and now he knew that she also had thought of him; and the nearer the
time came for his apprenticeship to end, the clearer did it appear
to him that he loved Joanna, and that she must be his wife; and a
smile came on his lips at the thought, and at one time he drew the
thread so fast as he worked, and pressed his foot so hard against
the knee strap, that he ran the awl into his finger; but what did he
care for that? He was determined not to play the dumb lover as both
the gingerbread cakes had done; the story was a good lesson to him.
At length he become a journeyman; and then, for the first time, he
prepared for a journey to Copenhagen, with his knapsack packed and
ready. A master was expecting him there, and he thought of Joanna, and
how glad she would be to see him. She was now seventeen, and he
nineteen years old. He wanted to buy a gold ring for her in Kjoge, but
then he recollected how far more beautiful such things would be in
Copenhagen. So he took leave of his parents, and on a rainy day,
late in the autumn, wandered forth on foot from the town of his birth.
The leaves were falling from the trees; and, by the time he arrived at
his new master's in the great metropolis, he was wet through. On the
following Sunday he intended to pay his first visit to Joanna's
father. When the day came, the new journeyman's clothes were brought
out, and a new hat, which he had brought in Kjoge. The hat became
him very well, for hitherto he had only worn a cap. He found the house
that he sought easily, but had to mount so many stairs that he
became quite giddy; it surprised him to find how people lived over one
another in this dreadful town.
On entering a room in which everything denoted prosperity,
Joanna's father received him very kindly. The new wife was a
stranger to him, but she shook hands with him, and offered him coffee.
"Joanna will be very glad to see you," said her father. "You
have grown quite a nice young man, you shall see her presently; she is
a good child, and is the joy of my heart, and, please God, she will
continue to be so; she has her own room now, and pays us rent for it."
And the father knocked quite politely at a door, as if he were a
stranger, and then they both went in. How pretty everything was in
that room! a more beautiful apartment could not be found in the
whole town of Kjoge; the queen herself could scarcely be better
accommodated. There were carpets, and rugs, and window curtains
hanging to the ground. Pictures and flowers were scattered about.
There was a velvet chair, and a looking-glass against the wall, into
which a person might be in danger of stepping, for it was as large
as a door. All this Knud saw at a glance, and yet, in truth, he saw
nothing but Joanna. She was quite grown up, and very different from
what Knud had fancied her, and a great deal more beautiful. In all
Kjoge there was not a girl like her; and how graceful she looked,
although her glance at first was odd, and not familiar; but for a
moment only, then she rushed towards him as if she would have kissed
him; she did not, however, although she was very near it. Yes, she
really was joyful at seeing the friend of her childhood once more, and
the tears even stood in her eyes. Then she asked so many questions
about Knud's parents, and everything, even to the elder-tree and the
willow, which she called "elder-mother and willow-father," as if
they had been human beings; and so, indeed, they might be, quite as
much as the gingerbread cakes. Then she talked about them, and the
story of their silent love, and how they lay on the counter together
and split in two; and then she laughed heartily; but the blood
rushed into Knud's cheeks, and his heart beat quickly. Joanna was
not proud at all; he noticed that through her he was invited by her
parents to remain the whole evening with them, and she poured out
the tea and gave him a cup herself; and afterwards she took a book and
read aloud to them, and it seemed to Knud as if the story was all
about himself and his love, for it agreed so well with his own
thoughts. And then she sang a simple song, which, through her singing,
became a true story, and as if she poured forth the feelings of her
own heart.
"Oh," he thought, "she knows I am fond of her." The tears he could
not restrain rolled down his cheeks, and he was unable to utter a
single word; it seemed as if he had been struck dumb.
When he left, she pressed his hand, and said, "You have a kind
heart, Knud: remain always as you are now." What an evening of
happiness this had been; to sleep after it was impossible, and Knud
did not sleep.
At parting, Joanna's father had said, "Now, you won't quite forget
us; you must not let the whole winter go by without paying us
another visit;" so that Knud felt himself free to go again the
following Sunday evening, and so he did. But every evening after
working hours- and they worked by candle-light then- he walked out
into the town, and through the street in which Joanna lived, to look
up at her window. It was almost always lighted up; and one evening
he saw the shadow of her face quite plainly on the window blind;
that was a glorious evening for him. His master's wife did not like
his always going out in the evening, idling, wasting time, as she
called it, and she shook her head.
But his master only smiled, and said, "He is a young man, my dear,
you know."
"On Sunday I shall see her," said Knud to himself, "and I will
tell her that I love her with my whole heart and soul, and that she
must be my little wife. I know I am now only a poor journeyman
shoemaker, but I will work and strive, and become a master in time.
Yes, I will speak to her; nothing comes from silent love. I learnt
that from the gingerbread-cake story."
Sunday came, but when Knud arrived, they were all unfortunately
invited out to spend the evening, and were obliged to tell him so.
Joanna pressed his hand, and said, "Have you ever been to the
theatre? you must go once; I sing there on Wednesday, and if you
have time on that day, I will send you a ticket; my father knows where
your master lives." How kind this was of her! And on Wednesday,
about noon, Knud received a sealed packet with no address, but the
ticket was inside; and in the evening Knud went, for the first time in
his life, to a theatre. And what did he see? He saw Joanna, and how
beautiful and charming she looked! He certainly saw her being
married to a stranger, but that was all in the play, and only a
pretence; Knud well knew that. She could never have the heart, he
thought, to send him a ticket to go and see it, if it had been real.
So he looked on, and when all the people applauded and clapped their
hands, he shouted "hurrah." He could see that even the king smiled
at Joanna, and seemed delighted with her singing. How small Knud felt;
but then he loved her so dearly, and thought she loved him, and the
man must speak the first word, as the gingerbread maiden had
thought. Ah, how much there was for him in that childish story. As
soon as Sunday arrived, he went again, and felt as if he were about to
enter on holy ground. Joanna was alone to welcome him, nothing could
be more fortunate.
"I am so glad you are come," she said. I was thinking of sending
my father for you, but I had a presentiment that you would be here
this evening. The fact is, I wanted to tell you that I am going to
France. I shall start on Friday. It is necessary for me to go there,
if I wish to become a first-rate performer."
Poor Knud! it seemed to him as if the whole room was whirling
round with him. His courage failed, and he felt as if his heart
would burst. He kept down the tears, but it was easy to see how
sorrowful he was.
"You honest, faithful soul," she exclaimed; and the words loosened
Knud's tongue, and he told her how truly he had loved her, and that
she must be his wife; and as he said this, he saw Joanna change color,
and turn pale. She let his hand fall, and said, earnestly and
mournfully, "Knud, do not make yourself and me unhappy. I will
always be a good sister to you, one in whom you can trust; but I can
never be anything more." And she drew her white hand over his
burning forehead, and said, "God gives strength to bear a great
deal, if we only strive ourselves to endure."
At this moment her stepmother came into the room, and Joanna
said quickly, "Knud is so unhappy, because I am going away;" and it
appeared as if they had only been talking of her journey. "Come, be
a man" she added, placing her hand on his shoulder; "you are still a
child, and you must be good and reasonable, as you were when we were
both children, and played together under the willow-tree."
Knud listened, but he felt as if the world had slid out of its
course. His thoughts were like a loose thread fluttering to and fro in
the wind. He stayed, although he could not tell whether she had
asked him to do so. But she was kind and gentle to him; she poured out
his tea, and sang to him; but the song had not the old tone in it,
although it was wonderfully beautiful, and made his heart feel ready
to burst. And then he rose to go. He did not offer his hand, but she
seized it, and said-
"Will you not shake hands with your sister at parting, my old
playfellow?" and she smiled through the tears that were rolling down
her cheeks. Again she repeated the word "brother," which was a great
consolation certainly; and thus they parted.
She sailed to France, and Knud wandered about the muddy streets of
Copenhagen. The other journeymen in the shop asked him why he looked
so gloomy, and wanted him to go and amuse himself with them, as he was
still a young man. So he went with them to a dancing-room. He saw many
handsome girls there, but none like Joanna; and here, where he thought
to forget her, she was more life-like before his mind than ever.
"God gives us strength to bear much, if we try to do our best," she
had said; and as he thought of this, a devout feeling came into his
mind, and he folded his hands. Then, as the violins played and the
girls danced round the room, he started; for it seemed to him as if he
were in a place where he ought not to have brought Joanna, for she was
here with him in his heart; and so he went out at once. As he went
through the streets at a quick pace, he passed the house where she
used to live; it was all dark, empty, and lonely. But the world went
on its course, and Knud was obliged to go on too.
Winter came; the water was frozen, and everything seemed buried in
a cold grave. But when spring returned, and the first steamer prepared
to sail, Knud was seized with a longing to wander forth into the
world, but not to France. So he packed his knapsack, and travelled
through Germany, going from town to town, but finding neither rest
or peace. It was not till he arrived at the glorious old town of
Nuremberg that he gained the mastery over himself, and rested his
weary feet; and here he remained.
Nuremberg is a wonderful old city, and looks as if it had been cut
out of an old picture-book. The streets seem to have arranged
themselves according to their own fancy, and as if the houses objected
to stand in rows or rank and file. Gables, with little towers,
ornamented columns, and statues, can be seen even to the city gate;
and from the singular-shaped roofs, waterspouts, formed like
dragons, or long lean dogs, extend far across to the middle of the
street. Here, in the market-place, stood Knud, with his knapsack on
his back, close to one of the old fountains which are so beautifully
adorned with figures, scriptural and historical, and which spring up
between the sparkling jets of water. A pretty servant-maid was just
filling her pails, and she gave Knud a refreshing draught; she had a
handful of roses, and she gave him one, which appeared to him like a
good omen for the future. From a neighboring church came the sounds of
music, and the familiar tones reminded him of the organ at home at
Kjoge; so he passed into the great cathedral. The sunshine streamed
through the painted glass windows, and between two lofty slender
pillars. His thoughts became prayerful, and calm peace rested on his
soul. He next sought and found a good master in Nuremberg, with whom
he stayed and learnt the German language.
The old moat round the town had been converted into a number of
little kitchen gardens; but the high walls, with their heavy-looking
towers, are still standing. Inside these walls the ropemaker twisted
his ropes along a walk built like a gallery, and in the cracks and
crevices of the walls elderbushes grow and stretch their green
boughs over the small houses which stand below. In one of these houses
lived the master for whom Knud worked; and over the little garret
window where he sat, the elder-tree waved its branches. Here he
dwelt through one summer and winter, but when spring came again, he
could endure it no longer. The elder was in blossom, and its fragrance
was so homelike, that he fancied himself back again in the gardens
of Kjoge. So Knud left his master, and went to work for another who
lived farther in the town, where no elder grew. His workshop was quite
close to one of the old stone bridges, near to a water-mill, round
which the roaring stream rushed and foamed always, yet restrained by
the neighboring houses, whose old, decayed balconies hung over, and
seemed ready to fall into the water. Here grew no elder; here was
not even a flower-pot, with its little green plant; but just
opposite the workshop stood a great willow-tree, which seemed to
hold fast to the house for fear of being carried away by the water. It
stretched its branches over the stream just as those of the
willow-tree in the garden at Kjoge had spread over the river. Yes,
he had indeed gone from elder-mother to willow-father. There was a
