Cousin-hunting in Scandinavia

by Mary Wilhelmine Williams

Odense is, in fact, primarily important because of its being the birthplace of Andersen; and that is why I made a pilgrimage to it. The house in which he was born has been restored, in consequence of a movement which started in 1905, during the celebration of the hundredth anniversary of the poet’s birth. The building now belongs to the city; its official title is “Hans Andersen’s House.” The whole house, however, was not occupied by the little “ugly duckling” Hans and his parents. The family was exceedingly poor, both parents appear to have been shiftless, and the father, though talented, was erratic. Only one room, the one containing the old-fashioned alcove in the wall for the bed, constituted the home of the Andersens. But the fairy-tale writer left enough mementoes of various kinds to fill the several rooms with charming reminders of him, and to impress upon one how broadly he ranged and how many great souls he met and knew.

The building is of the low-roofed, box-shaped type, such as my three aunts live in in Svaneke, Bornholm; and it stands squarely against the sidewalk where two streets cross. When I knocked at the door yesterday afternoon, the museum was closed for the day, as the curator informed me; but when I told her that I had stopped off at Odense especially to see Hans Andersen’s House, and must leave on the morrow before the opening hour, she remarked that in that case it would be a great pity for me to be disappointed; and she proceeded to take down the shutters.

Along the walls of the first room which I entered were several show cases containing many souvenirs of Andersen’s life, each accompanied by explanations in Danish, English, French, and German. Among the reminders of his early years I noticed with interest his school records, which showed him to have been a very ordinary student, for “slet” (bad), and “maadelig” (mediocre) appeared frequently upon them. In the early Odense days, Hans Christian was an “ugly duckling,” indeed. Representative of the poet’s maturity was a little leather bag found upon his breast after death. It contained a letter from his sweetheart, Riborg Voigt, whose portrait I noticed upon the wall above the case. Thus was published to the world the unconsummated romance of the romancer. Andersen’s will, which spoke of his declining years, reminded me that the well-plumed swan remembered to the last the days when he was an “ugly duckling”; for in the first clause of the document was a bequest of a legacy to the charity school of Odense, at which, as a blundering, misunderstood small boy, he received his low grades.

Gifts from friends, high and low, were very much in evidence. A tiny mirror framed in deer’s horn was sent to Andersen in a teasing mood by the “Swedish nightingale,” Jenny Lind, in order that he might see “how pretty he was.” One of Andersen’s many peculiarities was his firm conviction, which he maintained in the face of his gawky homeliness, that he was of distinguished appearance. Above a book-case filled with many editions of his works, was a wreath of “everlasting” flowers, made for him by the Countess Holstein-Holsteinberg. And beside the funny old eighteenth-century stove was the gift of the Countess Danneskjold-Samsoe, a fire screen decorated with a queer conglomeration of pictures cut from illustrated papers, which appears to have been the fashionable screen of the time, for Andersen himself made one of the same style. On the sofa was another present from a lady of high degree—a cushion embroidered with a large, handsome, prosperous-appearing swan, evidently the swan which had evolved from the “ugly duckling.” The traveling bag in one of the rooms is believed to have been the one used by King Christian IX during a journey in southern Europe, and afterwards given to the poet. But the most pleasing token of all was offered by little American school children. Laboring under the impression that the writer of their beloved fairy tales was living in poverty, they started a collection with the intention of sending him money; but when they learned that prosperity had come with fame, they sent him instead two large volumes entitled “Picturesque America.”

Roskilde Cathedral

Hans Andersen’s House

In the last room which I explored was the furniture which Andersen had used in his rooms in Copenhagen. The rocker was later used by Alexander Kielland, the Norwegian who has written such charming short stories; and the penholder lying upon the poet’s old desk was for a time the property of Edward Grieg, the Norwegian composer. Near the table were Andersen’s trunk and hat case, and upon it were his tall silk hat and his fat, clumsy umbrella, as if he had just returned from a jaunt about Europe. It seemed as if the quaint old man himself must appear, equipped with a new wonder story all ready for the telling.

The great number and variety of photographs of himself in evidence about the rooms were, in themselves, ample proof that the dear old chap was exceedingly vain. He had a childlike fondness for dress and decoration, and also for being photographed. Under one of the photographs he had written in Danish some words which must be translated, “Life itself is the best wonder story”; but the Danish for wonder story is “aventyr,” which comes from the same root as our work “adventure,” and consequently means much more of interest than the translation would lead one to suppose. And I heartily agree with the verdict; I would not miss being alive for anything!