Copenhagen Tales Read online

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  with his poor, deceived, and abandoned mother to whose

  one sole lapse from virtue he owed his existence. Up there,

  day after day her joyless grey eyes had dripped that bitter

  hatred into his soul which made his cheeks blaze and his

  brain glow. And it was from there that he had stormed out

  to the great rallies, where under the eyes of the leaders

  themselves he had delivered his own fiery speeches to the

  listening thousands.

  And then he had left—broken, disillusioned, full of

  loathing, branded by all the newspapers’ inky lies, pursued

  by the gloating grins of treacherous comrades and the vigi-

  lant eyes of the police. Not long after, his mother died, and

  with that his last tie with his hated hometown was broken.

  And yet . . . and yet wherever in the world he happened

  to set foot, in Germany, in America, and latterly in the

  mountains of Norway, he had unfailingly kept one sleepless

  ear cocked in the direction of the old places, waiting for the

  day when the people’s patience would finally snap. And

  now at last it had come! The summons had sounded! . . . Or

  could it even be that the wondrous and ineffable had already

  occurred? Had the sentence been passed, the punishment

  carried out? It seemed to him that an eerie and eloquent

  silence brooded over the city as it gradually opened up to his

  gaze, with the long rows of pale lights under the still factory

  chimneys stark against the sky.

  Could it, could it have happened?

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  On the stroke of six they dropped anchor in the inner

  roads. Darkness had fallen. Hundreds of ships’ lanterns

  bobbed to left and right of the Trekroner beacon’s

  penetrating beam. A tramp steamer came splashing out

  from the harbour with its fiery red and cat-green eyes

  riding above an incessant hissing and creaking. From

  within the glowing city sounded a far-off restless hum.

  Staggering like a drunk, Reinald got down into the

  dinghy, which swiftly carried him ashore.

  The first person he came across was a uniformed

  messenger standing under a lamp by the custom house

  steps, deep in a newspaper. But the blue, bloated face

  betrayed nothing, and Reinald did not have the courage

  to approach him. The customs officer, a sulky little fellow

  who inspected his knapsack wordlessly, likewise left him

  none the wiser. But as he hastened out into the deserted

  foggy street where once in a while a solitary figure brushed

  past him under the wan street lighting with coat collar

  round his ears, he was struck anew by the uncanny silence

  that hung over the city.

  Next moment, through the fog he caught sight of a row

  of large posters on a nearby hoarding. People’s revolution!—

  flashed through his mind as he hurried over. But then by

  the dim light of a far-off street lamp he made out:

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  Twice Met n 25

  Madame Popper Menter! Last concert! Theatre! Burlesque!

  Chung-Chang the equilibrist! Breathtaking aerobatical per-

  formances! Musse is coming!!! Bedbugs eliminated! . . .

  A dry cough sounded a little way off. He looked round and

  glimpsed a policeman’s helmet slowly approaching from

  the direction of Grønningen. Quickly he turned a corner

  and was almost immediately in Store Kongensgade. Here

  there was no lack of light or people. Hansom cabs and

  drays thronged the street. Shop bells jingled, boys whistled

  ‘The Happy Coppersmith’. On one corner a fat policeman

  stood and yawned.

  Reinald was astounded. He gazed at all those fine

  gentlemen sweeping past him in their new promenade

  furs, the imposing perfumed ladies with flashing eyes

  roaming behind cherry-red veils. He gazed at the placid

  urchins gathered wistfully in front of the bright shop

  windows, at the workers quietly making their way home,

  at the womenfolk and apprentice lads standing about in

  doorways and gateways chatting together and smoking.

  And he peered down into cellar tap-rooms where people

  sat crowded together, drinking and laughing.

  He could make no sense of it. What was the meaning of

  this gaiety? Was it a cover under which the bullets were

  being forged?

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  Where should he seek information? Whom did he

  dare ask?

  He turned down one of the side streets, and at once his

  eyes were drawn to light streaming onto the street from a

  big house some way ahead. Knots of people were gathered

  on both sides of the arched entrance, and carriage after

  carriage drove through it and drew up.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Reinald asked a shoemaker’s app-

  rentice after watching a while in amazement the ladies in

  ball gowns and the men in white ties skipping from the

  carriages into the garlanded vestibule.

  ‘It’s the liberals.’

  ‘The liberals? Who are they?’

  ‘The liberals? Huh, get away with you!’

  ‘They’re dedicating the flag’, piped up a little old dame

  in a bonnet and long cape, and she nodded portentously

  up at him.

  Reinald gazed down at her wizened trembling mouth,

  as though unable to believe his own ears. Dedicating the

  flag! Then had some sort of victory been won?

  He felt utterly at a loss. As if in a dream, he roamed a

  long while through a succession of dark streets, almost

  unaware of walking. At last he halted outside a deep

  basement tavern. And being thereby reminded he had

  eaten nothing all day, he pulled himself together and

  descended the steps.

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  It was a grubby little room with a spittle-dotted floor, at

  that moment void of customers. From the centre of the

  blackened ceiling dangled a drowsily fuming bare paraffin

  lamp, and seated in one corner in shirtsleeves was the stout

  tavern keeper, fast asleep. The sound of the doorbell woke

  him, though, and he eyed the stranger in befuddled sur-

  prise. Reinald sat down at a table close to the door, and

  ordered a plate of sandwiches and a bottle of beer. With

  much effort and audible grumbles, the fat man rose from

  his chair and shuffled across the floor to a hatch in the

  wall, where he remained standing until the order was

  thrust through the hole.

  ‘Bad times, eh?’ he gasped as he slumped into a chair

  opposite the newcomer, and, still half asleep, bit off a good

  three inches from a stick of chewing tobacco which he

  fished from a trouser pocket.

  Reinald nodded assent, bent over his sandwiches.

  ‘Nothing seems to be moving. Just strikes and bank-

  ruptcies and mischief and misery wherever you look. And

  al
l just because of politics! Can you beat it?’

  At the word ‘politics’ Reinald pricked up his ears.

  But the fat man was suddenly wide awake too, and

  darted a hard look at his visitor out of the corner of an eye.

  ‘Well—so what’s your opinion about all this here poli-

  ticking?’ he asked.

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  Reinald replied that he had only that very evening

  arrived in the city from abroad and was therefore in

  complete ignorance. But he would appreciate some infor-

  mation; he had heard so many rumours.

  ‘Did you also hear about the new emergency laws?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘About the gendarmes? And the police?’

  ‘No! Has . . . has something happened? I mean—

  something really serious?’ Reinald stammered out.

  ‘Eeh, God preserve us!’ cried the fat man in horror.

  ‘What more could possibly happen? Isn’t it dangerous

  enough already? Thank the Lord I don’t bother myself

  with politics and that. To my way of thinking the Right

  or the Left would be equally good, if they could only agree.

  That’s what they should be thinking about, that lot over

  there in Parliament, and start understanding it’s us trades-

  men who suffer. You tell me what’s the use of all their fuss?

  Previously I could dispose of a half or even a whole barrel

  of beer in a single night, just to labourers and workmen.

  But now everyone’s keeping well clear of public places so

  as not to run into trouble over what they say. It’s easy to let

  slip a word or two when you’ve had a drop too much, and

  a spy can jump on it and use it to harm a man. So that’s

  why they’re all stopping at home, unless as like as not

  they’re setting up secret societies and hush-hush clubs. . . .

  And as though that’s any better! Watch out, or before you

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  know it we’ll be the same here as over there in Russia, what

  with them nillylists and dynamiters.’

  ‘You really think so?’ asked Reinald eagerly.

  The publican again gave his customer a searching look.

  Then he winked a couple of times and said in conspirato-

  rial tones:

  ‘Who knows what might be going on in these strange

  times. Could be something new pops up sooner than

  anyone thinks.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Hm! I’m not saying nothing’, he said, and stared hard

  out into the room.

  But a moment later he turned back to Reinald and laid

  a hand confidentially on his arm.

  ‘Know how to keep a secret?’

  ‘Me? . . . Yes, of course.’

  ‘Then listen to this. Up here on the second floor lives

  one of the leaders . . . of the opposition, naturally—’

  ‘Here, in this house?’

  ‘On the second floor, aye. Take it from me, something’s

  afoot up there. There’s been no end of running up and

  down them stairs in recent days! And they go whishing

  and whispering and putting their heads together soon as

  they come out on the street. The other day—but don’t

  quote me!—the other day there was a proper meeting on,

  with a good two dozen—and ladies and all, naturally! You

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  can be sure things were up for debate there! ‘Cos there the

  police can’t go poking their noses in, am I right? . . . Bah!

  Go ahead, is all I say! I don’t go meddling in what’s none of

  my business. I’m neither nilly-this nor nilly-that, me, and

  according to my way of thinking both lots are as good as

  the other in those opinions they happen to hold, right?

  Fair enough, eh? . . . So will it be another beer?’

  ‘No thanks’, said Reinald, getting to his feet.

  ‘A bit of baccy?’

  ‘No thank you . . . How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Forty-two øre.’

  He counted out the money—his bony fingers were

  shaking—bade farewell, and left the cellar.

  Once he was out in the street he first looked warily

  about him, then went through the entrance and quickly

  climbed the stairs. On the second floor he found a large

  brass name plate on the door. He recognized the name,

  which he had often seen in the papers, and softly rang the

  bell. A maid opened the door and looked him up and

  down suspiciously.

  Was the master at home?

  No—yes—but he wasn’t receiving today. He had to go

  out, and was dressing right now. But tomorrow morning

  he would be available for consultation in his office.

  Yes, yes—but all the same he would very much like to

  speak to him this evening.

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  Was it not something she could pass on to him—for he

  was busy right now.

  No, he absolutely had to speak to him in person.

  She pulled a grumpy face and went away after casting

  an eye over the coats and cloaks hanging on the hall rack.

  When she came back she instructed him imperiously

  to wipe his feet on the mat, after which she showed him

  into a large, beautiful, elegantly furnished room with rugs

  on the floor, armchairs upholstered in velvet, engravings

  and costly paintings—all softly lit by a red-globed lamp

  suspended from the ceiling. In one wall was a curtained

  doorway, and through this stepped a fair-haired middle-

  aged portly gentleman with a big moustache, dressed in

  tails, white satin tie, cream-yellow gloves, and with a large

  rose in his buttonhole.

  ‘You wish to speak with me?’

  ‘Yes’.

  ‘Aha! Now I see, it’s about the dance. So have you

  managed to get the bouquets and posies for the cotillons

  arranged to your satisfaction?’

  ‘No—I am a traveller.’

  ‘Is that so?’ The fair-haired gentleman took out his

  pince-nez. ‘May I ask you to be so kind as to be brief.

  My carriage awaits in the entrance, and I must away.’

  Reinald, white with excitement, proceeded to explain

  his presence in naive detail. He started with his youth, the

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  rallies, and his departure, and told how this very evening

  he had arrived from Norway where he had spent the last

  years, and how up there he had followed the course of the

  struggle and now had come back to offer his services to

  ‘The Cause’.

  At this a broad smile of understanding spread out from

  under the big blond moustache to the pale eyes which at

  first had lingered impatiently on the peculiar-looking

  stranger, inspecting him with suspicion all the way from

  the mass of unruly locks to the down-at-heel bespattered

  shoes. Reinald’s story had touched him, and he stepped up

  to him, deeply moved, and gave him his hand.

  ‘All you tell me delights me more than I can say—<
br />
  delights me more than you perhaps may understand. I bid

  you most heartily welcome! Believe me, it does all of us

  good, and fortifies us in our efforts, to meet with such fine

  proof of a true and devoted love of liberty. . . . Oddly

  enough, at the very moment you called I was endeavouring

  to find a suitable opening for the speech I have the honour

  of being asked to deliver tonight. And truly, if you will

  permit me to mention your heroic arrival on these shores

  I am convinced it will arouse universal sympathy. For—

  yes indeed!—it’s as you say, there is a war on in this

  country—we are at daggers drawn! And that is precisely

  why it is so fine, yes, magnificent, when a man so unhesi-

  tatingly rallies to the banner at the hour of danger . . . Once

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  Twice Met n 33

  more, a hearty welcome! Be assured, we do not underesti-

  mate your contribution.’

  And he wrung his hand again with genuine warmth.

  But Reinald, heartened by this, now looked around the

  room and asked in a whisper:

  ‘No one can hear us here?’

  ‘Hear us? No, I don’t believe so. But why?’

  ‘Because . . . well, I wanted . . . I want to know right this

  very night how you wish to use me.’

  ‘Use you? . . . What exactly do you mean, my good

  fellow? I could hardly have been more precise . . . ’

  ‘I am totally at your command. I am ready for anything!’

  ‘Ready? How so? I don’t quite understand you.’

  ‘You can safely rely on me, Sir. My lips are sealed.

  I know . . . I know you had a meeting up here . . . the other

  day . . . ’

  ‘Yes, quite correct—the social committee gathered here

  in view of tonight’s banquet . . . But how—in what connec-

  tion did you imagine that you—?’

  ‘There is no need to be afraid of me. Like I said, Sir, I’ve

  known how to keep my mouth shut all this time. Give me

  any task you will. I’ll take on anyone, even if it be—the man

  himself! I have an old score to settle there, I can tell you.’

  ‘But what does the fellow mean to suggest?’ cried the

  fair-haired gentleman of a sudden, instinctively taking a

  step back towards his desk. Horror-struck he stared at that

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  pale, quivering apparition, those two tiny coal-black eyes

  glowing at him above the dark stubble. ‘What are you