“No doubt of it!” answered Otto.
“You will remain and dine with us?” said the lady of the house, who now entered.
Otto did not feel well.
“These are only whims,” said Sophie.
The ladies made merry, and Otto remained. Cousin Joachim came and was interesting—very interesting, said all. He related of Paris, spoke also of Copenhagen, and drew comparisons. The quietness of home had made an especial impression on him.
“People here,” said he, “go about as if they bore some heavy grief, or some joy, which they might not express. If one goes into a coffee-house, it is just as if one entered a house of mourning. Each one seats himself, a newspaper in his hand, in a corner. That strikes one when one comes from Paris! One naturally has the thought,—Can these few degrees further north bring so much cold into the blood? There is the same quiet in our theatre. Now I love this active life. The only boldness the public permits itself is hissing a poor author; but a wretched singer, who has neither tone nor manner, a miserable actress, will be endured, nay, applauded by good friends—an act of compassion. She is so fearful! she is so good! In Paris people hiss. The decoration master, the manager, every one there receives his share of applause or blame. Even the directors are there hissed, if they manage badly.”
“You are preaching a complete revolution in our theatrical kingdom!” said the lady of the house. “The Copenhageners cannot ever become Parisians, and neither should they.”
“The theatre is here, as well as there, the most powerful organ of the people’s life. It has the greatest influence, and ours stands high, very high, when one reflects in what different directions it must extend its influence. Our only theatre must accommodate itself, and represent, at the same time, the Theatre Français, the grand Opera, the Vaudeville, and Saint-Martin; it must comprehend all kinds of theatrical entertainments. The same actors who to-day appear in tragedy, must to-morrow show themselves in a comedy or vaudeville. We have actors who might compare themselves with the best in Paris—only one is above all ours, but, also, above all whom I have seen in Europe, and this one is Mademoiselle Mars. You will, doubtless, consider the reason extraordinary which gives this one, in my opinion, the first place. This is her age, which she so completely compels you to forget. She is still pretty; round, without being called fat. It is not through rouge, false hair, or false teeth, that she procures herself youth; it lies in her soul, and from thence it flows into every limb—every motion becomes charming! She fills you with astonishment! her eyes are full of expression, and her voice is the most sonorous which I know! It is indeed music! How can one think of age when one is affected by an immortal soul? I rave about Léontine Fay, but the old Mars has my heart. There is also a third who stands high with the Parisians—Jenny Vertprè, at the Gymnase Dramatique, but she would be soon eclipsed were the Parisians to see our Demoiselle Pätges. She possesses talent which will shine in every scene. Vertprè has her loveliness, her whims, but not her Proteus-genius, her nobility. I saw Vertprè in ‘La Reine de Seize Ans,’—a piece which we have not yet; but she was only a saucy soubrette in royal splendor—a Pernille of Holberg’s, as represented by a Parisian. We have Madame Wexschall, and we have Frydendal! Were Denmark only a larger country, these names would sound throughout Europe!”
He now described the decorations in the “Sylphide,” in “Natalia,” and in various other ballets, the whole splendor, the whole magnificence.
“But our orchestra is excellent!” said Miss Sophie.