THE BISHOP OF BORGLUM
AND HIS KINSMEN
NOW we are up inJutland， quitebeyondthe"wild moor"． We hear what is called the"Western wow-wow"— the roarofthe North Sea as it breaksagainst the western coast of Jutland——and we are quite near to it， but before usrises a great mound of sand—a mountain we havelong seen， and towards which we are wending our way， drivingslowlyalong through the deep sand． Onthismountain of sandis alofty old building—the convent of Brglum．In one of its wings（the larger one） there is stilla church．Andat this we arrive in the late evening hour；butthe weatheris clear in the bright Junenightaround us，andtheeye can range far， far over field and moor to the Bay ofAalborgo， over heath and meadow， and far across the sea．
Now we are there， and roll past between barns and other farm buildings；and at the left of the gate we turnaside to the old Castle Farm， where the lime trees stand inlines along the walls， and， sheltered from the wind and weather， grow so luxuriantly that their twigs and leaves almost conceal the windows．
We mount the winding staircase of stone， and march throughthe long passages underthe heavyroof-beams. The wind moans verystrangely here， both within and without． It is hardly knownhow， but the people say— yes， people say a great many things when they are fright－ened orwantto frighten others－they say that theold dead canons glide silently past us into the church，where mass is sung． They can be heard in the rushing of the storm， and their singing brings up strange thoughts in the hear－ers—thoughts of the old times into whichwe are carried back．
On the coast a ship is stranded； and the bishop'swarriors are there， and spare not those whom the sea hasspared． The sea washes away the blood that has flowed fromthe cloven skulls．Thestranded goods belong to the bishop， and there is a store of goods here. The sea castsup casksandbarrelsfilled with costly wine forthe con－ vent cellar， and in the convent is already good store of beer andmead． There is plenty in the kitchen——dead game and poultry， hams and sausages; and fat fish swimin the ponds without．
The Bishop of Brglumis a mighty lord．He has greatpossessions， butstillhelongsformore－everything mustbowbefore the mightyOlafGlob． His richcousinat Thyland is dead．"Kinsman is worst to kinsman"； his widow will find this saying true． Her husband has pos－sessed all Thyland， with the exception of the Church property．Her son was not athome.In his boyhood he had alreadybeen sentabroad to learnforeign customs, as it was his wish to do．Foryears there hadbeen no news of him． Perhapshe had long beenlaid in the grave，and would never come back to his home， to rule where hismother then ruled．
"What has a woman todowith rule？" said the bishop．
He summoned the widow before a law court； butwhat did hegain thereby？The widow hadneverbeendis－ obedient to thelaw， andwasstrong in her justrights．
Bishop Olaf of Brglum，what dost thou purpose？What writeist thou on yonder smooth parchment， sealing it with thyseal， and entrusting it to the horsemen and ser－ vants，who ride away—far away—to the city ofthe Pope？
It is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships，and soon icy winter will come．
Twicehadicy winterreturned before the bishop wel- comed thehorsemenandservantsback to their home．They camefromRome with a papaldecree—aban， orbull， a－ gainst the widow who had dared to offend the pious bishop． "Cursed be she and all that belongs to her．Let her be ex－pelledfrom the congregationand the Church．Let no man stretch forth a helping hand to her， and let friends and re－lations aviodher as a plagueand a pestilence！
"What will not bend must break，" said the Bishop of Brglum．
And all forsake the widow；but she holds fast to her God．He is her helper and defender．
One servant only—an old maid—remained faithful to her； and， with the old servant， the widow herself followedthe plough；and the crop grew，although the landhadbeen Cursed by the Pope and by the bishop．
"Thou child of perdition， Iwill yet carry out my pur-pose！"cried the Bishop of Brglum．"Now willI lay the hand of the Pope upon thee，to summon thee before the tri- bunalthatshallcondemn thee！"
Then did the widow yoke the two last oxen that re－ mained to her to a wagon， and mounted up on the wagon，with her old servant， and travelled away across the heathout oftheDanish land． As a strangershe came into afor－ eign country，where a strange tonguewasspokenandwhere new customs prevailed. Farther and farther she journeyed， to where green hillsrise into mountains，and the vine clothestheir sides． Strange merchants drive by her，and they look anxiouslyafter theirwagons laden with merchan－ dise．They fear an attack from the armed followers of therobber－knights． The two poor women， in their humble ve－ hicle drawn by two blackoxen， travel fearlessly through thedangeroussunken road andthrough the darksome forest． And now they were in France． And there met them a stalwartknight，with a train of twelve armed followers．He paused，gazed at the strange vehicle， and questioned the womenas to the goal of their journeyand the place whence they came. Then one of them mentioned Thyland in Denmark， and spokeofhersorrows—ofherwoes-which were soon to cease，for so Divine Providence had willed it． For thestranger knight is the widow's son！He seized her hand， he embraced her， and the mother wept． For years she had not been able to weep， but had only bitten her lips tillthe blood started．
It is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships．
The sea rolled wine－casks to the shore for the bishop's cellar．Inthe kitchen the deer roasted on the spit before the fire. At Brglum it was warm and cheerful in the heated rooms， while cold winter raged without， when a pieceofnewswasbrought tothe bishop："Jens Glob， of Thyland， has come back， and his mother with him． Jens Globlaid a complaint against the bishop，and summoned him before the temporal and the spiritual court．
"That will avail him little，"said the bishop．"Bestleave off the efforts， knight Jens．"
Again it is the time， of falling leaves， of strandedships—icy winter comes again， and the"white bees are swarming， and sting the traveller'sface tillthey melt．
"Keen weather today！" say the people，as they step in．
Jens Glob stands by the fire，so deeply wrapped inthoughtthathe singesthe skirtofhislonggarment．
"Thou Brglum bishop，"he exclaims，"Ishall subdue theeafter all！ Under the shield of the Pope，the law cannot reach thee； but Jens Glob shall reachthee！"
Then he writes a letter to his brother－in－law， OlafHase， in Sallingland， andprays thatknight to meet him on Christmas－eve， at matins， in the church atWidberg． Thebishop himselfisto say the mass，and consequently will journey from Brglum to Thyland;and this is known toJensGlob．
Moorlandand meadow are covered with ice and snow．The marsh will bear horse and rider，the bishop with his priests and armed men.They ride the shortest way，throughthe brittle reeds， where the wind moans sadly．
Blow thy brazen trumpet， thou trumpeter clad infox－skin！ Itsounds merrily in theclear air．Sotheyride on overheath andmoorland—overwhat is the gardenofFata Morgana in the hot summer， towards the church of Wid- berg．
The windis blowing his trumpet too－blowing it harder and harder． He blowsup a storm—a terrible storm—that increases more and more. Towards the church they ride, as fastasthey may through the storm． The church stands firm，but the storm careerson over field and moorland， over land and sea．
Brglum's bishop reaches the church；but Olaf Hase will scarce do so， hard as he may ride． He journeys withhis warriors on thefarther sideofthe bay， to help Jens Glob， now that the bishop is to be summoned before the judgement seat of the Highest．
The church is the judgement hall； the altar is thecouncil table． The lights burn clear in the heavy brass can－delabra． Thestorm reads out the accusation and the sen- tence， resounding in the air over moor and heath， and over the rolling waters．No ferry－boatcan sail overthebayin such weather as this．
Olaf Hase makes halt at Ottesund．There he dismisses his warriors，presents them with their horses and harness，and givesthemleave to ridehome andgreet his wife．He intends to risk his life alone in the roaningwaters； but theyaretobear witness for him that it is not his fault ifJens Glob stands without reinforcement in thechurch at Wid－ berg．The faithful warriors will not leave him， but followhim out into the deep waters． Ten of them are carried away； but Olaf Hase and two of the youngest men reach the farther side．They have still four miles to ride．
Itis past midnight． It is Christmas． The wind has abated．The church is lighted up； the gleamingradianceshines throughthewindow－panes， and pours outover meadow and heath． The mass has long been finished， si-lence reigns in the church，andthewaxis heard dropping from the candlestothe stone pavement． And now Olaf Hase arrives．
In the forecourt Jens Glob greets him kindly， andsays，
"I havejust made an agreement with the bishop．"
"Sayest thou so？"replied Olaf Hase．"Then neither thou northe bishop shallquit this church alive．" And thesword leaps from the scabbard， and Olaf Hase deals a blow that makes the panel of the church door, which Jens Glob hastily between them, fly in fragments. "Hold， brother！First hear what the agreement was that Imade． Ihaveslain thebishopand hiswarriorsand priests． They will have no word more to say in the matter， nor willI speak again of all the wrongthatmy motherhas endured．"
The long wicksofthe altar lights glimmer red；but there is aredder gleam upon the pavement， where the bishop lies with cloven skull， and his dead warriorsaroundhim in thequietoftheholyChristmas night．
And four days afterwards the bells toll for a funeral in the convent of Brglum． The murdered bishopand the slain warriors and priests are displayed under a black canopy, surrounded by candelabra decked with crape． There lies the dead man， in the black cloak wrought with silver； the crosier in the powerless hand that was once so mighty． The incenserises in clouds， and the monks chant the funeralhymn.It sounds like awail—it sounds like a sentence of wrath and condemnation that must be heard far over the land， carried by the wind—sung by the wind—the wail that sometimes is silent， but never dies；for ever again it rises in song， singing even into our owntime thislegend of the Bishop of Brglum and his hard nephew．It is heardin the darknight by thefrightened husbandman，driving by in the heavysandyroad past the convent of Brglum． It is heard by the sleepless listener in the thickly－walledroomsat Brglum． And not only to the earof superstitionis the sighingand the treadofhur- rying feetaudible inthe long echoing passages leadingto the convent door that has longbeen locked． Thedoor still seems to open，andthe lightsseem to flame in the brazen candlesticks；the fragrance of incense arises；the churchgleams in its ancientsplendour; and themonks singand say the mass overthe slain bishop， who lies there in the black silver－embroidered mantle， with the crosier in hispowerless hand； and on his pale proud forehead gleamsthe red wound like fire， and there burn the worldly mind and the wicked thoughts…
Sink down into his grave—into oblivion—ye terrible shapes of the times of old！
Hark to the raging of the angry wind， soundingabove the rolling sea！ Outside a storm approaches，calling aloud forhuman lives．Thesea hasnotput on a newmind withthenewtime.This might it is ahorrible pit to devour up lives，and tomorrow，perhaps， it may bea glassy mir- ror—even as intheoldtime that wehave buried．Sleep sweetly， if thou canst sleep！
Now it is morning.
The newtime fling sunshine into the room． The wind still keeps up mightily．A wreck is announced—as in the old time．
Duringthenight，downyonder by Lkken，thelittle fishing village with the red－tiled roofs—we can see it up here from thewindow—a shiphas come ashore．Ithas struck， and is fast embedded in the sand； but the rocketapparatus has thrown a rope on board， and formed a bridge from the wreck to the mainland； and all on board are saved， and reach the land，and are wrapped in warm blan- kets； and today they areinvited to the farm at the convent of Brglum.In comfortable rooms they encounter hospitality and friendly faces．They are addressed in the language of their country and the piano sounds for them with melodies of their native land； and before these have died away，the chord has been struck，the wire of thought that reaches to thelandofthe sufferers announces that they are rescued． Then their anxieties aredispelled；and in the evening they join in the dance， at the feast given in the great hall at Brglum． Waltzes and other dances will be danced，and songs will be sung of Denmark and of"The Gallant Soldier" of the present day．
Blessed bethou， new time！Speak thou of summer andofpurer gales！Send thy sunbeams gleaming into our hearts and thoughts！On thy glowing canvas let them be painted—thedark legends of the roughhard times that are past！
波尔格龙的主教和他的亲族
我们现在是在尤兰，在那块“荒野的沼地”的另一边。我们可以听到“西海的呼啸声”；可以听到它的浪花的冲击声，而且这就在我们的身旁。不过我们面前现在涌现出了一个巨大的沙山，我们早就看见了它，现在我们的深沉的沙地上慢慢地赶着车子，正要向前走去。这座沙山上有一幢高耸入云的古老的建筑物——波尔格龙修道院。它剩下的最大的一翼现在仍然是一个教堂。有一天我们到这里来，时间很晚，不过天空却很明朗，因为这正是光明之夜的季节。我们能够望得很远，向周围望得很远，可以从沼地一直望到窝尔堡湾，望到荒地和草原，望到深沉的海的彼岸。
我们现在来到了山上，我们赶着车子在仓房和农庄之间走过。我们拐一个弯，走进那幢古老的建筑物的大门。这儿有许多菩提树沿着墙成行地立着。因为风暴打不到它们，所以长得非常茂盛，枝叶几乎把窗子都掩盖住了。
我们走上盘旋的石级，穿过那些用粗梁盖成顶的长廊。风在这儿发出奇怪的啸声，屋里屋外都是一样。谁也弄不清楚这是怎么回事情。是的，当人们害怕或者把别人弄得害怕的时候，人们就讲出很多道理或看出很多道理来。人们说：当我们在唱着弥撒的时候，有许多死灭了的古老大炮静静地从我们的身边走进教堂里去。人们可以在风的呼啸声中听到它们走过，而这就引起人们许多奇怪的想象——人们想起了那个远古的时代，结果就使我们走进了那个远古的时代里去：
在海滩上，有一只船搁浅了。主教的下属都在那儿。海所保留下来的人，他们却不保留。海洗净了从那些被打碎了的脑袋里流出来的血。那些搁浅的货物成了主教的财产，而这些货物的数量是很多的。海淌来许多整桶的贵重的酒，来充实这个修道院的酒窖；而这个酒窖里已经储藏了不少啤酒和蜜酒。厨房里的储藏量也是非常丰富的；有许多宰好了的牛羊、香肠和火腿。外面的水池里则有许多肥大的鲫鱼和鲜美的鲤鱼。
波尔格龙的主教是一位非常有权势的人，他拥有广大的土地，但是仍然希望扩大他占有的面积。所有的人必须在这位奥拉夫·格洛布面前低下头来。
他的一位住在蒂兰的富有的亲族死了。“亲族总是互相嫉恨的”；死者的未亡人现在可要体会这句话的真意了。除了教会的产业以外，她的丈夫统治着整个土地。她的儿子在外国：他小时候就被送出去研究异国风俗，因为这是他的志愿。他许多年来一直没有消息，可能已经躺在坟墓里，永远不会回来接替他母亲的统治了。
“怎么，让一个女人来统治吗？”主教说。
他召见她，然后让法庭把她传去。不过他这样做有什么好处呢？她从来没有触犯过法律，她有十足的理由来维护自己的权利。
波尔格龙的主教奥拉夫，你的意图是什么呢？你在那张光滑的羊皮纸上写下的是什么呢？你盖上印，用带子把它扎好，叫骑士带一个仆人把它送到国外，送到那辽远的教皇城里去，为的是什么呢？
现在是落叶和船只搁浅的季节，冰冻的冬天马上就要来。
他已经这样做了两次，最后他的骑士和仆人在欢迎声中回来了，从罗马带回教皇的训令——一封指责敢于违抗这位虔诚的主教的寡妇的训令：“她和她所有的一切应该受到上帝的诅咒。她应该从教会和教徒中驱逐出去。谁也不应该给她帮助。让她所有的朋友和亲戚避开她，像避开瘟疫和麻风病一样！”
“凡是不屈服的人必须粉碎他，”波尔格龙的主教说。
所有的人都避开这个寡妇。但是她却不避开她的上帝。他是她的保护者和帮助者。
只有一个佣人——一个老女仆——仍然对她忠心。这位寡妇带着她亲自下田去耕作。粮食生长起来了，虽然土地受过了教皇和主教的诅咒。
“你这个地狱里的孩子！我的意志必须实现！”波尔格龙的主教说。“现在我要用教皇的手压在你的头上，叫你走进法庭和灭亡！”
于是寡妇把她最后的两头牛驾在一辆车子上。她带着女仆人爬上车子，走过那荒地，离开了丹麦的国境。她作为一个异国人到异国人的中间去。人们讲着异国的语言，保持着异国的风俗。她一程一程地走远了，走到一些青山发展成为峻岭的地方——一些长满了葡萄的地方。旅行商人在旁边走过。他们不安地看守着满载货物的车子，害怕骑马大盗的部下来袭击。
这两个可怜的女人，坐在那辆由两头黑牛拉着的破车里，安全地在这崎岖不平的路上。在阴暗的森林里向前走。她们来到了法国。她在这儿遇见了一位“豪强骑士”带着一打全副武装的随从。他停了一会儿，把这部奇怪的车子看了一眼，便问这两个女人为了什么目的而旅行，从什么国家来的。年纪较小的这个女人提起丹麦的蒂兰这个名字，倾吐出她的悲哀和痛苦——而这些悲愁马上就要告一终结，因为这是上帝的意旨。原来这个陌生的骑士就是她的儿子！他握着她的手，拥抱着她。母亲哭起来了。她许多年来没有哭过，而只是把牙齿紧咬着嘴唇，直到嘴唇流出热血来。
现在是落叶和船只搁浅的季节。
海上的浪涛把满桶的酒卷到岸上来，充实主教的酒窖和厨房。烤叉上穿着野味在火上烤着。冬天到来了，但屋子里是舒适的。这时主教听到了一个消息：蒂兰的演斯·格洛布和他的母亲一道回来了；演斯·格洛布要设法庭，要在神圣的法庭和国家的法律面前来控告主教。
“那对他没有什么用，”主教说。“骑士演斯，你最好放弃这场争吵吧！”
这是第二年：又是落叶和船只搁浅的季节。冰冻的冬天又来了；“白色的蜜蜂”又在四处纷飞，刺着行人的脸，一直到它们融化。
人们从门外走进来的时候说：“今天的天气真是冷得厉害啦！”
演斯·格洛布沉思地站着，火燎到了他的长衫上，几乎要烧出一个小洞来。
“你，波尔格龙的主教！我是来制服你的！你在教皇的包庇下，法律拿你没有办法。但是演斯·格洛布对你有办法！”
于是他写了一封信给他住在萨林的妹夫奥拉夫·哈塞，请求他在圣诞节的前夕，在卫得堡的教堂做晨祷的时候来会面。主教本人要念弥撒，因此他得从波尔格龙旅行到蒂兰来。演斯·格洛布知道这件事情。
草原和沼地现在全盖上了冰和雪。马和骑士，全副人马，主教和他的神父以及仆从都在那上面走过。他们在容易折断的芦苇丛中选一条捷径通过，风在那儿凄惨地呼号。
穿着狐狸皮衣的号手，请你吹起你的黄铜号吧！号声在晴朗的空中响着。他们在荒地和沼泽地上这样驰骋着——在炎暑的夏天出现海市蜃楼的原野上驰骋着，一直向卫得堡的教堂驰去。
风也吹起它的号角来，越吹越厉害，它吹起一阵暴风雨，一阵可怕的暴风雨，越来越大的暴风雨。在上帝的暴风雨中，他们向上帝的屋子驰去。上帝的屋子屹立不动，但是上帝的暴风雨却在田野上和沼泽地上，在陆地上和大海上呼啸。
波尔格龙的主教到达了教堂；但是奥拉夫·哈塞，不管怎样飞驰，还是离得很远。他和他的武士们在海湾的另一边前进，为的是要来帮助演斯·格洛布，因为现在主教要在最高的审判席前出现了。
上帝的屋子就是审判厅，祭坛就是审判席。蜡烛在那个巨大的黄铜烛台上明亮地燃着。风暴念出控诉和判词；它的声音在沼泽地和荒地上，在波涛汹涌的海上回响着。在这样的天气中，任何渡船都渡不过这个海峡。
奥拉夫·哈塞在俄特松得停了一下。他在这儿辞退了他的勇士，给了他们马和马具，同时准许他们回家去，和他们的妻子团聚。他打算在这呼啸的海上单独一个人去冒生命的危险。不过他们得作他的见证；那就是说：如果演斯·格洛布在卫得堡的教堂里是孤立无援的话，那并不是他的过错。他的忠实的勇士们不愿意离开他，而却跟着他走下深沉的水里面去。他们之中有10个人被水卷走了，但是奥拉夫·哈塞和两个年轻的人到达了海的彼岸。他们还有50多里多路要走。
这已经是半夜过后了。这正是圣诞节之夜。风已经停了。教堂里照得很亮；闪耀着的光焰透过窗玻璃，射到草原和荒地上面。晨祷已经做完了；上帝的屋子里是一片静寂，人们简直可以听到融蜡滴到地上的声音。这时奥拉夫·哈塞到来了。
演斯·格洛布在大门口和他会见。“早安！我刚才已经和主教达成了协议。”
“你真的这样办了吗？”奥拉夫·哈塞说。“那么你或主教就不能活着离开这个教堂了。”剑从他的剑鞘里跳出来了，奥拉夫·哈塞向演斯·格洛布刚才急忙关上的那扇教堂的门捅了一剑，把它劈成两半。
“请住手，亲爱的兄弟！请先听听我所达成的协议吧！我已经把主教和他的武士都刺死了。他们在这问题上再也没有什么话可说了。我也不再谈我母亲所受的冤屈了。”
祭台上的烛芯正亮得发红，不过地上亮得更红。被砍碎了脑袋的主教，以及他的一群武士都躺在自己的血泊里。这个神圣的圣诞之夜非常安静，现在没有一点声音。
四天以后，波尔格龙的修道院敲起了丧钟。那位被害的主教和被刺死的武士们，被陈列在一个黑色的华盖下面，周围是用黑纱裹着的烛台。死者曾经一度是一个威武的主人，现在则穿着银丝绣的衣服躺着；他的手握着十字杖，已经没有丝毫权力了。香烟在缭绕着；僧众们在唱着歌。歌声像哭诉——像忿怒和定罪的判词。风托着它，风唱着它，向全国飞去，让大家都能听见。歌声有时沉静一会儿，但是它却永远不会消失。它总会再升起来，唱着它的歌，一直唱到我们的这个时代，唱着关于波尔格龙的主教和他的厉害的亲族的故事。惊恐的庄稼汉，在黑夜中赶着车子走过波尔格龙修道院旁边沉重的沙路时，听到了这个声音。躺在波尔格龙那些厚墙围着的房间里的失眠的人也听到了这个声音，因为它老是在通向那个教堂的、发出回音的长廊里盘旋。教堂的门是早已用砖封闭了，但是在迷信者的眼中它是没有封闭的。在他们看来，它仍然在那儿，而且仍然是开着的，亮光仍然在那些黄铜的烛台上燃着，香烟仍然在盘旋，教堂仍然在射出古时的光彩，僧众仍然在对那位被人刺死的主教念着弥撒，主教穿着银丝绣的黑衣，用失去了威权的手拿着十字杖。他那惨白和骄傲的前额上的一块赤红的伤痕，像火似地射出光来——光上面燃着一颗世俗的心和罪恶的欲望……
你，可怕的古时的幻影！坠到坟墓里去吧，坠到黑夜和遗忘中去吧！
请听在那波涛汹涌的海上呼啸着的狂暴的风吧！外边有一阵暴风雨，正要吞噬人的生命！海在这个新的时代里没有改变它的思想。这个黑夜无非是一个吞噬生命的血口。至于明天呢，它也许是一颗能够照出一切的明亮的镜子——也像在我们已经埋葬了的那个远古的时代里一样。甜蜜地睡去吧，如果你能睡的话！
现在是早晨了。
新的时代把太阳光送进房间里来。风仍然在猛烈地吹着。有一条船触礁的消息传来了——像在那个远古的时代里一样。
在这天夜里，在洛根附近，在那个有红屋顶的小渔村里，我们从窗子里可以看见一条搁了浅的船。它触到了礁，不过一架放射器射出一条绳子到这船上来，形成一座联结这只破船和陆地的桥梁。所有在船上的人都被救出来了，而且到达了陆地，在床上得到休息；今天他们被请到波尔格龙修道院里来。他们在舒适的房间里受到了殷勤的招待，看到了和善的面孔。大家用他们的民族语言向他们致敬。钢琴上奏出他们祖国的曲子。在这一切还没结束以前，另外一根弦震动起来了；它没有声音，但是非常洪亮和充满了信心。思想的波传到了遭难者的故国，报道他们的遇救。于是他们所有的忧虑就都消逝了，他们在这天晚上，在波尔格龙大厅里的舞会中参加跳舞。他们跳着华尔兹舞和波兰舞的步子。同时唱着关于丹麦和新时代的“英勇的步兵”的歌。
祝福你，新的时代！请你骑着夏天的熏风飞进城里来吧！把你的太阳光带进我们的心里和思想里来吧！在你光明的画面上，让那些过去的、野蛮的、黑暗的时代的故事被擦掉吧。
这篇故事最初发表在1861年哥本哈根出版的《新闻画报》上，但作者是1860年11月在巴斯纳斯农庄把它写成的。他1859年8月曾经去看过波尔格龙修道院。他在手记中写道：“这个知名的历史故事产生于一个野蛮、黑暗的时代，但人们却认为那个时代很美，可以生活得比在我们今天更光明更快乐的时代还好。”安徒生在这里是隐约地对当时怀古美化中世纪的浪漫主义者提出批评。安徒生是一个富于幻想的浪漫主义诗人，但他的思想却完全与他的同行相反：“祝福你，新的时代！请你骑着夏天的薰风飞进城里来吧！把你的太阳光带进我们的心里和思想里来吧！在你光明的画面上，让那些过去的、野蛮的、黑暗的时代的故事被擦掉吧。”.