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THERE is street in Copenhagen that has this strange name—“Hysken Str$de.”Whence comes this name and what is its meaning?It is said to be German;but injustice has been done to the Germans in this matter,for it would have to be“H uschen”,and that means little houses.For here stood,once upon a time,and indeed for a great many years,a few little houses,which were little more than wooden booths,just as we see now in the market-places at fair-time.They were,perhaps,a little larger,and had windows;but the panes were of horn or bladder,for glass was then too expensive to be used in every house.But then we are speaking of a long time ago—so long since,that grandfather's grandfather,when he talked about it,used to speak of it as“the old times”—in fact,it is several centuries ago.

The rich merchants in Bremen and Lübeck carried on trade with Copenhagen.They did not come here them-selves,but sent their clerks,who lived in the wooden booths in the street of the small houses,and sold beer and spices.

The German beer was good,and there were many kinds of it—Bremen,and Pryssing,Emser,and even Brunswick mumm;and quantities of spices were sold—saffron,and aniseed,and ginger,and especially pepper.Yes,pepper was the chief article here;and so it happened that the German clerks got the nickname,“pepper gentry”;and there was a condition which they had to enter into at home,that they would not marry at Copenhagen,and many of them became very old.They had to care for themselves,and to look after their own comforts,and to put out their own fires—when they had any;and some of them became very solitary old boys,with eccentric ideas and eccentric habits.From them,all unmarried men who have attained a certain age are called in Denmark“pepper gentry”;and this must be derstood by all who wish to comprehend this history.

The“pepper gentleman”becomes a butt for ridicule,and is told that he ought to put on his nightcap,draw it down over his eyes,and go to bed.The boys sing—

“Cut,cut wood,

Poor bachelor's a sorry elf;

A nightcap goes with him to bed,

And he must light his fire himself.”

Yes,that's what they sing about the“pepperer”—thus they make game of the poor bachelor and his night-cap,just because they know very little about either.Ah,that kind of nightcap no one should wish to earn!And why not?We shall hear.

In the old times the street of the small houses was not paved,and the people stumbled out of one hole into another,as in a neglected by-way;and it was narrow too.The booths leaned side by side,and stood so close together that in the summer-time a sail was often stretched from one booth to its opposite neighbour,on which occasion the fragrance of pepper,saffron,and ginger became doubly powerful.Behind the counters young men were seldom seen.The clerks were generally old boys;but they did not look like what we should fancy them,manely,with wig,and nightcap,and plush small-clothes,and with waistcoat and coat buttoned up to the chin.No,grandfather's great-grandfather may look like that,and has been thus portrayed,but the“pepper gentry”did not have the means to have their portraits taken;though,in-deed,it would be interesting now to have a picture of one of them,as he stood behind the counter or went to church on holy days.His hat was high-crowned and broad-brimmed,and sometimes one of the youngest clerks would mount a feather.The woollen shirt was hidden behind a broad clean collar,the close jacket was buttoned up to the chin,and the cloak hung loose over it;and the trousers were tucked into the broad-toed shoes,for the clerks did not wear stockings.In their girdles they carried a dinner-knife and spoon,and a larger knife was placed there also for the defense of the owner;and this weapon was often very necessary.Just so was Anthony,one of the oldest clerks,clad on high days and holy days,except that,instead of a high-crowned hat,he wore a low bonnet,and under it a knitted cap(a regular nightcap),to which he had grown so accustomed that it was always on his head;and he had two of them.The old fellow was a subject for a painter.He was as thin as a lath,had wrinkles about his eyes and mouth,and long bony fingers,and bushy grey eyebrows;over the left eye hung quite a tuft of hair,and that did not look very handsome,though it made him very noticeable.People knew that he came from Bremen;but that was not his native place,though his master lived there.His own native place was in Thuringia,the town of Eisenach,close by the Wartburg.Old Anthony did not speak much of this,but he thought of it all the more.

The old clerks in the street did not often come together.Each one remained in his booth,which was closed early in the evening;and then it looked dark enough in the street:only a faint glimmer of light forced its way through the little horn-pane in the roof;and in the booth sat,generally on his bed,the old bachelor,his German hymn-book in his hand,singing an evening psalm;or he went about in the booth till late into the night,and busied himself about all sorts of things.It was certainly not an amusing life.To be a stranger in a strange land is a bitter lot:nobody cares for you,unless you happen to get in anybody's way.

Often when it was dark night outside,with snow and rain,the place looked very gloomy and lonely.No lamps were to be seen,with the exception of one solitary light hanging before the picture of the Virgin that was fastened against the wall.The plash of the water against the neighbouring rampart at the castle wharf could be plainly heard.Such evenings are long and dreary,unless people devise some employment for themselves.There is not always pack-in or unpacking to do,nor can the scales be polished or paper bags be made continually;and,failing these,people should devise other employment for themselves.And that is just what old Anthony did;for he used to mend his clothes and put pieces on his boots.When he at last sought his couch he used from habit to keep his nightcap on.He drew it down a little closer;but soon he would push it up again,to see if the light had been properly extinguished.He would touch it,press the wick together,and then lie down on the other side,and draw his night-cap down again;but then a doubt would come upon him,if every coal in the little fire-pan below had been properly deadened and put out—a tiny spark might have been left burning,and might set fire to something and cause dam-age.And therefore he rose from his bed,and crept down the ladder,for it could scarcely be called a stair.And when he came to the fire-pan not a spark was to be discovered,and he might just go back again.But often,when he had gone half of the way back,it would occur to him that the shutters might not be securely fastened;yes,then his thin legs must carry him downstairs once more.He was cold,and his teeth chattered in his mouth when he crept back again to bed;for the cold seems to become doubly severe when it knows it cannot stay much longer.He drew up the coverlet closer around him,and pulled down the nightcap lower over his brows,and turned his thoughts away from trade and from the labours of the day.But that did not procure him agreeable entertainment;for now old thoughts came and put up their curtains,and these curtains have sometimes pins in them,with which one pricks oneself,and one cries out“Oh!”and they prick into one's flesh and burn so,that the tears some-times come into one's eyes;and that often happened to old Anthony—hot tears.The largest pearls streamed forth,and fell on the coverlet or on the floor,and then they sounded as if one of his heart-strings had broken.Sometimes again they seemed to rise up in flame,illuminating a picture of life that never faded out of his heart.If he then dried his eyes with his nightcap,the tear and the picture were indeed crushed,but the source of the tears remained,it lay in his heart.The pictures did not come up in the order in which the scenes had occurred in reality,for very often the most painful would come together;then again the most joyful would come,but these had the deepest shadows of all.

The beech woods of Denmark are beautiful,but the woods of Thuringia arose far more beautiful in the eyes of Anthony.More mighty and more venerable seemed to him the old oaks around the proud knightly castle,where the creeping plants hung down over the stony blocks of the rock;sweeter there bloomed the flowers of the apple-tree than in the Danish land.This he remembered very vividly.A glittering tear rolled down over his cheek;and in this tear he could plainly see two children playing—a boy and a girl.The boy had red cheeks,and yellow curling hair,and honest blue eyes.He was the son of the rich merchant,little Anthony—himself.The little girl had brown eyes and black hair,and had a bright clever look.She was the burgomaster's daughter Molly.The two were playing with an apple.They shook the apple,and heard the pips rattling in it.Then they cut the apple in two,and each of them took a half;they divided even the pips,and ate them all but one,which the little girl proposed that they should lay in the earth.

“Then you shall see,”she said,“what will come out.It will be something you don't at all expect.A whole apple-tree will come out,but not directly.”

And she put the pip in a flower-pot,and both were very busy and eager about it.The boy made a hole in the earth with his finger,and the little girl dropped the pip in it,and they both covered it with earth.

“Now,you must not take it out tomorrow to see if it has struck root,”said Molly.“That won't do at all.I did it with my flowers;but only twice.I wanted to see if they were growing—I didn't know any better then—and the plants withered.”

Anthony took away the flower-pot,and every morn-in,the whole winter through,he looked at it;but nothing was to be seen but the black earth.At length,however,the spring came,and the sun shone warm again;and two little green leaves came up out of the pot.

“Those are for me and Molly,”said the boy.“That's beautiful—that's marvellously beautiful!”

Soon a third leaf made its appearance.Whom did that represent?Yes,and there came another,and yet another.Day by day and week by week they grew larger,and the plant began to take the form of a real tree.And all this was now mirrored in a single tear,which was wiped away and disappeared;but it might come again from its source in the heart of old Anthony.

In the neighbourhood of Eisenach a row of stony mountains rises up.One of these mountains is round in outline,naked and without tree,bush,or grass.It is called the Venus Mount.In this mountain dwells Lady Venus,one of the deities of the heathen times.She is al-so called Lady Holle;and every child in and around Eisenach has heard about her.She it was who lured Tannh user,the noble knight and minstrel,from the circle of the singers of the Wartburg into her mountain.

Little Molly and Anthony often stood by this mountain;and once Molly said,

“Dare you knock and say,‘Lady Holle,open the door—Tannh user is here’?”

But Anthony did not dare.Molly,however,did it,though she only said the words“Lady Holle,Lady Holle!”aloud and distinctly;the rest she muttered so in-distinctly that Anthony felt convinced she had not really said anything;and yet she looked as bold and saucy as possible—as saucy as when she sometimes came round him with other little girls in the garden,and all wanted to kiss him because he did not like to be kissed and tried to keep them off;and she was the only one who dared to kiss him.

“I may kiss him!”she would say proudly.

That was her vanity;and Anthony submitted,and thought no more about it.

How charming and how teasing Molly was!It was said that Lady Holle in the mountain was beautiful also,but that her beauty was like that of a tempting fiend.The greatest beauty and grace was possessed by Saint Elizabeth,the patron saint of the country,the pious Princess of Thuringia,whose good actions have been immortalized in many places in legends and stories.In the chapel her picture was hanging,surrounded by silver lamps;but it was not in the least like Molly.

The apple-tree which the two children had planted grew year by year,and became so tall,that it had to be transplanted into the garden,into the fresh air,where the dew fell and the sun shone warm.And the tree developed itself strongly,so that it could resist the winter.And it seemed as if,after the rigour of the cold season was past,it put forth blossoms in spring for very joy.In the autumn it brought two apples—one for Molly and one for Anthony.It could not well have produced less.

The tree had grown apace,and Molly grew like the tree.She was as fresh as an apple-blossom:but Anthony was not long to behold this flower.All things change!Molly's father left his old home,and Molly went with him,far away.Yes,in our time steam has made the journey they took a matter of a few hours,but then more than a day and a night were necessary to go so far eastward from Eisenach to the farthest border of Thuringia,to the city which is still called Weimar.

And Molly wept,and Anthony wept;but all their tears now melted into one,and this tear had the rosy,charming hue of joy.For Molly told him she loved him—loved him more than all the splendours of Weimar.

One,two,three years went by,and during this period two letters were received.One came by a carrier,and a traveller brought the other.The way was long and difficult,and passed through many windings by towns and villages.

Often had Molly and Anthony heard of Tristram and Iseult,and often had the boy applied the story to himself and Molly,though the name Tristam was said to mean “born in tribulation”,and that did not apply to Anthony,nor would he ever be able to think,like Tristram,“She has forgotten me.”But,indeed,Iseult did not forget her faithful knight;and when both were laid to rest in the earth,one on each side of the church,the linden trees grew from their graves over the church roof,and there met each other in bloom.Anthony thought that was beautiful,but mournful,but it could not become mournful between him and Molly;and he whistled a song of the old min-nesinger,Walter of the Vogelweide—

Under the lindens

Upon the heath.

And especially that passage appeared charming to him—

From the forest,down in the vale,

Sang her sweet song the nightingale.

This song was often in his mouth,and he sang and whistled it in the moonlight night,when he rode along the deep hollow way on horseback to get to Weimar and visit Molly.He wished to come unexpectedly,and he came unexpectedly.He was made welcome with full goblets of wine,with jovial company,fine company,and a pretty room and a good bed were provided for him;and yet his reception was not what he had dreamed and fancied it would be.He could not understand himself—he could not understand the others;but we can understand it.One may be admitted into a house and associate with a family without becoming one of them.One may converse together as one would converse in a post-carriage,and know one another as people know each other on a journey,each incommoding the other and wishing that either oneself or the good neighbour were away.Yes,that was the kind of thing Anthony felt.

“I am an honest girl,”said Molly,“and I myself will tell you what it is.Much has changed since we were children together—changed inwardly and outwardly.Habit and will have no power over our hearts.Anthony,I should not like to have an enemy in you,now that I shall soon be far away from here.Believe me,I entertain the best wishes for you;but to feel for you what I know now one may feel for a man,has never been the case with me.You must reconcile yourself to this.Farewell,Anthony!”

And Anthony bade her farewell.No tear came into his eye,but he felt that he was no longer Molly's friend.Hot iron and cold iron alike take the skin from our lips,and we have the same feeling when we kiss it:and he kissed himself into hatred as into love.

Within twenty-four hours Anthony was back in Eisenach,though certainly the horse on which he rode was ruined.

“What matter!”he said:“I am ruined too;and I will destroy everything that can remind me of her,or of Lady Holle,or Venus the heathen woman!I will break down the apple-tree and tear it up by the roots,so that it shall never bear flower or fruit more!”

But the apple-tree was not broken down,though he himself was broken-down,and bound on a couch by fever.What could raise him up again?A medicine was presented to him which had strength to do this—the bitterest of medicines,that shakes up body and spirit together.Anthony's father ceased to be the richest of merchants.Heavy days—days of trial—were at the door;misfortune came rolling into the house like great waves of the sea.The father became a poor man.Sorrow and suffering took away his strength.Then Anthony had to think of something else besides nursing his love-sorrows and his anger against Molly.He had to take his father's place—to give orders,to help,to act energetically,and at last to go out into the world and earn his bread.

Anthony went to Bremen.There he learned what poverty and hard living meant;and these sometimes make the heart hard,and sometimes soften it,even too much.

How different the world was,and how different the people were from what he had supposed them to be in his childhood!What were the minnesinger's songs to him now?—an echo,a vanishing sound!Yes,that is what he thought sometimes;but again the songs would sound in his soul,and his heart became gentle.

“God's will is best!”he would say then.“It was well that I was not permitted to keep Molly's heart—that she did not remain true to me.What would it have led to now,when fortune has turned away from me?She quitted me be-fore she knew of this loss of prosperity,or had any notion of what awaited me.That was a mercy of Providence to-wards me.Everything has happened for the best.It was not her fault—and I have been so bitter,and have shown so much rancour towards her!”

And years went by.Anthony's father was dead,and strangers lived in the old house.But Anthony was destined to see it again.His rich employer sent him on commercial journeys,and his duty led him into his native town of Eisenach.The old Wartburg stood unchanged on the mountain,with“the monk and the nun”hewn out in stone.The great oaks gave to the scene the outlines it had possessed in his childish days.The Venus Mount glimmered grey and naked over the valley.He would have been glad to cry,“Lady Holle,Lady Holle,unlock the door,and I shall enter and remain in my native earth!”

That was a sinful thought,and he blessed himself to drive it away.Then a little bird out of the thicket sang clearly,and the old minnesong came into his mind—

From the forest,down in the vale,

Sang her sweet song the nightingale.

And here in the town of his childhood,which he thus saw again through tears,much came back into his remembrance.His father's house stood as in the old times;but the garden was altered,and a field-path led over a portion of the old ground,and the apple-tree that he had not broken down stood there,but outside the gar-den,on the farther side of the path.But the sun threw its rays on the apple-tree as in the old days,the dew descended gently upon it as then,and it bore such a burden of fruit hat the branches were bent down towards the earth.

“That flourishes!”he said.“The tree can grow!”

Nevertheless,one of the branches of the tree was broken.Mischievous hands had torn it down towards the ground;for now the tree stood by the public way.

“They break its blossoms off without a feeling of thankfulness—they steal its fruit and break the branches.One might say of the tree as has been said of some men—‘It was not sung at his cradle that it should come thus.’How brightly its history began,and what has it come to?Forsaken and forgotten—a garden tree by the hedge,in the field,and on the public way!There it stands unprotected,plundered,and broken!It has certainly not died,but in the course of years the number of blossoms will diminish;at last the fruit will cease altogether;and at last—at last all will be over!”

Such were Anthony's thoughts under the tree;such were his thoughts during many a night in the lonely chamber of the wooden house in the distant land—in the street of the small houses in Copenhagen,whither his rich employer,the Bremn merchant,had sent him,first makin it a condition that he should not marry.

“Marry!Ha,ha!”he 1aughed bitterly to himself.

Winter had set in early;it was freezing hard.With-out,a snow-storm was raging,so that every one who could do so remained at home;thus,too,it happened that those who lived opposite to Anthony did not notice that for two days his house had not been unlocked,and that he did not show himself;for who would go out unnecessarily in such weather?

They were grey,gloomy days;and in the house,whose windows were not of glass,twilight only alternated with dark night.Old Anthony had not left his bed during the two days,for he had not the strength to rise;he had for a long time felt in his limbs the hardness of the weather.Forsaken by all lay the old bachelor,unable to help himself.He could scarcely reach the water-jug that he had placed by his bedside,and the last drop it contained had been consumed.It was not fever,nor sickness,but old age that had struck him down.Up there,where his couch was placed,he was overshadowed,as it were,by continual night.A litile spider,which,howerer,he could not see,busily and cheerfully span its web around him,as if it were weaving a little crape banner that should wave when the old man close his eyes.

The time was very slow,and long,and dreary.Tears he had none to shed,nor did he feel pain.The thought of Molly never came into his mind.He felt as if the world and its noise concerned him no longer—as if he were lying out-side the world,and no one were thinking of him.For a moment he felt a sensation of hunger—of thirst.Yes,he felt them both.But nobody came to tend him—nobody.He thought of those who had once suffered want;of Saint Elizabeth,as she had once wandered on earth;of her,the saint of his home and of his childhood,the noble Duchess of Thuringia,the benevolent lady who had been accustomed to visit the lowliest cottages,bringing to the inmates re-freshment and comfort.Her pious deeds shone bright upon his soul.He thought of her as she had come to distribute words of comfort,binding up the wounds of the afflicted and giving meat to the hungry,though her stern husband had chidden her for it.He thought of the legend told of her,how she had been carrying the full basket containing food and wine,when her husband,who watched her foot-steps,came forth and asked angrily what she was carry-in,whereupon she answered,in fear and trembling,that the basket contained roses which she had plucked in the garden;how he had torn away the white cloth from the basket,and a miracle had been performed for the pious lady;for bread and wine,and everything in the basket,had been transformed into roses!

Thus the saint's memory dwelt in Anthony's quiet mind;thus she stood bodily before his downcast face,be-fore his warehouse in the simple booth in the Danish land.He uncovered his head,and looked into her gentle eyes,and everything around him was beautiful and roseate.Yes,the roses seemed to unfold themselves in fragrance.There came to him a sweet,peculiar odour of apples,and he saw a blossoming apple-tree,which spread its branches above him—it was the tree which Molly and he had planted together.

And the tree strewed down its fragrant leaves upon him,cooling his burning brow.The leaves fell upon his parched lips,and were like strengthening bread and wine;and they fell upon his breast,and he felt calm,and inclined to sleep peacefully.

“Now I shall sleep,”he whispered to himself.“Sleep is refreshing.Tomorrow I shall be upon my feet again,and strong and well—glorious,wonderful!That apple-tree,planted in true affection,now stands before me in heavenly radiance—”

And he slept.

The day afterwards—it was the third day that his shop had remained closed—the snowstorm had ceased,and a neighbour from the opposite house came over to-wards the booth where dwelt old Anthony,who had not yet shown himself.Anthony lay stretched upon his bed—dead—with his old cap clutched tightly in his two hands!They did not put that cap on his head in his coffin,for he had a new white one.

Where were now the tears that he had wept?What had become of the pearls?They remained in the night-cap—and the true ones do not come out in the wash—they were preserved in the nightcap,and in time forgotten;but the old thoughts and the old dreams still remained in the “bachelor's nightcap.”Don't wish for such a cap for your-self.It would make your forehead very hot,would make your pulse beat feverishly,and conjure up dreams which appear like reality.The first who wore that cap afterwards felt all that,though it was half a century afterwards;and that man was the burgomaster himself,who had a wife and eleven children,and was very well off.He was immediate-ly seized with dreams of unfortunate love,of bankruptcy,and of heavy times.

“Hallo!how the nightcap warms!”he cried,and tore it from his head.

And a pearl rolled out,and another,and another,and they sounded and glittered.

“This must be gout,”said the burgomaster.“Some-thing dazzles my eyes!”

They were tears,shed half a century before by old Anthony from Eisenach.

Every one who aftewards put that nightcap upon his head had visions and dreams.His own history was changed into that of Anthony,and became a story;in fact,many stories.But some one else may tell them.We have told the first.And our last word is—don't wish for“the Old Bachelor's Nightcap”.






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