We have another famous scene of recognition, but of far later date, in the old French epic of Girart de Roussillon. Girart, after many years’ absence, returns in poverty and sickness to France. He presents himself to the queen, who recognises him by means of a ring, and, “although it was Good Friday, she fell on Girart’s neck and kissed him seven times.”
It would perhaps be superfluous to quote more instances of the kisses of affection. We meet with it in all ages in grave and solemn moments, not only among those who love each other, but also as an expression of profound gratitude. When the Apostle Paul took leave of the elders of the congregation at Ephesus, “they all wept sore, and fell on Paul’s neck and kissed him” (Acts xx. 37).
When De Malesherbes had solicited for himself the perilous honour of undertaking the defence of Louis XVI., that monarch got up and, in order to show his gratitude, kissed him publicly.
Even among persons who are utter strangers to each other, kisses such as these may be exchanged. The profoundest sympathy with, the warmest interest in, another’s weal or woe can be instantly created.
The story of Ingeborg Vinding and Poul Vendelbo Løvenørn is well known. H. P. Giessing relates it, just as he heard it, in the following form: Poul Vendelbo, the poor student, went one day on the ramparts round Copenhagen, and walked with two rich noblemen who, like himself, had matriculated at the university from Horsen’s School. They happened to notice a singularly beautiful woman sitting at the window of one of the adjacent houses. One of the noblemen then said half-mockingly to Vendelbo, “Now, if you could get a kiss from that lady, Poul, we would defray the expenses of that tour abroad which you are so anxious to make.” Vendelbo took him at his word, went up to the beautiful lady, and told her how his whole future possibly depended on her. She then drew him towards the window, and, in the view of the nobleman, gave him the kiss he craved. He went abroad, and, returning at last as Adjutant-General Løvenørn, paid the fair lady a visit. She was none other than Ingeborg Vinding.
This is the anecdote, equally characteristic of both parties, that Carl Ploug has so prettily treated in his poem Et Kys (A Kiss).
The professor’s daughter is sitting alone in the sitting-room, and “humming a song she has learnt by heart.” Then some one knocks at the door, and in steps young Poul with his audacious request; first she will refuse him indignantly:
Ere yet a word she uttered
She raised her eyes again.
Their angry flash should wither
That overbold young swain.
But, ah, he stood so quiet,
With such a modest grace,
With features stamped with honour,
And such a noble face.
Once more the maiden’s glances
Looked down, their anger dead,
And with a blush delicious
She spoke him fair instead.