The Visit

== THE VISIT ==
=== By Steen Steensen Blicher ===
Translated from the Danish by Hanna Astrup Larsen and Published in Twelve stories as Ak, hvor forandret, 1828
No sooner had I returned last spring from my visit to Copenhagen, during which I renewed acquaintance with a friend of my youth, the happy Counsellor of Justice S------, than I decided that I would look up another old friend who lived in a quiet corner far away in Jutland. I had witnessed domestic bliss in the metropolis; now I hastened to seek it in rural seclusion. I had not seen my now reverend friend, Pastor Ruricolus, for more than twenty years, but he and Counsellor S------ and I had once been a fine three-leaf clover. All three were jolly fellows, full of high spirits, enjoying the pleasures of youth in every decent and legitimate way; but Ruricolus was the most elegant of us, both in dress and deportment. I cannot say that he was exactly a dandy, far less a coxcomb, but he was always dressed in the latest fashion and looked, as my poor, dear mother used to say of him, like a peeled egg. He had an ineffable knack of tying his cravat and the knee-bands of his black silk breeches, and yet there was perfect symmetry in all his garments. When on a Sunday in summer we would walk in Frederiksberg Park, he attracted most glances from the ladies, although S------ too was a handsome chap, and I was almost six inches taller than either of them.
But let me be honest and confess: it was not only longing for a friend of my youth that drew me; in the place where he was now living I had nineteen years ago experienced my twentieth love affair. It was there I first saw Maren the Second, [Footnote: Not to be confused with Maren the First, daughter of the town musician, see _Nordlyset,_ February, 1827, page 233.] the lovely, angelic Maren Lammestrup, the pearl among all Vendsyssel girls. It was there I for the twentieth time gave away my tender heart and for the twentieth time had it returned to me without dent or flaw. Allow me, my fair feminine reader, to relate my innocent adventure.
Ruricolus and I made a summer excursion from the City within the Ramparts, in order to cast a few rays of light over the peninsula of Vendsyssel. (Our voyage to Aalborg deserves a special description, and with the aid of the Muses it shall be written when, by studying our great models in this field, I shall have made myself perfect in the style of travelogues.) We two Copenhageners--I a native, he naturalized--made a sensation by the Wild Bog; our broad-brimmed hats, short vests, and long trousers attracted well-deserved admiration. It was only the proprietor of Tyreholm, Mr. Mads Lammestrup--a rude, uncultured, boorish fellow--who took the liberty of scoffing at our costumes. It was the first time anyone in Vendsyssel had seen long yellow nankeen trousers and gaiters to match with points reaching all the way down on the toes. The brute said we looked like flat-footed cock-pigeons. His daughter, Maren, the sweet dove, found a more flattering simile in our tender and amorous cooing; indeed I attributed--and I believe with good reason--to these same yellow gaiters a good part of the hit we two blades made with her and the other Vendsyssel girls.
My heart is made of tinder--no! that metaphor is mislead-ing, for though it catches fire easily, it is not consumed; tinder burns but once, my heart any number of times.--My heart is of gunpowder--but, no! that isn't right either, for though it catches fire in a moment, it burns steadily and quietly, without smoke or explosions.--Now then, my heart must be of asbestos--hm! that won't do, for asbestos doesn't burn at all. Well, then, without any metaphor or figure of speech, I will say that from the first moment I saw her I was over head and ears in love with Maren Lammestrup, the fair maid and sweet flower of the rose.
There was to be a haymaking feast at Tyreholm the same day that we arrived at the parsonage in Kringelborg where my Ruricolus's father lived. His reverence received us very affectionately.
"Welcome, Hans Mikkel!" he called to his son. "Who's the swain you're bringing with you?"
Hans Mikkel explained. The good pastor shook my hand, and said, "Welcome indeed, Mr. Copenhagener! What'll you have? A drink! Hey, Barbara! Bread and brandy!--You come just at the right time, children, for there's to be a party at, Tyreholm tonight. Well, Mr. Copenhagener, what can we j use you for? Can you play Polish bezique?"
"Yes."
"That's fine! Can you shoot a hare?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Why, that's bad luck! Do you smoke?"
"Not that either, pastor."
"Fie, shame on you! That's too bad! You'll have to learn. Can you drink a tart?"
"I can eat a tart."
"Ho-ho! You don't even understand this _terminus tech-nicus._ Can you stand a tea-punch?"
"Hm, I think so--if he doesn't punch too hard. I'll take a look at him." (I didn't in the least know what he meant.)
The good man laughed till the perspiration stood in beads on his round, reddish-brown face.
"Well, well! Just wait," he said still laughing, "when you get to Tyreholm, Miss Maren will introduce you to the Jutland tea-punch; she knows how to brew it."
Just then a large hunting dog came in. The pastor turned quickly from me to the dog, put both hands on his sides, and cried, "By all the periwigs! Where do you come from? Are you alone, Argus? Or is your master with you? Have you been down in the goose-bog--hey?"
While he was still examining Argus, the owner of the dog, a landed proprietor of the neighborhood, appeared and offered to take the pastor along to the party. Both gentlemen were soon deep in a discussion of hunting, and I particularly remember that they both dwelt a long time on the dogma that the mallard duck in slyness was almost equal to the fox, an assertion which they illustrated with a good many striking examples. Meanwhile the carriage came to the door, and the five of us--including Argus--set off for Tyreholm.
Category:Blicher
Category:Published