A Danish Artist Family [pp. 370-373]

A Danish Artist Familjy.
which one read that the mother's heart
with the mother's feelings lived in close
communion with the artist's soul. Thorald studied music and painting, and all
the other children were more or less
gifted with the parents' talent.
Around the hearth of their home
gathered the united genius of Northern
Europe. Quiet and retired as was Professor Jerichan, his wife was fond of society, and the society that met as her
guests was the best that spiritual qualification could produce in the Scandinavian countries. Once more my thoughts
take me back to that home, and lingering for a few moments among familiar
faces, I dream, as it were, that I am there
again.
It is evening,- about ten o'clock. We
have been invited in the usual irregular
fashion, which some put down as the affectation of genius, and some call absence of mind. We drop in - of course
in evening costume- in twos or singly,
but very slowly, and one would think at
first that only a very few had been invited. Not one of the large Jerichan
family is to be seen. That young, handsome man, with both hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall and looking
round with his large dark eyes, is Christian Lange, the novelist. That tall man,
with long fair hair hanging down over
his shoulders, and a daring expression
in his cold blue eyes, is Holger Drachman,- then a painter of some note, now
the most prominent poet in Denmark.
They stand about in groups. Some of
them have already won name and fame;
some are supposed to have the germ
within, which shall grow up to win the
palm of merit and public worship. Kalund is there, that poet who had then
only written one book of poems, and
called it "A Spring," but still had written the most lovely of all Danish poetry.
Hans Christian Andersen's stooping
figure moves about. Bergslden, the Norwegian sculptor, who carved the statue
of Carl Johan; and Henrik Ibsen, the
Norwegian poet, whose profound philosophy displayed in his writings would
lead nobody to believe that the author
of those works could possibly be a man
of such completely foppish and dandi fied appearance.
It is eleven o'clock, and suddenly ap pears to the company Madame Jeri chan, just returned from the opera, and
accompanied by her husband; and others follow her,- Carl Bloch, the eminent
painter, quiet and unassuming in his
whole appearance; Miss Feil, the prima
donna of the Royal Opera; Schram, the
singer; and two or three musicians from
the orchestra of the Royal Opera.
At twelve we adjourn for supper.
Seated on boxes, on broken chairs, or
vases, or pedestals for figures, in the
large studio of our hostess, we partake
of a champagne supper, while brushes
and palettes are lying about, and halffinished pictures, stare from the easels
down upon us. She rises from her
seat. She lifts her glass and wishes us
welcome. She has asked us to come to
bid us farewell to-morrow she is off for
the East, bound for Egypt.
She speaks till her flow of words becomes hot like the streaming lava. She
talks of Poland, her birth-place, of Denmark, her adopted home,- of all she
loves there, of all she feels sorry to
leave; sorry, because of the uncertainty
of life, which never guarantees us sure
and safe return. And when she has sat
down, Carl Bloch gets up, and in a sad,
modest way, expresses the grief we all
feel in parting with her, and indulges in
the hope that we may meet again.
It is after midnight, and we sit in the
large drawing room, where rich carpets
cover the floor, and draperies and pictures hang from the walls. In the center of the room is the grand piano, and
Thorald plays, and two of his friends
accompany him on other instruments.
It is Beethoven's music that floats to
our ears,- one of his delightful trios,
— that holds us spellbound, because
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