroligere, Poppedreng og Canarifuglene mere skrigende; Flick og Flock løb ud og ind.

Forestillingsaftenen kom, Peer var ganske Romeo, han kyssede Julie lige paa Munden.

»Aldeles naturligt!« sagde Madame Gabriel.

»Uforskammet!« sagde Raadmanden Hr. Svendsen, Byens rigeste Borger og tykkeste Mand. Vandet haglede ned ad ham i Husets Varme og af indre Varme. Peer fandt ikke Naade for hans Øine: »Saadan en Hvalp!« sagde han, »en Hvalp saa lang, at man kan knække ham over og gjøre to Hvalpe af ham!«

Stor Beundring og een Fjende! det var godt sluppet. Jo, Peer var en Lykke-Peer.

Træt og overvældet af denne Aftens Anstrengelser og Hyldest naaede han hjem i sin lille Stue. Det var over Midnat; Madame Gabriel bankede paa Væggen.

»Romeo! jeg har Punsch!«

Og Tragten blev sat gjennem Døren, og Peer-Romeo holdt Glasset under.

»Godnat, Madame Gabriel!«

Men Peer kunde ikke sove; Alt, hvad han havde sagt, og især, hvad Julie havde sagt, surrede ham igjennem Hovedet, og da han endelig sov, drømte han om Bryllup - Bryllup med Jomfru Frandsen. Hvor man dog kan drømme underlige Ting!

»Nu slaaer De det Comediespil af Hovedet!« sagde Hr. Gabriel næste Morgen. »Og saa klemme vi paa Videnskaben.«

Nær havde Peer tænkt som unge Madsen: »at man saaledes skal anvende sin deilige Ungdomstid, lukkes inde og sidde ved Bogen!« men da han sad ved Bogen, lyste der fra den saa meget Nyt og Godt ind i Tankerne, at Peer fandt sig ganske opfyldt deraf. Han hørte om Verdens Stormænd og deres Bedrifter; saa Mange havde været Fattigmands Barn: Helten Themistokles, en Pottemagersøn, Shakespeare, en fattig Handskmagerdreng, der som ungt Menneske holdt Hestene udenfor Theatret, hvor han siden blev den mægtigste Mand i Digtekonsten for alle Lande og alle Tider. Han hørte om Sangerkampen paa Wartburg, hvor Digterne kappedes om hvo, der kunde bringe den skjønneste Digtning, en Kamp, lig de gamle græske Poeters Veddestrid ved de store folkelige Fester. Om disse fortalte Hr. Gabriel med særlig Lyst. Sophokles havde i sin høie Alder skrevet en af sine bedste Tragedier og vundet Seiersprisen over alle de Andre; i denne Hæder og Lykke brast af Glæde hans Hjerte. O hvor velsignet at døe midt i sin Seiers Glæde! hvad kunde være lykkeligere! Tanker og Drømmerier fyldte vor lille Ven, men han havde Ingen at udtale sig til. Det vilde ikke blive forstaaet af unge Madsen eller Primus, ikke heller af Madame Gabriel; hun var enten heelt det gode Humeur eller den sørgende Moder, som saadan sad hun opløst i Taarer; hendes to Smaapiger saae med Forundring op paa hende, hverken de eller Peer kunde udfinde, hvorfor hun var i saa stor Sorg og Bedrøvelse.

»De stakkels Børn!« sagde hun da, »deres Fremtid tænker en Moder altid paa. Drengene hytte sig nok. Cæsar falder, men han reiser sig igjen! de to Ældre pladske i Vandballen, de skulle til Marinen og gjøre nok gode Partier, men mine Smaapiger! hvad bliver deres Fremtid? De ville komme i en Alder, hvori Hjertet føler, og da er jeg vis paa, at Den, de hver holder af, aldeles ikke er efter Gabriels Sind; han vil give dem En, de ikke kunne udstaae og saa blive de saa ulykkelige! Det tænker jeg paa som Moder og det er min Sorg og Bedrøvelse! I stakkels Børn! I blive saa ulykkelige!« Hun græd.

Smaapigerne saae paa hende, Peer saae paa hende, veemodigt stemt; han vidste ikke Noget at svare og saa trak han sig tilbage til sin lille Stue, satte sig ved det gamle Claveer, og der kom Toner, Phantasier, som de strømmede gjennem hans Hjerte.

I den tidlige Morgen gik han tankeklar til sine Studier, øvede sin Pligt, derfor betaltes for ham. Han var en samvittighedsfuld, rettænkende Fyr; i hans Dagbog stod anført hvad han hver Dag havde læst og lært, hvor seent paa Natten han havde sat sig til Claveret og spillet, altid dæmpet, for ikke at vække Madame Gabriel; aldrig stod der, uden ved Søndagen, Hviledagen: »tænkt paa Julie«, »var hos Apothekerens«, »gik forbi Apothekerens«, »skrevet Brev til Moder og Faermoer«. Peer var endnu Romeo og god Søn.

»Særdeles flittig!« sagde Hr. Gabriel. »Tag dog Exempel, unge Madsen! De gaaer reject.«

»Skurk!« sagde Madsen ind i sig selv.

Primus Provstesøn led af Sovesyge. »Det er en Sygdom,« sagde Provstinden, han maatte ikke tages med Strenghed.

Provstegaarden laae kun to Mile derfra; der var Rigdom og Herskabelighed.

»Den Mand døer som Bisp!« sagde Madame Gabriel. »Han har gode Conjugationer ved Hoffet, og Provstinden er høiadelig Frøken, hun kan udenad hele Heroldikken *dolgoeO* Vaabenlæren.«

Det var Pintsetid. Et Aar var gaaet siden Peer kom i Hr. Gabriels Huus; Kundskaber vare vundne, men Sangstemmen var ikke kommen igjen, mon den nogensinde vilde komme?

Huset Gabriel var indbudt hos Provstens til stor Middag og Bal ud paa Natten. Der kom mange Gjester fra Byen og fra Herregaardene; Apothekerens vare indbudte, Romeo skulde see sin Julie, maaskee dandse første Dands med hende.

Det var en velholdt Provstegaard, hvidkalket og uden Mødding i Gaarden, grønmalet Dueslag, hvorom slyngede sig en Vedbend-Ranke. Provstinden var en høi, fyldig Dame; »glaukopis Athene«, kaldte Hr. Gabriel hende; »den blaaøiede«, ikke »den koøiede«, som Juno kaldes, meente Peer. Der var hos hende noget fornemt mildt, en Bestræbelse for at give det Sygelige; hun havde vist Sovesyge ligesom Primus. Hun var i kornblaa Silkekjole, bar store Krøller, den til Høire løftedes ved et stort Medaillon-Portrait af hendes Oldemoder, Generalinden, og den til Venstre af en ligesaa stor Drueklase af hvidt Porcellain.

Provsten havde et rødmusset, triveligt Ansigt med skinnende hvide Tænder til at bide i en stegt Dyreryg. Hans Conversation bestod altid i Anecdoter; han kunde underholde sig med enhver Mand, men Ingen havde dog nogensinde ført en Samtale med ham.

Ogsaa Raadmanden var her, og mellem de Fremmede fra Herregaardene saae man Felix, Grossererens Søn; han var confirmeret og nu den eleganteste, unge Herre i Klæder og Manerer; Millionair var han, sagde de; Madame Gabriel havde ikke Mod til at tale til ham.

Peer var lyksalig ved at see Felix, der kom ham meget venlig imøde og sagde, han kunde hilse fra sine Forældre, de læste alle de Breve, Peer skrev hjem til sin Moder og Faermoer.

Ballet begyndte. Apothekerens Datter skulde dandse første Dands med Raadmanden, det var et Løfte, hun hjemme havde maattet give sin Moder og Raadmanden. Anden Dands blev lovet Peer, men Felix kom og tog hende uden videre end et venligt Nik:

»De tillader, at jeg dandser den ene Dands! Frøkenen vil kun, naar De tillader det!«

Peer satte et høfligt Ansigt op, sagde ikke Noget, og Felix dandsede med Apothekerens Datter, den Skjønneste paa hele Ballet. Han dandsede ogsaa næste Dands med hende.

»Borddandsen forunder De vel mig?« spurgte Peer, bleg i Ansigtet.

»Ja, Borddandsen!« svarede hun med det yndigste Smil.

»De vil da vel ikke tage min Dandserinde fra mig?« sagde Felix, som stod tæt ved. »Det er ikke Venskab. Vi to gamle Venner inde fra Byen! De siger, at De er saa glad ved at see mig! saa maa De ogsaa forunde mig den Glæde at føre Frøkenen tilbords!« og han tog Peer om Livet og lagde spøgende sin Pande lige mod hans. »Tilladt! ikke sandt? tilladt!«

»Nei!« sagde Peer. Øinene lyste i Vrede.

Felix løftede med Lystighed sine Arme og satte Albuerne derpaa spidst, som vilde han ligne Frøen i at springe: »De har fuldkommen Ret, unge Herre! jeg vilde sige det Samme, naar Borddandsen var lovet mig, unge Herre!« Han trak sig tilbage med en elegant Bøining for den unge Dame. Men ikke længe efter, da Peer stod i en Krog og pillede paa sin Sløife, kom Felix, tog ham om Halsen og med det mest indsmigrende Blik sagde han:

»Vær mageløs! min Moder og Deres Moder og gamle Faermoer, de ville Alle sige, at det ligner Dem! jeg reiser imorgen og jeg kjeder mig ihjel, faaer jeg ikke den unge Dame tilbords. Min egen Ven, min eneste Ven!«

Da kunde Peer, som den eneste Ven, ikke modstaae; han førte selv Felix hen til den unge Deilighed.

Det var den lyse Morgen, da Gjesterne næste Dag kjørte ud fra Provstegaarden. Huset Gabriel var i een Vogn og hele Huset blundede der, undtagen Peer og Madamen.

Hun talte om den unge Grosserer, den rige Mands Søn, der jo var Peers Ven; hun havde hørt ham sige: »Skaal, min Ven!« »Mutter og Faermutter!« »Der var Noget saa »negligent«, galant deri,« sagde hun, »man saae strax, at han var et Rigdommens Barn eller et Greve-Barn. Det kunne vi Andre ikke tilegne os! man maa bøie sig!«

Peer sagde ikke Noget; han bar tungt paa det hele Dagen. Om Aftenen, ved Sengetid og i Dynerne jog det Søvnen bort, det talte inde i ham: »man bøier sig, man føier sig!« - det havde han gjort, lystret Rigdommens Barn, - »fordi man er fattig født, stillet i Naade og Afhængighed af disse Rigdomsfødte. Ere de da bedre end vi? Og hvorfor bleve de skabte bedre end vi?«

Der steilede noget Ondt inde i ham, Noget, Faermoer vilde blive bedrøvet over. Han tænkte paa hende. »Stakkels Faermoer! Du er ogsaa bleven stillet saa fattig! Gud har kunnet gjøre det!« og han følte Vrede i sit Sind, men paa samme Tid en Fornemmelse af, at han herved syndede i Tanke og Ord mod den gode Gud. Han sørgede over at have tabt Barnesindet og havde det just da saa heelt og rigt. Lykkelige Peer!

Ugen efter kom der Brev fra Faermoer. Hun skrev, som hun kunde skrive, store Bogstaver og smaa Bogstaver mellem hverandre, hele sit Hjertes Kjærlighed i Smaat og Stort i hvad, der vedrørte Peer.

»Min egen, søde, velsignede Dreng!

Jeg tænker paa Dig, jeg længes efter Dig, og det gjør ogsaa din Moder. Det gaaer hende godt, hun vasker! Og Grossererens Felix var igaar hos os med Hilsen fra Dig. I havde været paa Provstebal, og Du var saa honnet! det vil Du altid blive og glæde din gamle Faermoer og din meget arbeidsomme Moder; hun melder Dig om Jomfru Frandsen.«

Og nu fulgte Efterskrift fra Peers Moder.

»Jomfru Frandsen gifter sig, det gamle Menneske! Bogbinder Hof er bleven Hofbogbinder efter Ansøgning, med stort Skilt: »Hof bogbinder Hof« og hun bliver Madame Hof; det er gammel Kjærlighed, den ruster ikke, min søde Dreng! din Moder.

Anden Efterskrift: »Faermoer har strikket Dig sex Par Uldsokker, dem faaer Du ved Leilighed; jeg har lagt deri »Fleskebrød«, din Livret; jeg veed, at Du aldrig faaer Flesk hos Hr. Gabriels, da Fruen er bange for, hvad jeg har saa svært ved at bogstavere, »Trychiner«. Du skal ikke troe paa dem, men kun spise din egen Moder.« Peer læste Brevet og læste sig glad. Felix var saa brav; hvor havde han dog gjort ham Uret. De vare skiltes ad hos Provstens, uden at sige hinanden Farvel.

»Felix er bedre end jeg!« sagde Peer.

VIII

I et stille Liv glider den ene Dag ind i den anden, Maaned paa Maaned gaaer snart; Peer var allerede i det andet Aar af sit Ophold hos Hr. Gabriel, der med streng Alvor og Bestemthed, Madamen kaldte det Stædighed, holdt paa, at han ikke oftere betraadte Scenen.

Selv havde han fra Syngemesteren, som maanedlig udbetalte Honoraret for hans Underviisning og Underhold, faaet en alvorlig Mindelse om ikke at tænke paa Comediespil saalænge han var anbragt her; og han adlød, men Tankerne gik desoftere til Theatret i Hovedstaden; de gjøglede hen over Scenen, hvor han skulde have traadt op som stor Sanger; nu var Stemmen borte, den kom ikke igjen, han var herover tidt inderlig bedrøvet. Hvo kunde trøste ham? Hverken Hr. Gabriel eller Madamen, men nok Vorherre. Trøst kan sendes paa mange Maader, Peer kom sovende til den, han var jo Lykke-Peer.

En Nat drømmer han, at det var Pintse, og han var ude i den deilige, grønne Skov, hvor Solen skinnede ind imellem Grenene, og hvor hele Skovbunden stod fyldt med Anemoner og Kodriver. Saa begynder Kukkeren: »kukkuk!« Hvor mange Aar skal jeg leve, spørger Peer, for det spørger man altid Kukkeren om, naar man første Gang i Aaret hører den kukke, og Kukkeren svarede: »kukkuk!« men heller ikke mere, saa taug den.

»Skal jeg kun leve endnu i eet Aar!« sagde Peer, »det er virkeligt altfor lidt. Vær saa god at kukke om!« saa begyndte ogsaa Kukkeren: »kukkuk! kukkuk!« ja, det fik ingen Ende; den blev ved, saa Peer gav sig til at kukke med, og det saa livagtigt, som om han selv var en Kukker, men hans Kuk blev stærkere og klarere; alle Sangfuglene qviddrede ind deri, Peer sang dem efter, men meget deiligere: han havde hele sin klare Barnestemme og jublede i Sang. Han var saa glad i sit Hjerte, og vaagnede derved, forvisset om, at Klangbunden endnu var i ham, at Stemmen laae derinde, og nok en lys Pintsemorgen vilde komme frem i al sin Friskhed; og saa sov han glad paa den Forvisning.

Men hverken næste Dag, Uge eller Maaned fornam han Noget til, at Stemmen kom igjen.

Hver Efterretning, han kunde erholde om Theatret i Hovedstaden, var en sand Sjæleføde, den var ham det aandelige Brød. Smuler ere ogsaa Brød, og han tog tiltakke med Smulerne, den ringeste Fortælling.

Hørkræmmerens vare Naboer til Gabriels; Madamen der, en høist agtværdig Madmoder, livlig og leende, men uden al Kjendskab eller Kundskab til Theatret, havde været i Hovedstaden for første Gang og var henrykt over Alt derinde, selv over Menneskene; de havde leet ad Alt, hvad hun sagde, forsikrede hun, og det var ganske troligt.

»Var De ogsaa i Theatret?« spurgte Peer.

»Det var jeg!« svarede Hørkræmmerens Kone. »Hvor jeg dampede! De skulde have set mig sidde og dampe i den Varme!«

»Men hvad saae De? Hvilket Stykke?«

»Det skal jeg sige Dem!« sagde hun. »Jeg skal give Dem hele Comedien! - Jeg var der to Gange. Den første Aften var det et Tåle-Stykke. Der kom hun, Prindsessen: »»abe, dabe! æbe, dæbe««! hvor hun kunde tale! derpaa kom Mandfolket: »»abe, dabe! æbe, dæbe!«« og saa dump Madamen! nu begyndte de igjen; Prindsen: »»abe, dabe! æbe, dæbe!«« og saa dump Madamen. Hun dumpede fem Gange den Aften. Den anden Gang jeg var der, gik det paa Sang hele Molevitten: »abe, dabe! æbe, dæbe!« og saa dump Madamen. Nu sidder der ved Siden af mig en meget net Kone fra Landet; hun havde aldrig været i Theatret og troede, at det var forbi; men jeg, som nu kjendte det, sagde, at da jeg var der sidst, dumpede Madamen fem Gange. Sang-Aftenen dumpede hun kun tre Gange. - Ja, der har De begge Comedierne, saa livagtigt som jeg saae dem!«

Var det Tragedier, hun havde seet, altid dumpede Madamen.

Da lyste det op i hans Tanke: paa det store Theater var paa Forhænget, der rullede ned i Mellemacterne, malet en stor qvindelig Figur, en Musa med den komiske og tragiske Maske. Det var Madamen, der dumpede; det havde været den egenlige Comedie; hvad de sagde og sang var for Hørkræmmerkonen: »abe, dabe! æbe, dæbe!« men en stor Fornøielse havde det været, og det var det ogsaa for Peer, og ikke mindre for Madame Gabriel, der hørte denne Gjengivelse af Stykkerne; hun sad med Forbauselsens Udtryk og Aands-Bevidsthedens Overlegenhed, hun havde jo, som Amme, baaret Shakespeares »Romeo og Julie«, havde Apothekeren sagt.

»Saa dump Madamen«, forklaret af Peer, blev siden en Vittigheds Talemaade der i Huset hvergang et Barn, en Spølkumme eller et og andet Meubel faldt paa Gulvet der i Huset.

»Saaledes blive Ordsprog og Talemaader til!« sagde Hr. Gabriel, der førte Alt hen til Videnskaben.

Nytaarsaften, paa Slaget tolv, stod Familien Gabriel og Kostgængerne hver med et Glas Punsch, det eneste, Hr. Gabriel drak hele Aaret; thi Punsch er ilde for en svag Mave. De drak Skaal for det nye Aar og talte Klokkeslagene: »een, to«, til det tolvte Slag: »der dump Madamen!« sagde de.

Det nye Aar rullede op, rullede afsted; ved Pintse havde Peer været to Aar der i Huset.

IX

To Aar vare gaaede, men Stemmen var ikke vendt tilbage. Hvorledes vilde Fremtiden stille sig for vor unge Ven.

Han vilde altid kunde blive Timelærer i en Skole, meente Hr. Gabriel, det var dog en Levevei, men ikke til at gifte sig paa, det var heller ikke Peers Tanke i hvor stor Plads end Apothekerens Datter havde i hans Hjerte.

»Blive Timelærer!« sagde Madame Gabriel, »Skolemand! saa bliver De det kjedeligste Gnav paa Jorden, ligesom min Gabriel. De er jo født Theatermenneske! bliv den største Skuespiller i Verden, det er noget Andet end at være Timelærer!«

Skuespiller! ja, det var Maalet.

Faermoer, ja hun havde en Rædsel for Jernbaner; det var at friste Gud. Intet skulde bringe hende til at fare med Damp, hun var jo ogsaa en gammel Kone, hun kom ikke paa Reise før hun reiste op til Vorherre.

Det sagde hun i Mai, - men i Juni reiste det gamle Menneske, ganske alene, de tredive lange Mile, til den fremmede By, til de fremmede Mennesker, for at komme til Peer. Det var en stor Begivenhed, den sørgeligste, der kunde hænde Moder og Faermoer.

Kukkeren havde sagt: »kukkuk« i det Uendelige, da Peer anden Gang spurgte den: »hvormange Aar skal jeg leve?« Sundheden og Humeuret var godt! de lyste Solskin lige ind i Fremtiden. Han havde faaet et fornøieligt Brev fra sin faderlige Ven, Syngemesteren. Peer skulde komme tilbage, man vilde see hvad der kunde gjøres for ham, hvilken Vei han havde at gaae, da Sangstemmen var borte.

»Træd op som Romeo!« sagde Madame Gabriel, »nu er De gammel nok til Elskerfaget og har faaet Kjød paa Kroppen. De behøver ikke at males.«

»Bliv Romeo!« sagde Apothekeren og Apothekerens Datter.

Der brusede mange Tanker gjennem hans Hoved og Hjerte. Men:

»Ingen veed, hvad imorgen skeer.«

Han sad nede i Haven, der gik ud til Engen. Det var Aften og Maaneskin. Hans Kinder brændte, hans Blod brændte, Luften bar deilig Køling. Hen over Mosen svævede Taagen, den løftede sig og sank, han maatte tænke paa Elverpigernes Dands. Da kom ham i Tanke den gamle Sang om Ridder Oluf, der red ud at byde Gjester til sit Bryllup, men standsedes af Elverpigerne, som droge ham ind i deres Dands og Leeg, og det voldte hans Død. Det var en Folkesang, en gammel Digtning; Maaneskinnet og Taagerne hen over Mosen dannede i Aftenen Billeder til den.

Peer sad snart halvt drømmende og saae derpaa. Buskene syntes at have Skikkelse af noget Menneskeligt, og Noget af Dyret; ubevægelige stode de, Taagen derimod løftede sig, som luftige bølgende Slør. Sligt havde Peer seet i Balletten paa Theatret, hvor Elverpigerne blive fremstillede, hvirvlende, svævende med Slør af Flor; men her var det langt deiligere og mere vidunderligt! saa stor en Scene kunde Theatret ikke fremvise; saa høi og klar en Luft, et saa lysende Maaneskin, havde den ikke.

Fremmest i Taagen lyste tydeligt en Qvindeskikkelse, og denne ene blev til tre, de tre til mange, Haand i Haand dandsende, svævende Piger. Luften bar dem hen mod Hækken hvor Peer stod; de nikkede til ham; de talte; det var som Sølvklokker klang; de dandsede ind i Haven om ham; de havde ham i deres Kreds. Uden at tænke derved dandsede han med dem, men ikke deres Dands; han hvivlede rundt som i den uforglemmelige Vampyrdands, men den tænkte han ikke paa, han tænkte egenlig slet ikke mere, men var aldeles overvældet af al den Herlighed, han saae omkring sig.

Mosen var en Sø, saa dyb og sortblaa, med Aakander, der lyste i alle tænkelige Farver; dandsende over Vandet bare de ham paa deres Slør hen mod den anden Bred, hvor Kæmpehøien havde kastet sit Grønsvær og løftet sig til et Slot af Skyer; men Skyerne vare af Marmor; blomstrende Træer af Guld og kostelige Stene snoede sig om de mægtige Marmorblokke; hver Blomst selv, var en farvestraalende Fugl, der sang med menneskelig Stemme. Det var som et Chor af tusinde og tusinde glade Børn. Var det Himlen eller var det Elverhøi?

Slottets Vægge rørte sig, giede mod hinanden, - lukkedes om ham. Han var derinde, Menneskeverdenen laae udenfor. Da følte han en Angest, en Skræk, som aldrig før. Ingen Udgang var at finde, men fra Gulvet til høit op mod Loftet, fra alle Vægge, smilede til ham deilige unge Piger; de vare saa levende at see og dog maatte han tænke: ere de kun malede? Han vilde tale til dem, men hans Tunge havde ikke Ord, Talestemmen var aldeles borte, ikke en Lyd kom fra hans Læber. Da kastede han sig ned paa Jorden, saa ulykkelig, som han aldrig før havde været.

En af Elverpigerne traadte hen til ham; hun meente ham det vist godt, paa sin Maade; hun havde paataget sig den Skikkelse, han helst vilde see; hun lignede Apothekerens Datter; han var nær ved at troe, at det var hende; men snart saae han, at hun var huul i Ryggen, ene og alene deilig Forside, aaben bag til, slet ikke Noget indeni.

»Een Time her, er hundrede Aar ude,« sagde hun, »Du har allerede været her en heel Time. Alle, hvem Du kjender og holder af udenfor ere døde! bliv hos os! - ja blive maa Du, eller Væggene klemme Dig, saa at Blodet sprøiter ud af din Pande!«

Og Væggene rørte sig, og Luften derinde blev som en gloende Bagerovn. Han fik Stemme.

»Vorherre! Vorherre! har Du forladt mig?« raabte han i den dybeste Sjælesmerte.

Da stod Faermoer hos ham. Hun tog ham i sine Arme, hun kyssede ham paa Panden, hun kyssede ham paa Munden:

»Min egen søde lille Ven!« sagde hun, »Vorherre slipper Dig ikke, han slipper Ingen af os, selv ikke den største Synder. Gud være Priis og Ære i al Evighed!«

Og hun tog frem sin Psalmebog, den samme hvoraf hun og Peer mangen Søndag havde sunget. Hvor klang hendes Stemme, hvor lød hendes Røst! alle Elverpigerne lagde deres Hoved til Hvile, de trængte dertil. Peer sang med Faermoer, som han før havde sunget hver Søndag; hvor var hans Stemme med Eet kraftig og stærk, dertil saa blød: Slottets Vægge rørte sig, bleve Skyer og Taage; Faermoer gik med ham ud af Høien i det høie Græs, hvor Sanct-Hans Ormene lyste og Maanen skinnede; men hans Fødder vare saa matte; han kunde ikke flytte dem, han sank ned i Græsset; det var den blødeste Seng; han hvilede saa godt og vaagnede ved Psalmesang.

Faermoer sad hos ham, sad ved Sengen i det lille Kammer i Hr. Gabriels Huus. Feberen var endt, Sundhed og Liv vendt tilbage.

Dødssyg havde han været. Nede i Haven havde de hiin Aften fundet ham afmægtig; en voldsom Feber fulgte; Doctoren meente, at han gik den ikke igjennem, han maatte døe, og derom blev skrevet til hans Moder. Hun og Faermoer vilde og maatte til ham; Begge kunde de ikke tage afsted, og saa reiste gamle Faermoer paa Jernbane.

»Det gjorde jeg kun for Peer!« sagde hun. »Jeg gjorde det i Guds Navn, ellers maatte jeg have troet, at jeg fløi med de Onde paa Kosteskaft Sanct-Hans Nat!«

X

Med glad og lettet Hjerte gik Tilbagereisen. Inderligt takkede Faermoer Vorherre: Peer skulde overleve hende! Yndige Naboer havde hun i Vognen: Apothekeren og hans Datter. De talte om Peer, elskede Peer som om de vare i Familie med ham. En stor Skuespiller vilde han blive, sagde Apothekeren; Stemmen var nu ogsaa vendt tilbage, der laae Millioner i en saadan Strube.

Hvilken Lyksalighed for Faermoer at høre slige Ord! hun levede ind i dem, troede paa dem, og saa vare de paa Stationen ved Hovedstaden, hvor Moder tog imod hende.

»Gud være lovet for Jernbanen!« sagde Faermoer, »og lovet for at jeg glemte, at jeg var paa den! det skylder jeg disse herlige Mennesker!« og hun trykkede Hænderne paa Apothekeren og hans Datter. »Jernbanen er en velsignet Opfindelse, naar den er overstaaet. Man er i Guds Haand!«

Og saa fortalte hun om den søde Dreng, der var udenfor al Fare og boede hos velhavende Folk, der holdt to Piger og en Karl. Peer var som Søn i Huset og sammen med to Børn af fornem Familie; den Ene var en Provstesøn. Faermoer havde boet paa Postgaarden, det var dyrt til Forfærdelse; men saa var hun bleven indbudt af Fru Gabriel; her havde hun været i fem Dage; det var Engle-Mennesker, især Fruen; hun havde nødt hende til at drikke Punsch, deilig lavet, men stærk.

Om en Maaned var Peer, med Guds Hjelp, rask og kom da til Hovedstaden.

»Fornem og forvænt er han vist bleven!« sagde Moder. »Han vil ikke finde sig i det her paa Qvisten! jeg er glad ved at Syngemesteren har indbudt ham til sig, - og dog,« saa græd Moder, »det er skrækkeligt at man skal være saa fattig, at Ens Barn ikke kan faae det godt nok i sit eget Hjem!«

»Siig ikke de Ord til Peer!« sagde Faermoer, »Du seer ikke ind i ham som jeg!«

»Mad og Drikke maa han dog have, ihvor fiin han end er bleven, sulte skal han ikke saalænge jeg kan røre mine Hænder. Madame Hof har sagt, at han kan spise sin Middag to Gange om Ugen hos hende, nu hun er vel stillet. Hun kjender Storhed og trange Kaar. Har hun ikke selv fortalt mig, at hun en Aften i Theaterlogen, hvor de gamle Dandserinder have Plads, fik Ondt; hele Dagen havde hun kun faaet Vand og en Kornrnenskringle, hun var syg af Sult og blev afmægtig. »Vand! Vand!« raabte de Andre. »»Butterdeig!«« bad hun; »»Butterdeig!«« Det Nærende behøvede hun, men aldeles ikke Vand. Nu har hun faaet Spisekammer og et godt dækket Bord!«

Tredive Mile borte sad endnu Peer Det sang og klang i ham; det sang og klang udenom; Alt var Solskin, Ungdommens glade Tid, Forventningernes Tid. For hver Dag blev han kraftigere, fik Humeur og Farve. Men Madame Gabriel blev stærkt bevæget alt som Afskeden nærmede sig.

»De gaaer til Storhed og mange Fristelser, for kjøn er De, det er De bleven i vort Huus. De har det Naturlige ligesom jeg og det hjelper i Fristelserne. Man maa ikke være ømsindet, ikke skabagtig! ømsindet som denne Dronning Dagmar, der om Søndagen snørede sine Silkeærmer og da havde Samvittighed over saa Lidt; der skal Mere til! jeg vilde aldrig have lamenteret som denne Lucretialhvad stak hun sig for? Hun var uskyldig og honnet, det vidste hun og hele Byen. Hvad kunde hun for Maleuren, den jeg ikke vil tale om, men som De i Deres Alder nok forstaaer! - saa gjør hun Skrig og tager Dolken! det behøvedes aldeles ikke! jeg havde ikke gjort det og De havde heller ikke, vi ere naturlige Mennesker, det skal man være til enhver Tid, og det vil De vedblive at være paa Konstens Bane. Jeg glæder mig til at læse om Dem i Avisen! engang kommer De nok til vor lille By, træder maaskee op som Romeo, men da er jeg ikke Ammen, jeg sidder i Parquettet og fryder mig!«

Madamen havde stor Vask og Strygning i Afskeds-Ugen for at Peer kunde komme hjem med reent Tøi, som da han kom til dem. Hun trak et nyt, stort Baand igjennem hans Ravhjerte; dette selv, var det Eneste, hun ønskede sig til en »Erindrings-Souvenir«, men hun fik det ikke.

Af Hr. Gabriel erholdt han et fransk Lexicon, det han havde benyttet ved Undervisningen og som var forøget med Randgloser af Hr. Gabriels egen Haand. Fruen gav ham Roser og Hjertegræs. Roserne vilde visne, men Hjertegræsset kunde holde Vinteren over, naar det ikke kom i Vand, men blev paa det Tørre, og hun skrev et Citat af Goethe, som et Slags Stamblad: »Umgang mit Frauen ist das Element guter Sitten.« Hun gav det i Oversættelse:

»Omgang med Fruer er Elementet for gode Sæder. Goethe.« »Han var en stor Mand!« sagde hun, »naar han bare ikke havde skrevet »Faust«, for jeg forstaaer den ikke. Det siger ogsaa Gabriel!«

Unge Madsen forærede Peer en ikke uheldig Tegning, han havde gjort af Hr. Gabriel, hængende i en Galge, med et Riis i Haanden, og Underskrift: »En stor Skuespillers første Veileder paa Videnskabens Bane.« Primus Provstesøn forærede ham et Par nye Morgenskoe, Provstinden selv havde syet, men saa store at Primus ikke i de første Aar kunde fylde dem. Paa Saalerne var skrevet med Blæk: »Minde om en sørgende Ven. Primus.«

Hele Hr. Gabriels Huus fulgte Peer til Banetoget. »Man skal ikke sige, at De reiser uden sans adieu!« sagde Madamen og kyssede ham paa Banegaarden.

»Jeg generer mig ikke!« sagde hun, »naar man ikke gjør det skjult, kan man gjøre enhver Ting!«

Signalpiben lød; unge Madsen og Primus raabte Hurra, »Smaathustøi« stemte i med, Madamen tørrede Øinene og viftede med Lommetørklædet; Hr. Gabriel sagde kun det ene Ord: » Vale!«

Landsbyer og Stæder fløi forbi. Mon Menneskene derinde vare saa glade, som Peer? Han tænkte derpaa, priste sin Lykke, tænkte paa det usynlige Guldæble, som Faermoer havde seet ligge i hans Haand, da han var Barn. Han tænkte paa sit Lykke-Fund i Rendestenen og fremfor Alt paa den gjenvundne Stemme og paa de Kundskaber, han nu havde tilegnet sig. Et heelt andet Menneske var han bleven. Det sang inden i ham af Glæde; det var en stor Selvbeherskelse, at han ikke sang det ud i Vognen.

XIII

Fra Madame Gabriel modtog han Brev. Hun var i Henrykkelse over den jublende Udtalelse i Bladene om hans Debut og Alt, hvad han maatte blive som Konstner. Hun havde med Pigerne drukket hans Skaal i Punsch. Hr. Gabriel tog ogsaa Deel i hans Hæder og var forvisset om, at han, fremfor de fleste Andre, udtalte fremmede Ord correct. Apothekeren løb Byen rundt og mindede om, at de paa deres lille Theater tidligere havde seet og beundret dette Talent, som først nu blev kjendt af Hovedstaden. Apothekerens Datter vilde nok ærgre sig, tilføiede Madamen, nu, da han kunde frie til Baronesser og Comtesser. Apothekerens Datter havde forhastet sig og slaaet til; hun var for en Maaned siden bleven forlovet med den tykke Raadmand; der var lyst for dem, og den tyvende i Maaneden stod Brylluppet.

Madame Gabriels Brev blev ikke mere læst. Hun drømte neppe, hvilken Sorg det havde forvoldt.

Faa Dage efter kom Brev fra Hr. Gabriel; han vilde ogsaa bringe sin Lykønskning og »en Commission«; den især havde nok givet Anledning til Brevet. Han bad Peer kjøbe en lille PorcellainsTing, nemlig: Amor og Hymen, Kjærligheden og Ægteskabet. »Den er udsolgt her i Byen,« skrev han, »men let at erholde i Hovedstaden; Penge følger med. Send Tingen snarest, den er Brudegave til Raadmandens, ved hvis Bryllup jeg var med min Hustru!« Forresten fik Peer at vide: »Unge Madsen bliver aldrig Student; han har forladt Huset og bemalet Væggen med Flauheder mod Familien. Slet Subject, unge Madsen. »Sunt pueri pueri, pueri puerilia tractant!« »Drenge ere Drenge, Drenge gjøre Drengestreger!« «jeg oversætter det, da Du ikke er Latiner.«

Hermed sluttede Brevet fra Hr. Gabriel.

NOTER

26

Hovmarken: herregårdsmark med hoveriarbejde. - en Enkemadame i Sort: samme model som til Madam Jensen i »At være eller ikke være«, se slutningen af dennes l. del kap. 6. Modellen var A.s værtinde i Nyhavn 1834-38, skipperenken Karen Sofie Larsen. - Sommerfugl (...) Letsindigheden: ukorrekt, men symbol på menneskets sjæl, den gr. mytologis Psyche.

28

Hr. Gabriel: skildringen af rektor Gabriels hus bygger på A.s ophold hos rektor Simon Meisling i Slagelse, senere Helsingør, okt. 1825-april 1827. Den radmagre Gabriel er dog i det ydre helt forskellig fra Meislings lille tætte skikkelse. Skildringen erindrer også om hans kone og det rodede og urenlige hjem, se fx Levnedsbog 3. afsnit kap. 4 om den tilsømmede dør og smst. s. 145 om, at fruen kujoneredes af pigerne, som vidste for meget om hende, jf. s. 29 og 30. Det bør ikke være glemt, at Meisling var en betydelig klassisk filolog og oversætter. - Primus: lat. »den første«; her ironisk »duks«. - Studerendes: - s-formen er udtryk for jævnt sprog. - Cæsar: som udtryk for faderens klassiske interesser.

29

lille Stue med Vindue til Haven: som i A.s allerførste logi i Slagelse, MLE I 79. - Schillers »Røverne«: 1781; opført i Slagelse 1825 af et teaterselskab, med skurkens replik: »Träume kommen ja aus dem Bauch, und Traume bedeuten nichts«; om gæstespillets forløb se Levnedsbog s. 115 m. noter.

30

de af Solen stærkt brændte Ruder: når ruderne anløbes af vinterens fugt, sker der et udtræk af soda, som hærdes af sommersolen og varigt gør ruderne mindre klare (venligt oplyst af glarmester Per Hebsgaard). - Hr. Gabriel (...) rakte Tungen ud: efter et gi. notat blandt forarbejderne til »At være ...«. - Punktum fynalis: punctum finale, definitiv afslutning. - Gangdøren: hos Meislings lukkedes den allerede kl. 6, og M. ville sove fra kl. 9. - fatigere: fatiguere, trætte.

32

Frokosten: morgenmaden. - et dyrt Sprog: atter en erindret detalje helt fra den første tid i Kbh., hvor en dame omtalte latin som et kostbart sprog (at fa timer i), se Levnedsbog s. 80. - compromittere mig: der menes: comportere mig, opføre mig. - Meget godt: den solide middelkarakter mg, omtrent nutidens 8; kunne forsynes med x og ? eller + og ÷; senere omtales Maadeligt, mdl, en dumpekarakter under bestågrænsen g(odt).

33

fugtle: prygle med sablens flade klinge. - Haandtager: slag i den flade hånd med den tykke ende af riset e.l. - Romeo: i Shakespeares tragedie Romeo og Julie (1594-95). - Regisseur: teaterfunktionær, der sørger for orden i kulisser, kostumer etc.

34

Genier: ental genius, egl. mytologiens og kunstens vingede småbørn.

35

Flick og Flock: titel på en ballet, A. havde set i Wien 1869, af Paul Taglioni (1808-84) til musik af P.L. Hertel. - Potpourrikrukke(r): åben krukke med velduftende indhold af rosenblade og lavendler.

37

Themistokles: athensk feltherre og statsmand, d. 459 f.Kr. - Sangerkampen paa Wartburg: en minnesanger-væddestrid hos landgrev Hermann af Thüringen 1207; den udgør hovedindholdet af 2. akt af Richard Wagners opera Tannhäuser. - de gamle græske Poeters Veddestrid: ved fester til gudernes ære kappedes de oldgræske lyrikere om priser for poesi og musik. - Sophokles (...) brast af Glæde hans Hjerte: (496-406 f.Kr.) if. den gr. historiker Diodoros fra Sicilien.

38

gaaer reject: bliver rejiceret, dumper (her: til artium, studentereksamen). - Conjugationer: der menes: konneksioner, gode forbindelser. - Heroldikken: der menes: heraldikken, læren om »våbener«, dvs. kende- og ejermærker.

39

glaukopis: med funklende gråblå øjne. - den koøiede: med store hvælvede øjne som gudinden Hera i Homers Iliaden, romernes Juno. - Borddandsen: den første dans efter bordet.

40

mageløs: enestående (imødekommende). - negligent: skødesløst.

41

Fleskebrød: et stykke rugbrød med flæsk som pålæg. - Truchiner: trikiner.

44

Hørkræmmer (ens): handlede oprindelig med hør, men nu med fisk, lertøj m.m. - dump: dumpede, faldt.

45

Spølkumme: eller spølkum, stor flad kop med eller uden hank.

46

ikke seet i to lange Aar (...) tredive Mile: jf. s. 25, et udtryk for den beskedne privatøkonomi. Afstanden, c. 225 km, rækker ud over afstanden København-Middelfart; til denne by kom der først jernbane fra Nyborg 1865.

47

Ingen veed ...: frit citat af et nationalt digt af A. fra 1863, »Fortrøstning«: »Ei Nogen veed, hvad imorgen skeer«, se MLE II 275. - Ridder Oluf: den kendte folkevise »Elveskud«, nr. 47 i hovedudgaven Danmarks gamle Folkeviser II, se registerbind XII 1976; A. Bournonvilles ballet Et Folkesagn fra 1854 har elverpigedans i 1. akts finale.

48

Vampyr(dands): se n.t.s. 20. - huul i Ryggen: det var elverpiger.

49

Vorherre! Vorherre! har Du forladt mig?: Jesu råb på korset, Matt. 27,46.

51

Dronning Dagmar: folkevisen (Danmarks gamle Folkeviser nr.135) lader det være hendes eneste synd at have pyntet sig »ømsindet« om søndagen. - lamenteret: klaget. - Lucretia: den dydige romerske kvinde L.; hun begik selvmord efter at være blevet voldtaget af kongesønnen Sextus Tarquinius (hvad Mad. Gabriel kalder »Maleuren«, ulykken, fr. malheur); sagnet er ofte udnyttet kunstnerisk. Kilde: Livius: Roms ældre historie, overs. af Adam Afzelius, 1954, I s. 77-80.

52

Citat af Goethe: romanen Die Wahlverwandtschaften, 2. del, 5. kap. - (uden) sans adieu: (uden) uden farvel (for stedse). - Vale: lat. Farvel.