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There is a street in Copenhagen with a very strange name. It is
called "Hysken" street. Where the name came from, and what it means
is very uncertain. It is said to be German, but that is unjust to
the Germans, for it would then be called "Hauschen," not "Hysken." "Hauschen,"
means a little house; and for many years it consisted only of a few
small houses, which were scarcely larger than the wooden booths we
see in the market-places at fair time. They were perhaps a little
higher, and had windows; but the panes consisted of horn or
bladder-skins, for glass was then too dear to have glazed windows in
every house. This was a long time ago, so long indeed that our
grandfathers, and even great-grandfathers, would speak of those days
as "olden times;" indeed, many centuries have passed since then.
The rich merchants in Bremen and Lubeck, who carried on trade in
Copenhagen, did not reside in the town themselves, but sent their
clerks, who dwelt in the wooden booths in the Hauschen street, and
sold beer and spices. The German beer was very good, and there were
many sorts—from Bremen, Prussia, and Brunswick—and quantities of all
sorts of spices, saffron, aniseed, ginger, and especially pepper;
indeed, pepper was almost the chief article sold here; so it
happened at last that the German clerks in Denmark got their
nickname of "pepper gentry." It had been made a condition with these
clerks that they should not marry; so that those who lived to be old
had to take care of themselves, to attend to their own comforts, and
even to light their own fires, when they had any to light. Many of
them were very aged; lonely old boys, with strange thoughts and
eccentric habits. From this, all unmarried men, who have attained a
certain age, are called, in Denmark, "pepper gentry;" and this must
be remembered by all those who wish to understand the story. These
"pepper gentlemen," or, as they are called in England, "old
bachelors," are often made a butt of ridicule; they are told to put
on their nightcaps, draw them over their eyes, and go to sleep. The
boys in Denmark make a song of it, thus:—
"Poor old bachelor, cut your wood,
Such a nightcap was never seen;
Who would think it was ever clean?
Go to sleep, it will do you good."
So they sing about the "pepper gentleman;" so do they make sport of
the poor old bachelor and his nightcap, and all because they really
know nothing of either. It is a cap that no one need wish for, or
laugh at. And why not? Well, we shall hear in the story.
In olden times, Hauschen Street was not paved, and passengers would
stumble out of one hole into another, as they generally do in
unfrequented highways; and the street was so narrow, and the booths
leaning against each other were so close together, that in the
summer time a sail would be stretched across the street from one
booth to another opposite. At these times the odor of the pepper,
saffron, and ginger became more powerful than ever. Behind the
counter, as a rule, there were no young men. The clerks were almost
all old boys; but they did not dress as we are accustomed to see old
men represented, wearing wigs, nightcaps, and knee-breeches, and
with coat and waistcoat buttoned up to the chin. We have seen the
portraits of our great-grandfathers dressed in this way; but the
"pepper gentlemen" had no money to spare to have their portraits
taken, though one of them would have made a very interesting picture
for us now, if taken as he appeared standing behind his counter, or
going to church, or on holidays. On these occasions, they wore
high-crowned, broad-brimmed hats, and sometimes a younger clerk
would stick a feather in his. The woollen shirt was concealed by a
broad, linen collar; the close jacket was buttoned up to the chin,
and the cloak hung loosely over it; the trousers were tucked into
the broad, tipped shoes, for the clerks wore no stockings. They
generally stuck a table-knife and spoon in their girdles, as well as
a larger knife, as a protection to themselves; and such a weapon was
often very necessary.
After this fashion was Anthony dressed on holidays and festivals,
excepting that, instead of a high-crowned hat, he wore a kind of
bonnet, and under it a knitted cap, a regular nightcap, to which he
was so accustomed that it was always on his head; he had two,
nightcaps I mean, not heads. Anthony was one of the oldest of the
clerks, and just the subject for a painter. He was as thin as a
lath, wrinkled round the mouth and eyes, had long, bony fingers,
bushy, gray eyebrows, and over his left eye hung a thick tuft of
hair, which did not look handsome, but made his appearance very
remarkable. People knew that he came from Bremen; it was not exactly
his home, although his master resided there. His ancestors were from
Thuringia, and had lived in the town of Eisenach, close by Wartburg.
Old Anthony seldom spoke of this place, but he thought of it all the
more.
The old clerks of Hauschen Street very seldom met together; each one
remained in his own booth, which was closed early enough in the
evening, and then it looked dark and dismal out in the street. Only
a faint glimmer of light struggled through the horn panes in the
little window on the roof, while within sat the old clerk, generally
on his bed, singing his evening hymn in a low voice; or he would be
moving about in his booth till late in the night, busily employed in
many things. It certainly was not a very lively existence. To be a
stranger in a strange land is a bitter lot; no one notices you
unless you happen to stand in their way. Often, when it was dark
night outside, with rain or snow falling, the place looked quite
deserted and gloomy. There were no lamps in the street, excepting a
very small one, which hung at one end of the street, before a
picture of the Virgin, which had been painted on the wall. The
dashing of the water against the bulwarks of a neighboring castle
could plainly be heard. Such evenings are long and dreary, unless
people can find something to do; and so Anthony found it. There were
not always things to be packed or unpacked, nor paper bags to be
made, nor the scales to be polished. So Anthony invented employment;
he mended his clothes and patched his boots, and when he at last
went to bed,—his nightcap, which he had worn from habit, still
remained on his head; he had only to pull it down a little farther
over his forehead. Very soon, however, it would be pushed up again
to see if the light was properly put out; he would touch it, press
the wick together, and at last pull his nightcap over his eyes and
lie down again on the other side. But often there would arise in his
mind a doubt as to whether every coal had been quite put out in the
little fire-pan in the shop below. If even a tiny spark had remained
it might set fire to something, and cause great damage. Then he
would rise from his bed, creep down the ladder—for it could scarcely
be called a flight of stairs—and when he reached the fire-pan not a
spark could be seen; so he had just to go back again to bed. But
often, when he had got half way back, he would fancy the iron
shutters of the door were not properly fastened, and his thin legs
would carry him down again. And when at last he crept into bed, he
would be so cold that his teeth chattered in his head. He would draw
the coverlet closer round him, pull his nightcap over his eyes, and
try to turn his thoughts from trade, and from the labors of the day,
to olden times. But this was scarcely an agreeable entertainment;
for thoughts of olden memories raise the curtains from the past, and
sometimes pierce the heart with painful recollections till the agony
brings tears to the waking eyes. And so it was with Anthony; often
the scalding tears, like pearly drops, would fall from his eyes to
the coverlet and roll on the floor with a sound as if one of his
heartstrings had broken. Sometimes, with a lurid flame, memory would
light up a picture of life which had never faded from his heart. If
he dried his eyes with his nightcap, then the tear and the picture
would be crushed; but the source of the tears remained and welled up
again in his heart. The pictures did not follow one another in
order, as the circumstances they represented had occurred; very
often the most painful would come together, and when those came
which were most full of joy, they had always the deepest shadow
thrown upon them.
The beech woods of Denmark are acknowledged by every one to be very
beautiful, but more beautiful still in the eyes of old Anthony were
the beech woods in the neighborhood of Wartburg. More grand and
venerable to him seemed the old oaks around the proud baronial
castle, where the creeping plants hung over the stony summits of the
rocks; sweeter was the perfume there of the apple-blossom than in
all the land of Denmark. How vividly were represented to him, in a
glittering tear that rolled down his cheek, two children at play—a
boy and a girl. The boy had rosy cheeks, golden ringlets, and clear,
blue eyes; he was the son of Anthony, a rich merchant; it was
himself. The little girl had brown eyes and black hair, and was
clever and courageous; she was the mayor's daughter, Molly. The
children were playing with an apple; they shook the apple, and heard
the pips rattling in it. Then they cut it in two, and each of them
took half. They also divided the pips and ate all but one, which the
little girl proposed should be placed in the ground.
"You will see what will come out," she said; "something you don't
expect. A whole apple-tree will come out, but not directly." Then
they got a flower-pot, filled it with earth, and were soon both very
busy and eager about it. The boy made a hole in the earth with his
finger, and the little girl placed the pip in the hole, and then
they both covered it over with earth.
"Now you must not take it out to-morrow to see if it has taken
root," said Molly; "no one ever should do that. I did so with my
flowers, but only twice; I wanted to see if they were growing. I
didn't know any better then, and the flowers all died."
Little Anthony kept the flower-pot, and every morning during the
whole winter he looked at it, but there was nothing to be seen but
black earth. At last, however, the spring came, and the sun shone
warm again, and then two little green leaves sprouted forth in the
pot.
"They are Molly and me," said the boy. "How wonderful they are, and
so beautiful!"
Very soon a third leaf made its appearance.
"Who does that stand for?" thought he, and then came another and
another. Day after day, and week after week, till the plant became
quite a tree. And all this about the two children was mirrored to
old Anthony in a single tear, which could soon be wiped away and
disappear, but might come again from its source in the heart of the
old man.
In the neighborhood of Eisenach stretches a ridge of stony
mountains, one of which has a rounded outline, and shows itself
above the rest without tree, bush, or grass on its barren summits.
It is called the "Venus Mountain," and the story goes that the "Lady
Venus," one of the heathen goddesses, keeps house there. She is also
called "Lady Halle," as every child round Eisenach well knows. She
it was who enticed the noble knight, Tannhauser, the minstrel, from
the circle of singers at Wartburg into her mountain.
Little Molly and Anthony often stood by this mountain, and one day
Molly said, "Do you dare to knock and say, 'Lady Halle, Lady Halle,
open the door: Tannhauser is here!'" But Anthony did not dare.
Molly, however, did, though she only said the words, "Lady Halle,
Lady Halle," loudly and distinctly; the rest she muttered so much
under her breath that Anthony felt certain she had really said
nothing; and yet she looked quite bold and saucy, just as she did
sometimes when she was in the garden with a number of other little
girls; they would all stand round him together, and want to kiss
him, because he did not like to be kissed, and pushed them away.
Then Molly was the only one who dared to resist him. "I may kiss
him," she would say proudly, as she threw her arms round his neck;
she was vain of her power over Anthony, for he would submit quietly
and think nothing of it. Molly was very charming, but rather bold;
and how she did tease!
They said Lady Halle was beautiful, but her beauty was that of a
tempting fiend. Saint Elizabeth, the tutelar saint of the land, the
pious princess of Thuringia, whose good deeds have been immortalized
in so many places through stories and legends, had greater beauty
and more real grace. Her picture hung in the chapel, surrounded by
silver lamps; but it did not in the least resemble Molly.
Click Here for Part 2 of The Old Bachelor's
Nightcap
The Old Bachelor's Nightcap
A Classic Children's Short Story
by
Hans Christian Andersen |
