FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN THE BISHOP OF BORGLUM AND HIS WARRIORS

                                       1872

                     FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

                     THE BISHOP OF BORGLUM AND HIS WARRIORS

                           by Hans Christian Andersen

    OUR scene is laid in Northern Jutland, in the so-called "wild

moor." We hear what is called the "Wester-wow-wow"- the peculiar

roar of the North Sea as it breaks against the western coast of

Jutland. It rolls and thunders with a sound that penetrates for

miles into the land; and we are quite near the roaring. Before us

rises a great mound of sand- a mountain we have long seen, and towards

which we are wending our way, driving slowly along through the deep

sand. On this mountain of sand is a lofty old building- the convent of

Borglum. In one of its wings (the larger one) there is still a church.

And at this convent we now arrive in the late evening hour; but the

weather is clear in the bright June night around us, and the eye can

range far, far over field and moor to the Bay of Aalborg, over heath

and meadow, and far across the deep blue sea.

    Now we are there, and roll past between barns and other farm

buildings; and at the left of the gate we turn aside to the Old Castle

Farm, where the lime trees stand in lines 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 through the

long passages under the heavy roof-beams. The wind moans very

strangely here, both within and without. It is hardly known how, but

the people say- yes, people say a great many things when they are

frightened or want to frighten others- they say that the old dead

choir-men 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 hearers- thoughts of the old times

into which we are carried back.

    On the coast a ship is stranded; and the bishop's warriors are

there, and spare not those whom the sea has spared. The sea washes

away the blood that has flowed from the cloven skulls. The stranded

goods belong to the bishop, and there is a store of goods here. The

sea casts up tubs and barrels filled with costly wine for the

convent cellar, and in the convent is already good store of beer and

mead. There is plenty in the kitchen- dead game and poultry, hams

and sausages; and fat fish swim in the ponds without.

    The Bishop of Borglum is a mighty lord. He has great

possessions, but still he longs for more- everything must bow before

the mighty Olaf Glob. His rich cousin at Thyland is dead, and his

widow is to have the rich inheritance. But how comes it that one

relation is always harder towards another than even strangers would

be? The widow's husband had possessed all Thyland, with the

exception of the church property. Her son was not at home. In his

boyhood he had already started on a journey, for his desire was to see

foreign lands and strange people. For years there had been no news

of him. Perhaps he had been long laid in the grave, and would never

come back to his home, to rule where his mother then ruled.

    "What has a woman to do with rule?" said the bishop.

    He summoned the widow before a law court; but what did he gain

thereby? The widow had never been disobedient to the law, and was

strong in her just rights.

    Bishop Olaf of Borglum, what dost thou purpose? What writest

thou on yonder smooth parchment, sealing it with thy seal, and

intrusting it to the horsemen and servants, who ride away, far away,

to the city of the Pope?

    It is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships, and soon

icy winter will come.

    Twice had icy winter returned before the bishop welcomed the

horsemen and servants back to their home. They came from Rome with a

papal decree- a ban, or bull, against the widow who had dared to

offend the pious bishop. "Cursed be she and all that belongs to her.

Let her be expelled from the congregation and the Church. Let no man

stretch forth a helping hand to her, and let friends and relations

avoid her as a plague and a pestilence!"

    "What will not bend must break," said the Bishop of Borglum

    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 followed the plough; and the

crop grew, although the land had been cursed by the Pope and by the

bishop.

    "Thou child of perdition, I will yet carry out my purpose!"

cried the Bishop of Borglum. "Now will I lay the hand of the Pope upon

thee, to summon thee before the tribunal that shall condemn thee!"

    Then did the widow yoke the last two oxen that remained to her

to a wagon, and mounted up on the wagon, with her old servant, and

travelled away across the heath out of the Danish land. As a

stranger she came into a foreign country, where a strange tongue was

spoken and where new customs prevailed. Farther and farther she

journeyed, to where green hills rise into mountains, and the vine

clothes their sides. Strange merchants drive by her, and they look

anxiously after their wagons laden with merchandise. They fear an

attack from the armed followers of the robber-knights. The two poor

women, in their humble vehicle drawn by two black oxen, travel

fearlessly through the dangerous sunken road and through the

darksome forest. And now they were in Franconia. And there met them

a stalwart knight, with a train of twelve armed followers. He

paused, gazed at the strange vehicle, and questioned the women as to

the goal of their journey and the place whence they came. Then one

of them mentioned Thyland in Denmark, and spoke of her sorrows, of her

woes, which were soon to cease, for so Divine Providence had willed

it. For the stranger 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 till the blood started.

    It is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships, and soon

will icy winter come.

    The sea rolled wine-tubs to the shore for the bishop's cellar.

In the kitchen the deer roasted on the spit before the fire. At

Borglum it was warm and cheerful in the heated rooms, while cold

winter raged without, when a piece of news was brought to the

bishop. "Jens Glob, of Thyland, has come back, and his mother with

him." Jens Glob laid a complaint against the bishop, and summoned

him before the temporal and the spiritual court.

    "That will avail him little," said the bishop. "Best leave off thy

efforts, knight Jens."

    Again it is the time of falling leaves and stranded ships. Icy

winter comes again, and the "white bees" are swarming, and sting the

traveller's face till they melt.

    "Keen weather to-day!" say the people, as they step in.

    Jens Glob stands so deeply wrapped in thought, that he singes

the skirt of his wide garment.

    "Thou Borglum bishop," he exclaims, "I shall subdue thee after

all! Under the shield of the Pope, the law cannot reach thee; but Jens

Glob shall reach thee!"

    Then he writes a letter to his brother-in-law, Olaf Hase, in

Sallingland, and prays that knight to meet him on Christmas eve, at

mass, in the church at Widberg. The bishop himself is to read the

mass, and consequently will journey from Borglum to Thyland; and

this is known to Jens Glob.

    Moorland and 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, through the waving reeds, where the

wind moans sadly.

    Blow thy brazen trumpet, thou trumpeter clad in fox-skin! it

sounds merrily in the clear air. So they ride on over heath and

moorland- over what is the garden of Fata Morgana in the hot summer,

though now icy, like all the country- towards the church of Widberg.

    The wind is blowing his trumpet too- blowing it harder and harder.

He blows up a storm- a terrible storm- that increases more and more.

Towards the church they ride, as fast as they may through the storm.

The church stands firm, but the storm careers on over field and

moorland, over land and sea.

    Borglum's bishop reaches the church; but Olaf Hase will scarce

do so, however hard he may ride. He journeys with his warriors on

the farther side of the bay, in order that he may help Jens Glob,

now that the bishop is to be summoned before the judgment seat of

the Highest.

    The church is the judgment hall; the altar is the council table.

The lights burn clear in the heavy brass candelabra. The storm reads

out the accusation and the sentence, roaming in the air over moor

and heath, and over the rolling waters. No ferry-boat can sail over

the bay in such weather as this.

    Olaf Hase makes halt at Ottesworde. There he dismisses his

warriors, presents them with their horses and harness, and gives

them leave to ride home and greet his wife. He intends to risk his

life alone in the roaring waters; but they are to bear witness for him

that it is not his fault if Jens Glob stands without reinforcement

in the church at Widberg. The faithful warriors will not leave him,

but follow him 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.

    It is past midnight. It is Christmas. The wind has abated. The

church is lighted up; the gleaming radiance shines through the

window-frames, and pours out over meadow and heath. The mass has

long been finished, silence reigns in the church, and the wax is heard

dropping from the candles to the stone pavement. And now Olaf Hase

arrives.

    In the forecourt Jens Glob greets him kindly, and says,

    "I have just made an agreement with the bishop."

    "Sayest thou so?" replied Olaf Hase. "Then neither thou nor the

bishop shall quit this church alive."

    And the sword leaps from the scabbard, and Olaf Hase deals a

blow that makes the panel of the church door, which Jens Glob

hastily closes between them, fly in fragments.

    "Hold, brother! First hear what the agreement was that I made. I

have slain the bishop and his warriors and priests. They will have

no word more to say in the matter, nor will I speak again of all the

wrong that my mother has endured."

    The long wicks of the altar lights glimmer red; but there is a

redder gleam upon the pavement, where the bishop lies with cloven

skull, and his dead warriors around him, in the quiet of the holy

Christmas night.

    And four days afterwards the bells toll for a funeral in the

convent of Borglum. The murdered bishop and 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 crozier in the powerless hand that was once so

mighty. The incense rises in clouds, and the monks chant the funeral

hymn. It sounds like a wail- 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 own

time this legend of the Bishop of Borglum and his hard nephew. It is

heard in the dark night by the frightened husbandman, driving by in

the heavy sandy road past the convent of Borglum. It is heard by the

sleepless listener in the thickly-walled rooms at Borglum. And not

only to the ear of superstition is the sighing and the tread of

hurrying feet audible in the long echoing passages leading to the

convent door that has long been locked. The door still seems to

open, and the lights seem to flame in the brazen candlesticks; the

fragrance of incense arises; the church gleams in its ancient

splendor; and the monks sing and say the mass over the slain bishop,

who lies there in the black silver-embroidered mantle, with the

crozier in his powerless hand; and on his pale proud forehead gleams

the 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, sounding above the rolling

sea! A storm approaches without, calling aloud for human lives. The

sea has not put on a new mind with the new time. This night it is a

horrible pit to devour up lives, and to-morrow, perhaps, it may be a

glassy mirror- even as in the old time that we have buried. Sleep

sweetly, if thou canst sleep!

    Now it is morning.

    The new time flings sunshine into the room. The wind still keeps

up mightily. A wreck is announced- as in the old time.

    During the night, down yonder by Lokken, the little fishing

village with the red-tiled roofs- we can see it up here from the

window- a ship has come ashore. It has struck, and is fast embedded in

the sand; but the rocket apparatus 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 blankets; and

to-day they are invited to the farm at the convent of Borglum. 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 the land of the sufferers announces that they are

rescued. Then their anxieties are dispelled; and at even they join

in the dance at the feast given in the great hall at Borglum.

Waltzes and Styrian dances are given, and Danish popular songs, and

melodies of foreign lands in these modern times.

    Blessed be thou, new time! Speak thou of summer and of purer

gales! Send thy sunbeams gleaming into our hearts and thoughts! On thy

glowing canvas let them be painted- the dark legends of the rough hard

times that are past!

                            THE END