Statue of Holger Danske at Marienlyst
Within the wall near the entrance is a rough white statue of Holger Danske, the legendary hero of Denmark, leaning upon his sword. I expected to find Holger Danske there, for Hans Christian Andersen had said that he was to be found, in Kronborg “in the deep, dark cellar where nobody goes.” “He sleeps and dreams,” explained Andersen, “but in his dreams he sees everything that happens up here in Denmark. Every Christmas Eve comes an angel, and tells him that what he has dreamed is right and that he may go to sleep in quiet, for that Denmark is not yet in any real danger; but when once such a danger comes, then old Holger Danske will rouse himself!... Then he will come forth and strike, so that it shall be heard in all the countries in the world.”
For a time, in my skeptical growing-up years, I somewhat lost faith in this assurance of the Danish writer; for then I learned how Germany took from little Denmark the duchy of Schleswig-Holstein because the Danes were helpless to prevent; but now I know, “being old,” that, as Andersen says, “there is faith in Holger Danske.” And I recently noticed in re-reading the story, that Andersen emphasizes the fact that there is another strength besides the power that lies in the sword, and that “Holger Danske may come in many forms”! I missed that point as a child, or had forgotten it since leaving childhood behind.
“Holger Danske” is the strong, courageous spirit of the people of Denmark, which has never been shown more fully than in the last half century. In this period the Danes have shown remarkable co-operative strength; they have conquered the heath lands, developed their magnificent public-school system, and put their country in spick and span shape generally.
I soon had my fill of dungeons and things underground generally, so we went to the art gallery. Here, as one would expect, is a statue of Shakespeare. And here are many paintings. Some of these are second-rate works of “old masters,” and are very dark and ancient and venerable in appearance. I fear, Cynthia, that you would have thought it horribly improper of me not to “rave” over them, especially the dingy, swarthy, old ones; but I could not—they were so ugly! And my cousins showed less reverence than I; Waldemar passed them by with great scorn, announcing that he would not pick them up from the roadside. We liked the national portraits best, not because we considered them better artistically—I am sure that you would have pronounced them inferior to the old masters—but because of their historical interest.
In a tower room was a portrait of “Caroline Mathilde,” and a placard announced that in this room the lady of that name had been imprisoned. I could not muster up enough Danish historical data to remember who Caroline Mathilde was; so I turned to the boys and inquired. Waldemar did not know, but during the whole day he had shown a tremendous sense of responsibility whenever I asked a question, and he now left no stone unturned in his efforts to find the answer.
He first tried Jens with, “You have been to school since I. Don’t you know who Caroline Mathilde was?”
But Jens did not possess the desired information. The historical characters of a thousand years must be quite a “chore” to remember. Then, for want of better material, Waldemar pounced upon a tiny scrap of a girl—the child of the woman who sold post cards at the entrance to the gallery—and repeated, “Who was Caroline Mathilde?”
“I don’t know,” said the child.
Waldemar looked down at the mite with a Pharisaical air. “What! Don’t you know who was her husband?”