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A
Night in the Life of Anne Marie Andersen
With motifs from HC
Andersen's biography
and his stories
"She was good for nothing"
and "The Story of
a Mother"
CHARACTERS: ANNE
MARIE ANDERSEN (AMA), HCA's mother SCENE 1 MAYOR: Hey, young man!
You, yes, you, right. Come here a bit. No, it's enough you've lowered your
cap, there's no need for bowing, you’re not not standing before a king. I'm just the
mayor of your old HCA /whispering/: Just half of
a bottle. MAYOR: It's a disgrace,
your mother’s drinking, it's shameful. But she is
good for nothing anyway. Tell her she should be ashamed. See that you
yourself don’t become a drunkard, too, though I'm afraid you will. Poor boy!
Go, hurry! /splashing of water, maybe a woman singing softly/ AMA: I'll be finished
soon, my son. I'm glad you’ve come. I need something to warm the blood in me
veins. The water is so cold, and I've been standing in it for six hours
already. What’ve you brought me? HCA: A little schnaps. AMA /gulping/: Ah, that’s just
what I needed to warm me up! It's just as good as a warm meal, and costs
less. Take a sip, boy, you look so pale, you must be freezin' too. The autumn
has come. Brrr, how cold the water is! I hope I won't get ill. Argh, why
would I? Give that bottle back to me, it's my turn... Now you again, but just
the littlest sip! Don't get used to drinking too much, my poor boy! Give me a
hand to climb up to the shore. Soooo. Uhhh, my fingers are falling off, but
that doesn't matter as long as I can be bringing you up decently. There, here
comes my lame Maren, look at her. She thinks she can cover up the fact that
one of her eyes is missing by that fake forelock hanging down her cheek. It’s
all nonsense. I keep telling her that fake thing even draws attention to the
fact that she lacks the eye. HCA: Mama, hush, she'll hear you. AMA: Well she’s heard me a hundred
times already but she doesn't care. And she's aware I'm telling her 'cos I
want what’s for her good, to stop embarrassing herself in front of the whole world.
Hey, Maren, where are you, my beauty? MAREN: Poor woman, you’re constantly
toiling away in that cold water. If anybody needs warming up with a sip of
strong drink, it's you. But still people grumble. I heard what that stuck up
mayor told you, boy. How dare he point the finger at others!? With those fine
wines of his, the banquets for lunches and high-falutin’ receptions? That
your mother is a good-for-nothing, that all she does is drink…. The pig! AMA /sadly/: Did he really say
that, boy? Did he tell you that your mother is a layabout? Well, maybe he is
right, but he’s got no right to speak that way to a child. Ah, that's not the
first insult from that house I’ve had to swallow. MAREN: Didn't you work for them a
long time ago, while the mayor's parents were still alive? Since then, the
two of us've eaten lots of salt, so it's not surprising we're still thirsty./laughing/
I hear they’re preparing a big party there for to-night, with lots of
dainty titbits. They wanted to cancel it, but they couldn't 'cos the food'd
already been prepared. An hour ago the mayor received a letter from AMA: Died? Who told you that? MAREN: One of the servants. But
there's no need for you to take it to heart, though I believe you'd met him
while working there. AMA: So he's dead. He was the best
man I've ever known. God does not create many men like him. I feel dizzy. I
shouldn't have emptied that bottle. I don't feel good. MAREN: Are you crying there? Come on,
you're sick. Hold onto me, I'll take you home. AMA: But the clothes… MAREN: I'll take care of the clothes.
Hans Christian, stay here and take care of everything till I come back. AMA: I've stayed in that water for
too long, and from early in the morning I haven't eaten anything. I think I
have a fever. O, Jesus, help me! My poor child! /crying/ HCA: Don't worry, mama. I'll take
care of the clothes /crying too/. MAREN: Easy. Take it easy. Come on,
hold on, my old friend, you don't want to fall down right here, in front of that
puffed up mayor and that even more stuck-up wife of his. Hold on a bit more,
I beg you. Oh no, she’s fallen! Ho, good people, help! There’s a woman here
sick! MAYOR: That's just an old laundress.
She's drunk again! That woman's good for nothing! Pity that young lad of hers. I feel sorry for him, cos his mother's a
tramp. Just hold her, you, and carry her as far from here as possible. Away.
Shame on her! MAREN: Up, up with her, good people,
let's go. There – to that cottage, just a little bit further. She's not well, standing in that cold water
since early morn', with not a bite o’ food. There. Lie down, my dear, lie
down. And the other leg, there, good. Good. Thank you, good people, you may
go now. Nothing else, I thank you. Now I'll call a neighbour of hers.
Johanne! Old woman! Johanne! Come, come here, heat up some beer with butter
and sugar and give it to her, please. You know it's her remedy for all
diseases. I’ll go back to the river to fetch the clothes. AMA: Maren… Maren… OLD JOHANNE: It's me, your old
Johanne. Drink, dearie. Just a little at a time. AMA: Where's my boy? My Hans
Christian? My angel? That child is so sensitive, and I… OLD JOHANNE: He'll come home soon, he’s
almost here. Here he comes, I can already see him running
up the street. He’s hurrying to his mother. HCA /panting/: Mama, are you
better? AMA: Come to mama, come closer, my
son. Don’t you worry, I'm fine. Tell me, how was it at the river? Ah, you
don't have to say, I know my old Maren. Good heart, but slapdash. She must
have just dipped the things into the water and taken them out again the same
moment, and that was all. HCA: Mama, she helped you so much… If
it wasn't for her… AMA: Here she comes too! What would I
do without you, Maren, my old friend. MAREN: Don’t strain, don’t speak.
Here, the mayor's cook has sent you some potatoes and a piece of ham. AMA: Give it to the boy, I’ve got no
appetite. But it’s already doing me good, the very
smell of food. Mmm, delicious. Eat, son, please, eat it all up. And then lie
down and sleep, down there next to my legs. There, this blanket here is the
warmest, drape yourself in it, and that way you'll warm up my ol' feet too,
so that I can go on tomorrow. Warm beer with butter has really done me good,
set me up proper. You're so kind to me, my dears, my friends, thank you. /confidentially/ When the boy falls asleep, I'll tell
you the whole story about the mayor's younger brother. OLD JOHANNE: With all due respect,
Anne Marie, I'm too tired. /softer/ Maren, I've already heard all
that. Fantasies bred of alcohol. /louder/ I’ll wish you good night and
be off. If you need me, call me. AMA: Thanks for everything, Johanne.
Good night. MAREN: He’s fallen asleep. You can
speak up now. AMA: First of all, you have to promise
me that you won't say a thing to my boy. He must not know how much I
suffered, and God forbid he ever finds out. MAREN: Who do you think I am? You
know the only thing that’s fake about me is
this lock of hair. AMA: Maren, listen to me. There was
not one drop of bad blood in their youngest son. But he was a master and I
was a servant. Still, we were soul mates and we fell in love. Once, when he
was about to leave for the college in the town, he kissed me with an innocent
kiss, like the kiss of a child, nothing else. Do you believe me? MAREN: I believe you, Anne Marie, why
wouldn't I trust you. You're trying to tell me little Hans is his? AMA: God forbid! Are you listening at
all? With an innocent kiss! Yes, he gave me a ring of gold then too. But he also
told his mother everything about us, because he loved her so much and he held
her for a very wise person. As soon as he left, she called for me. She
addressed me gravely, with dignity, like some kind of goddess she was. She
drew my attention to the gap between me and her son. ‘Now he thinks you are
pretty,’ she told me, ‘but beauty vanishes, and then what? You're not
educated, so you won't be able to discuss anything with him.’ ‘I have respect
for the poor,’ she told me, ‘and it is likely to happen that God in Heaven
will place them above the rich, but on this earth we must travel the road
that has been set for us, otherwise our carriage will overturn. Yes...’ Each
of her words struck me to the core, because I knew she was right. I went to
my room and threw myself on the bed. It seemed like I would cry my heart out.
I wore the gold ring around my neck, and used to put it onto my finger only
during the night. That night I was kissing it till my lips started to bleed.
Next day was Sunday, so I went to church to ask my Lord to lead me. When I
was leaving the church, I ran into a shoemaker, Hans. I liked the look of
him, we came from the same background - he was even pretty well-off at that
time. He was 11 or 12 years younger than me. I went up to him and asked him: ‘Will
you marry me?’ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘because I respect you. But don't you go
fancying to yourself that I love you.’ ‘That can come by itself,’
I said, so we held hands. Maren, are you sleeping? MAREN: Don't be silly. I'm listening,
just closed my eyes. Go on, what happened next? What's the secret? AMA: Secret? Did I say it's about a
secret? There's no secret, just suffering, I suffered in my heart, Maren. The
following day I went to the mistress, returned the ring to her and told her
the shoemaker Hans and I were going to be married. She hugged me and kissed
me. She didn't tell me I was good for nothing. Maybe I was a better person
then. MAREN: My dear Anne, you’re the very
same person you used to be, if not a better one, but then – you didn’t know
how cruel the world is and how ugly it can make you ... from the outside. I'm
not saying you're ugly now, just… AMA: Do you remember, Maren, how we
were doing pretty well, that first year of our marriage, Hans and I. He hired
an assistant and even an apprentice and you came to help us too. MAREN: You were such a kind mistress.
How could I forget that? And the boy soon followed. With him in your arms
you’d climb the ladder from the kitchen to the attic and there, in the gable
between the neighbour's house and yours, with him and for him, you would
catch every ray of sunlight. You said you were leading him to the garden. AMA /laughing/: Yes, and my whole garden consisted of a wooden box that I
grew chives and parsley in. MAREN: Anne Marie, did you ever see
the young master again? AMA: I saw him once more, but he
didn't notice me. He came to his mother's funeral and since then he has never
returned to MAREN: I don't know. I just know that
hard times followed. First Hans became pig-headed for some reason and left
the shoemakers' guild... AMA: Don't you be so harsh, Maren.
The man just wanted to become independent. It’s natural, especially when
business starts to go well… MAREN: Come off it, don’t be always defending everyone! If
someone used nails to score under your
fingernails and said – now scrub
my shirt with them - even him you'd defend!
This, though, is not natural! It’s natural that a man gets angry, throws tantrums if he must! Rebel! If you knew how to get mad, you wouldn’t now be lying here sick and
half-dead! You have to get things off your chest,
not keep them bottled up! The truth is, Hans took up the bagpipes
and there was more and more firuli-firula, firuli-firula, and less and less making of shoes. And if only that were all! But he poisoned
this little one as well, with thousands of those Arab stories and fuelled his
imagination with I know not what. And when he’d
lost almost all of his clients,
he began making that... theatre for him, with puppets. Think of it, dolls! For a boy! And the little one,
instead of playing with other children on the street like everyone else, he sewed clothes
for dolls! It was sick, I tell you, everyone saw it was sick but you!
And now you're sick
yourself, and how much longer will it take to set
this young ‘un on
his feet... AMA: Ah, although we got poor – it's
true, we pampered him like a child of the nobility … MAREN: I see you're still proud of
that, you simply cannot understand! You’ve disabled him for real life, that's
what you've done! He finished school and what happened then? He went to work
like all other children of his class. But they still work there, earning and
helping their parents, and him – a couple of days in a textile factory, a
couple of days in a tobacco factory – and then back to ma and pa. Poor thing
realised that life is not a puppet theatre and broke down. AMA: Don't talk like that, my Hans
Christian didn't break down, nor will he, ever. He has solid dreams about how
he's going to become an actor, singer or dancer, but you cannot understand
that. Do you know what he told me yesterday? /with gentle voice/ How
the life of every man is a fairy tale written by God's hand. I asked him, ‘Even
my life, son? Look at me, and look good and hard, how I can hardly stand on
my feet, so frozen and wrinkled.’ Luckily, I learned how to bury my feet well
into the river bottom, into our good old MAREN: Don't you see, it's sheer madness? Old Johanne put it well – fantasies,
alcoholic vapours. When I just remember how you used to pull out the hair of that
neighbour, the one from the street where you used to live before you sank so
deep into debt. What was her name again, she was the mother of ten or how
many... AMA: Catherine. Catherine Kögaard. How many times did I have to comfort
my poor Christian after suffering that barbed tongue of hers, how many
times did I have to tell him she was just a jealous mother, because her son
Christian – imagine, them two shared the same age and name! – because her Christian didn't have it in him to
learn so easily and write such miracles! He, poor boy, would hang over a book
for ages, and nothing would come. But my Christian, he didn't even
open the book, and still such wonders would come out of his pen. The
classmistress always pointed him out
in front of everyone and that's why that woman… MAREN: The teacher only stuffed your
head with nonsense. What do you have now from her school commendations,
what's the use? Catherine pointed it out to you well, but you never listened.
That's why her Christian is already a respectable worker, a man who helps his mother
and younger brothers and sisters, while your… AMA: Christian Kögaard was and
still is nothing but a bully. My angel was not even five, he was wearing a
bell round his neck still, when that savage broke in, raised his bell and
punched him in the private parts with all his might. Without any reason. What
pains my boy suffered that day, he couldn’t pee, not a drop. I was desperate, I carried him up and down, repeating like a mad
thing: "Piss my sweet boy, come on, try to pee." Finally I had to
call a doctor, no matter how much it cost. Never before or after did I call
the doctor again, not even when Hans was dying. Ah, nothing could have helped
him any more, anyway. MAREN: That's right. That man
couldn't be helped. Fancy ruining such a business, such a family, and
in the end abandoning them and going to war, to fight for that French midget
with the long name, Na-po-le-on. He thought that madman’s shilling would bring him happiness. A fool of
fools, that's what your husband was. Hans Hansen the piper, God have mercy on his soul. Just think
whose son he was, and how he turned out! Old Anders Hansen was a mockery
- "mad Anders", the village fool, he
finished his days in the workhouse - second
floor reserved for madmen – and so will you, because of all people you had to
ask the hand of that very man's son. AMA: In eighteen twelve he left, and
in the year fifteen he returned a broken man. He was so weak I had to dress
and undress him for nine months. And that expression on his face, when I
recall it.... Fear is too weak a word to describe the horror reflected in his
eyes. And then, in springtime, when all life was budding, my hope roused too, but he still… /crying/ While Hans
Christian and I were lying on the floor, and he so... lifeless was lying in
the bed, a cricket chirped, and then I knew the end had come and I cried out:
He's dead, you don't have to sing to him anymore, the Ice Maiden’s taken him!
The Ice Maiden’s taken him away… My dear child, so much he’d seen already,
and not even thirteen yet…
AMA: Maren, my friend, don't be mad
at your old, wasted Anne Marie. I didn't want a life filled with tears, scrubbing
floors, washing clothes and all kinds of hard work. God didn't call me to be rich, I thank Him for that too. But, I'm afraid He's soon
going to free me from all that, from all this world.
But, He'll have to take care of the boy, then. MAREN: That boy again. Anne,
understand this, the boy can't be well until you start taking care of
yourself. You see he can’t get free from you, that he’s curled around your
legs like a puppy. AMA: My dear Maren, I'm fine now and
so warm, thanks to the two of you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for
your care. Go and rest. See you tomorrow. Sorry if I bothered you, took your
time, disappointed you with my stories. MAREN /yawning/: Believe you
did. Anyway, I'll bring coffee in the morn. Good night now. AMA: Good night, dear. /singing
softly: Sleep, sleep, my little darling, Dream, soul of my soul, The wild
wind from the north cannot harm you, Its blows
cannot enter our home/ Hey! Hey, my son, you’re burning! Maren! Maren,
stop! Johanne! Where are you? You coddle me, me an ol' bat, and my
child has a fever! Lord, have mercy! /knocking at the door/ Who is it?
Here, I'm coming. Alas, my feet can hardly carry me, just come in. Johanne,
old friend, is that you? /creaking of the door/ Ah, you’re limping,
you’re limping, that's my Maren. You’ve wrapped
yourself in that blanket so well, I hardly recognised you! Look, while we
were prattling on, look what’s happened – he’s burning, he’s burning, my
child has a fever... Close that door, faster, that ice cold wind cuts like a
knife! DEATH /male voice/: Warm some
beer for me in that jug. /…/ I said, heat up some
beer for me. Which part of the sentence do you not understand? Don't you look
at me like that, like you’re seeing me for the first time.
We’ve had dealings with each other already, haven’t we? AMA: Yes, I’ve met you. The Ice
Maiden. DEATH: So you see. And you welcome me
as if I were a stranger in the house. I expected a bit more of a warm
welcome. But... whatever. HUUUUUUUUUU /horrible roar/ SCENE 2 AMA: Brrr, how cold
it is /chattering/ My head…Ohhh, I should cut down on drinking… No!
Now I remember! My son! Hans Christian! My son! She took him away! Death took
my son away! No, it cannot be, she should have taken me away, this is a
mistake. Lord, my God, do not allow this, I’m going
... I’m going go to search for him.... I’m going! This time… /door
creaking, wind, snow crunching/ No, this time neither snow, nor ice…
Lady! Hey, lady in black! Please, did you see… NIGHT: Death was in
your house. Yes, I've just seen her running past, carrying your child. She is
faster than the wind. And she never returns what she’s taken. AMA: Tell me, which
way did she go? Just show me the direction, and I'll find the way myself! NIGHT: I know where
she went. But before I show you, you have to sing for me all those songs you
used to sing to your child. I am the Night. I like lullabies. AMA: I'll sing them
all again for you, but please, do not stop me now. I have to catch them up. I
must hurry to find my child. /…/ Why don't you speak? Ohh, all right.
I'll sing for you. /through tears she sings three lullabies that blend
into each other/ NIGHT: Go right,
there to that dark pine wood. I saw Death carrying your child that way. AMA /panting/:
To the woods, to the woods… The paths separate. Where should I go now? Who to
ask? Not a living soul here. Just this rosebush. Bare branches full of
thorns, strung together with ice. It seems I have no choice. /a cough/ Excuse
me, have you seen Death passing by, carrying my child? BUSH: Yes. But I
won't tell you which way she went until you clasp me to your heart and warm
me. I’m freezing to death. I'm almost frozen stiff. Oh, thank you. I didn't
believe you would actually do that, that anyone would do that for me. Look,
your heart is so warm that my leaves are budding in the midst of such a dark
and cold winter night. Go this way. Go, go on. AMA: Oh… I’m going,
I’m going. Look, what a great lake there is. And no boat. How can I cross
over it? /crunching/ The ice is too thin for my weight, no matter how
small I am, and still, it's not shallow enough that I can wade through. Lord,
do the impossible and let me drink it all up! AMA: Oh, what
wouldn't I give for my child! I'll cry until my eyes flow out to the bottom of the lake and turn into two
precious pearls. /soft music and then loud splash/ Where am I? I can
see nothing. Please, someone, where can I find Death, who took my child away? OLD WOMAN: She
hasn't returned home yet. AMA: Who are you? OLD WOMAN: I'm an
old woman who takes care of the greenhouse while Death is out. And how did
you find way up here? Who helped you? AMA: The Dear Lord
God helped me. He is merciful, so you be too. Where
can I find my child? OLD WOMAN: But I
don't know him and you’re blind, so you can’t recognise him. But, many trees
die during the night, so Death will soon come to replant them. Every human being, you know, has a tree or a flower linked to that
individual's life – which one it is depends on the person, what he or she is
like. Those plants look all alike, one like any other, but each has a heart
that beats. Your child's heart beats too. You'll recognise the heartbeats of
your own child. Listen carefully, you may hear it. What you will give me if I
tell you what else you have to do? AMA: I don't have
anything left I could give you. But I'll go to the end of the world for you
if you want. OLD WOMAN: I don't
need anything from there. But you could give me your long black hair. It's
thick and nice - you know that yourself. I'll give you my white hair for it.
Better gray hair than no hair. AMA: Is that all
you ask? I’ll gladly give it to you! /scissors/ There. OLD WOMAN: What
beautiful curls! Let’s have your hand and we’ll go to the greenhouse. Do you
catch the smell of hyacinths? They're so delicate they should be kept under a
glass bell. And those waterplants there, you should see them as they intertwine
like that. Now we pass under tall palm trees, ribwort plantains, oaks. And here parsley's grown and sweet-smelling thyme.
Every plant carries the name of some particular person, because in each one
is someone's life. Here there are what should be huge trees that are stunted in their small
pots, filling them up to the point of bursting, and then, there are tiny
flowers that fail in spite of the abundant care they receive and the richness
of the soil. Feel free to stop and listen better. Just listen to the beating
of millions of human hearts. I know it’s not easy to recognise just one in
such a forest... AMA: Here he is! I
hear him! OLD WOMAN: You
recognise him in a bluish saffron? See how the
flower is bent. Don't touch that flower, woman! Stay where you are! Death is nigh and you cannot prevent
her from picking it. Threaten her that, if she plucks that saffron, you’ll
pluck up other plants. That'll scare her, because she must render an account
to God. No one should be pulled from the ground without God's permission. AMA: Thank you,
granny. Brrr, a cold wind blew over me. She's close. DEATH: How did you
find the way here? How could you get here before me? AMA: I am the
mother. Do not touch this flower! DEATH: I'm just
executing God's will. I'm His gardener. I pick His trees and flowers and
transplant them into the land unknown. But – how they make progress there and
about their life there – it's not for me to speak about that. AMA: Give me my
child back! DEATH: What are you
doing, you crazy woman? Leave those two flowers! AMA: I'll pluck all
your flowers out to their roots, because I’m desperate.
AMA: Other mothers…
No… No, I couldn't do that. DEATH: Then take
your eyes back. I saw them glowing at the bottom of the lake and fished them out, but I didn't know
they were yours. They're clearer than before, aren't they? Take them and look
into the bottom of this well. I'll tell you the names of these two flowers
you’re meaning to pluck from the ground, and you'll be able to see the future
lives of those two people. Look. What do you see? AMA: I see how one
life becomes a blessing to the world, because it is so full of kindness and
joy. I see the other one too, filled with sorrow, misery, fear and despair. DEATH: Both lives
are God's will. AMA: Tell me,
Death, which of those two flowers is condemned to misery, and which is
destined for happiness? DEATH: That's what
I'm not going to tell you, but I'll tell you this: One of these two flowers
that you’re holding with your hands is the flower that belongs to your child.
So, one of the future lives you've just seen belongs to your son. AMA: Which one
belongs to my child? Speak! It must be the one I saw first, because my son's
heart is pure, filled with sheer goodness and beauty. Spare him. Spare my
innocent child! Oh… I must be mad. Living with me, the other destiny must be
expecting him. Misery and poverty. Spare him. Spare my child from misery and
pain. It's better to take him away from me. Take him to God's Kingdom as soon
as possible. O holy, almighty God, forget about my tears. Forget about the
prayers I've said and the things I've done. DEATH: I don't understand.
Do you want to take your child back or shall I take him to the land unknown
to you? AMA: Lord God, do
not listen to me when I pray against Your holy will. That's the best thing.
Do not listen to me, do not! SCENE 3 /long applause,
acclamation, fireworks…/ HCA: Bishop Engelstoft, if only my
parents could have lived to experience this joy! Fireworks in honour of their
son, Hans Christian Andersen, an honorary citizen of BISHOP: Mr Andersen, are we talking about that same ...
sibyl your mother caused to be sent to you when your father was dying? HCA: Exactly. I saw her then for the first time, and later
my mother and I moved to her neighbourhood. BISHOP: If the rumours are true about that old lady, that,
at a critical moment in your life, when you were weak and vulnerable, she
tied some thread around your wrist, with, allegedly, a certain note attached
containing a prayer, and told you that, if your father died, you would meet
his ghost on your way home – if these rumours are true, don't you think you
might be overestimating or wrongly estimating her influence on your life and
work? Wouldn't it have been better if some sober person had advised your
mother to call the doctor, instead of frightening her son with a foggy
mixture of superstition and faith in the midst of the already mystical events
of that day? HCA: Do I need to answer? Look, My Lord, that is the very same woman who told me the story
about the bubbling pot that
has the power to summon people to return home from afar, wherever they might
be, provoking in them a desire to return to
their loved ones. Needless to say, that pot was bubbling for my father during
his military exile in BISHOP: Well then, I respect your
feelings, so let us drop the topic. People were moved today by your reading.
What was the title of the story again? "What the Old Man does is always
right?" A touching story, indeed, about a man whose primary goal is to
make his wife happy. I believe your parents served as an inspiration in this
case? HCA: Well, we may
say that. A husband always tries to do his best, but… when he finally exchanges
his whole fortune for a bag of rotten apples, that, in the eyes of the world,
cannot be anything other than sheer madness and folly, right? However, his
poor wife gains much more with those rotten apples – she gets compensation
for the humiliation she had suffered from a teacher's wife who refused to let
her have the eggs for an omelette she wanted to serve her husband, saying in
excuse: 'I don't even have a single
rotten apple!' /he gets more and more
nervous, raising his voice/ Eh, now she could say to the teacher's wife
that she could lend her ten rotten apples, a whole sack if she had need of them! That woman loves her husband, she loves him, although
he returns to her with a sack full of rotten apples! Who, I ask you, who can
ever love like that, like... like... Oh, I've got a bit carried away. I'm
sorry. BISHOP: Like your mother? HCA: I'm sorry, I don't feel like talking about my mother.
Still, soon after my father's death, she remarried. When I remember that bastard...
She would have been much better off without him. By force, 'cos all he ever did was
done by force, he wanted to apprentice me as a tailor's assistant, but I was
already 14 and determined to become an actor. At dawn, on 4th September,
1819, long ago now, in a carriage paid for by my mother, I set out for
Copenhagen. Before leaving, I told her: "Don't you worry about me. First
you have to pass through a lot of suffering and then you
become famous." Luckily, it wasn't long before that guy died. After all
– here, if you're interested in my mother, read for yourself. Her final
letter – I always carry it with me. I mean, the letter she had written for
her, because women of her class didn't know how to read or write. But, who am
I to tell you that - you know better than I. BISHOP:
‘13th October 1827. My beloved son, Since I know how much you cared about old
Johanne, I thought I should inform you that she passed away ….’ HCA:
No, not that letter, stop, give it back to me. I was thinking of this letter.
If you will allow me… BISHOP: '12th September 1829. My beloved son,
news from your old Odense. You know that well-heeled Madamme Krag, widow of
the owner of the mill, the one at the bottom of the street if you remember,
God rest his soul? I often used to ask for a little barley to make myself
porridge, and in all the other mills they used to give it away gladly, but I
didn't get anything from her. She pretended she was even worse off than me. I
would never ask anything from her again.... Christian,
my good boy! You promised to help me a bit when you got to HCA: This, My Lord, is quite enough, I
believe, for you to imagine how she used to hurt me
with her words, which hit me straight in the heart. At that time I was myself
struggling severely from lack of money, lack of everything, and God himself knows that, as soon as I was able to, I
paid for her lunches in the public kitchen. She preferred money, but I was
determined that the kitchen was a better solution. I had my reasons. BISHOP: My dear
Mister Andersen, you really have
nothing to reproach yourself with. Indeed, what is a bit of ephemeral material poverty in relation
to the eternal glory with which
you have endowed her already here on earth by virtue of your work,
not to speak of the glory with which she is endowed in heaven
by our good Lord by virtue of His deeds. Has anyone living at Doctor Boder's
almshouse in this village lived to be visited by Prince Christian himself, later to become King Christian VIII, and be told by him that she has very good reason to be proud of her son? HCA: Well, now we’ve
got to my mother's death
and I didn’t want to talk about her at first. However, now that you've mentioned the king, you’ve reminded
me of pleasanter things – my association and friendship with the son of His Majesty,
Fritz the young heir and his lovely sister Fanny, which
began back in our earliest childhood. My
father, in fact, worked for the family of the Countess – later the Queen –
Eliza Ahlefeldt-Laurvig, when she was still a minor and had an
illegitimate daughter, Fanny, with the prince, so that he, with his own eyes, saw Fanny given up
for adoption to a servant. Who would think that such things used
to be common. Horrible. Fortunately,
this was corrected later. BISHOP: I remember that at one time a rumour circulated that you also were a foster
child of
noble descent, in other words, an
unlawful descendant of the heir Christian Frederik and the young Countess Eliza Ahlefeldt-Laurvig,
born in the castle Broholm, and then, just
like Fanny ... HCA: As I said, I used
often to visit the castle, but just to play, or
rather to entertain the young Fritz with my stories, Fritz the legitimate,
three years my junior, who would often ask me: ‘So how do you manage
to come up with all these things?
How does all this come into your mind?
Do you have it all in your head?’ We know that he is now
our king, Frederik VII. But I am the one
who could entertain our great little
king with a story about a simple
needle. In my hands, all objects would become wondrous
things.... BISHOP: I'm not sure if I've understood very well, but it
seems to me that you're trying to tell me, in an indirect way, that those
rumours could be true? Mister Andersen?
BISHOP: My dear sir, you are a true poet, don't torture
yourself. You have a merciful God who calls you, through me, to ease your
soul if it carries any burden. Give it to the Lord. However, do not open your
soul just to satisfy my curiosity – because I am just a weak man like
everyone else; nor to correct the rumours of the world – let the world say
what it wants. HCA: The Lord himself gave me that imagination, didn't he?
So he won't judge me severely for it! BISHOP: That's the way to look at it! Be brave. SCENE
4 /creaking of metal gate, steps.../ HCA: Sorry to come at so late an hour. So late
at night, after so many years. I'm sorry. I'll
light this poor candle, but at least a half of
those fireworks were going off in your honour tonight, my dear old friend.
Not for me, but for you, who have been lying in this grave already for ... OLD JOHANNE: Shame on you, Hans Christian! To
say I'm lying in the grave! Did I give you such a schooling? Aren't you
coming from our good bishop Engelstoft and didn’t you discuss spiritual matters
with him? And then, after all that, to say I'm in my grave. HCA: Sorry, Johanne. OLD JOHANNE: Sorry and
sorry again. If you've come to apologise, you are standing at the wrong spot,
apologising to the wrong person. I don't have anything to forgive you for. You credit me with more than I deserve. Come on then,
ask everything that interests you, and then move on to ask for forgiveness,
if you're still want to. HCA: Now you’ve got me,
Johanne. I do not know… OLD JOHANNE: If you don't know, I'll tell you
which part you missed. You missed one morning, when your mother, after a
sleepless night spent watching over you as you trembled in fever, huddled up
at her feet like a puppy, when your mother stepped out into the cold,
early-autumn water of the Odense and felt weak. Her legs deceived her and she
fell, gasping for air, her body sinking into the river, her head landing on
the shore. Her wooden clogs floated down the river and that's how lame Maren
found her when she brought her coffee. /murmur of the water/ MAREN: Anne! Anne! Open your eyes, for your
son's sake! Anne Marie! Somebody help! MAYOR: What's that noise? Look, that
laundrywoman has drunk herself to death at last. And I was just about to send for her, because I've just been sent a copy of my
brother's last will, where he dedicated a large sum to that shoemaker's
widow, our late parents' former servant. It seems some kind of nonsense was
going on between my brother and her. It's good she moved out of our way.
I hope she really is finished this time, that her
boy can get money for his schooling. Ho, here he comes! Up with your head,
lad! For you it's better your mother's dead. She was good for nothing. /murmur of the water/ OLD JOHANNE: So: do you remember that morning? HCA: No, no I don't. OLD JOHANNE: So you see. I've turned up just
to refresh your memory. Coffee brought your mother back to life, but never to
be fully in her senses again. She was no longer capable of working in the
water so she was forced to get married again. HCA: I don't understand. But a moment ago you
told me she had inherited quite lot of money from the mayor's younger
brother. OLD JOHANNE: I don't know what you heard, but
one thing is for sure: the mayor of Odense at that time didn't have any
brothers. Hans Christian, my dear, it's nice you make your living by writing
tales, but the time has come to start living outside of them. HCA: Johanne, don't leave me, not yet!
Johanne! I'm not ready yet. Oh, God... Brrr! I can't see a thing. Do I have
any more matches? /lighting up a match / Uhh, think, think Hans, where
could that grave be. Maybe I should go bit more to the left. MAREN: To the right. HCA: Who is that? Mother! Is that you? MAREN: I buried her more to the
right, in the churchyard, in the corner for the poor. You'll recognise the
spot, because I planted a rose-tree on it. HCA: That's you, Maren, I
recognise your voice. Always the same youthful voice. Can I come closer to
see you better? /…/ You finally got rid of that lock
of hair. MAREN: And, thank God, I
replaced it with an eye. What
d’ya say, ha? Like in your tales, and even better! /continues
in serious tone/ Our Lord took her to his care before me and you should
be grateful to him for that. That's all. HCA: I am particularly
grateful to him for that. But I would be even more happy
if I could have helped her more during her life. It's true I could do almost
nothing for her. That used to make me so sad, very sad I could not share that
sadness with anyone, could
talk to no one. And since she died, Maren, I'm even
more alone on this earth. I'm completely alone now, indeed, I don't belong to
anyone any more. There’s not a creature that’s duty bound to love me, not for blood connection, not for natural
belonging. The last branch of my family tree, better to say a twig, is
dying... MAREN: Don't be pathetic,
boy. The whole world loves you, but it seems it's not enough for you. Since
the earliest age you've been overdemanding. Come on, sing one of those famous
songs of yours to me, and move to some better place. Now, when you can afford
to. HCA: Would you like
"My Childhood Home "? MAREN: "My Childhood Home" will do grand. Because –
wherever you've been walkin' a-round the world, Anne Marie's son, it's
obvious you haven't moved as much as
an inch away from it. HCA /sings/: Close to Odense-Munkemølle Such
festive times we had, Longlived
flowers decked the rafters, One
living room, a tiny kitchen - Chorus:
The rice pudding and the goose - |
