At this the great improvisator scratched his head, looked at the ceiling and then at the floor, after which he took several rapid strides up and down the room, and struck himself repeatedly on the forehead. Suddenly grasping up a pen, he exclaimed, somewhat energetically, “Here! I’ll draw it for you;” and forthwith he drew on a scrap of paper a diagram, of which the accompanying engraving is a fac-simile.
“A tumble-bug!” I shouted, astonished at my former stupidity.
The poet looked puzzled and distressed. Evidently I had not yet succeeded. What could it be?
“A beetle!” I next ventured to suggest, rather disappointed at the result of my previous guess.
“A beetle! A beetle!—that’s it; now I remember—a beetle!” and the delighted author of “The Beetle” patted me approvingly on the back, and chuckled gleefully at his own adroit method of explanation. “I’ll give you ‘The Beetle,’” he said; “you shall have the only copy in my possession. But you don’t read Danish! What are we to do? There is a partial translation in French—a mere notice.”
“No matter,” I answered. “A specimen of the Danish language will be very acceptable, and the book will be a pleasant souvenir of my visit.”
He then darted into the next room, tumbled over a dozen piles of books, then out again, ransacked the desks, and drawers, and heaps of old papers and rubbish, talking all the time in his joyous, cheery way about his books and his travels in Jutland, and his visit to Charles Dickens, and his intended journey through Spain, and his delight at meeting a traveler all the way from California, and whatever else came into his head—all in such mixed-up broken English that the meaning must have been utterly lost but for the wonderful expressiveness of his face and the striking oddity of his motions. It came to me mesmerically. He seemed like one who glowed all over with bright and happy thoughts, which permeated all around him with a new intelligence. His presence shed a light upon others like the rays that beamed from the eyes of “Little Sunshine.” The book was found at last, and when he had written his name in it, with a friendly inscription, and pressed both my hands on the gift, and patted me once more on the shoulder, and promised to call at Frankfort on his return from Switzerland to see his little friends who knew all about the “Ugly Duck” and the “Little Match Girl,” I took my leave, more delighted, if possible, with the author than I had ever before been with his books. Such a man, the brightest, happiest, simplest, most genial of human beings, is Hans Christian Andersen.
The steamer Arcturus was advertised to sail for Reykjavik on the 4th of June, so it behooved me to be laying in some sort of an outfit for the voyage during the few days that intervened. A knapsack, containing a change of linen and my sketching materials, was all I possessed. This would have been sufficient but for the probability of rain and cold weather. I wanted a sailor’s monkey-jacket and an overall. My friend Captain Södring would not hear of my buying any thing in that way. He had enough on hand from his old whaling voyages, he said, to fit out a dozen men of my pattern. Just come up to the house and take a look at them, and if there wasn’t too much oil on them, I was welcome to the whole lot; but the oil, he thought, would be an advantage—it would keep out the water. In vain I protested—it was no use—the captain was an old whaler, and so was I, and when two old whalers met, it was a pity if they couldn’t act like shipmates on the voyage of life. There was no resisting this appeal, so I agreed to accept the old clothes. When we arrived at the captain’s house he disappeared in the garret, but presently returned bearing a terrific pile of rubbish on his shoulders, and accompanied by a stout servant-girl also heavily laden with marine curiosities. There were sou’westers, and tarpaulins, and skull-caps; frieze jackets, and overalls, and hickory shirts; tarpaulin coats, and heavy sea-boots, and duck blouses with old bunches of oakum sticking out of the pockets; there were coils of rope-yarn well tarred, and jack-knives in leather cases, still black with whale-gurry: and a few telescopes and log-glasses. “Take ’em all,” said the captain. “They smell a little fishy, but no matter. It’s all the better for a voyage to Iceland. You’ll be used to the smell before you get to Reykjavik; and it’s wholesome—very wholesome! Nothing makes a man so fat.” I made a small selection—a rough jacket and a few other essential articles. “Nonsense, man!” roared the captain, “take ’em all! You’ll find them useful; and if you don’t, you can heave them overboard or give them to the sailors.” And thus was I fitted out for the voyage.