Hans Christian Andersens Fairy Tales | Page 9

days no pavement in
Copenhagen.
"Well! This is too bad! How dirty it is here!" sighed the Councillor. "As to a pavement, I
can find no traces of one, and all the lamps, it seems, have gone to sleep."
The moon was not yet very high; it was besides rather foggy, so that in the darkness all
objects seemed mingled in chaotic confusion. At the next corner hung a votive lamp
before a Madonna, but the light it gave was little better than none at all; indeed, he did
not observe it before he was exactly under it, and his eyes fell upon the bright colors of
the pictures which represented the well-known group of the Virgin and the infant Jesus.

"That is probably a wax-work show," thought he; "and the people delay taking down their
sign in hopes of a late visitor or two."
A few persons in the costume of the time of King Hans passed quickly by him.
"How strange they look! The good folks come probably from a masquerade!"
Suddenly was heard the sound of drums and fifes; the bright blaze of a fire shot up from
time to time, and its ruddy gleams seemed to contend with the bluish light of the torches.
The Councillor stood still, and watched a most strange procession pass by. First came a
dozen drummers, who understood pretty well how to handle their instruments; then came
halberdiers, and some armed with cross-bows. The principal person in the procession was
a priest. Astonished at what he saw, the Councillor asked what was the meaning of all
this mummery, and who that man was.
"That's the Bishop of Zealand," was the answer.
"Good Heavens! What has taken possession of the Bishop?" sighed the Councillor,
shaking his bead. It certainly could not be the Bishop; even though he was considered the
most absent man in the whole kingdom, and people told the drollest anecdotes about him.
Reflecting on the matter, and without looking right or left, the Councillor went through
East Street and across the Habro-Platz. The bridge leading to Palace Square was not to be
found; scarcely trusting his senses, the nocturnal wanderer discovered a shallow piece of
water, and here fell in with two men who very comfortably were rocking to and fro in a
boat.
"Does your honor want to cross the ferry to the Holme?" asked they.
"Across to the Holme!" said the Councillor, who knew nothing of the age in which he at
that moment was. "No, I am going to Christianshafen, to Little Market Street."
Both men stared at him in astonishment.
"Only just tell me where the bridge is," said he. "It is really unpardonable that there are
no lamps here; and it is as dirty as if one had to wade through a morass."
The longer he spoke with the boatmen, the more unintelligible did their language become
to him.
"I don't understand your Bornholmish dialect," said he at last, angrily, and turning his
back upon them. He was unable to find the bridge: there was no railway either. "It is
really disgraceful what a state this place is in," muttered he to himself. Never had his age,
with which, however, he was always grumbling, seemed so miserable as on this evening.
"I'll take a hackney-coach!" thought he. But where were the hackneycoaches? Not one
was to be seen.
"I must go back to the New Market; there, it is to be hoped, I shall find some coaches; for
if I don't, I shall never get safe to Christianshafen."

So off he went in the direction of East Street, and had nearly got to the end of it when the
moon shone forth.
"God bless me! What wooden scaffolding is that which they have set up there?" cried he
involuntarily, as he looked at East Gate, which, in those days, was at the end of East
Street.
He found, however, a little side-door open, and through this he went, and stepped into our
New Market of the present time. It was a huge desolate plain; some wild bushes stood up
here and there, while across the field flowed a broad canal or river. Some wretched
hovels for the Dutch sailors, resembling great boxes, and after which the place was
named, lay about in confused disorder on the opposite bank.
"I either behold a fata morgana, or I am regularly tipsy," whimpered out the Councillor.
"But what's this?"
He turned round anew, firmly convinced that he was seriously ill. He gazed at the street
formerly so well known to him, and now so strange in appearance, and looked at the
houses more attentively: most of them were of wood, slightly put together; and many had
a thatched roof.
"No--I am far from well," sighed he; "and yet I