Chapter 7

In the summer of 1842, I wrote a little piece for the summer theatre,
called, "The Bird in the Pear-tree," in which several scenes were acted
up in the pear-tree. I had called it a dramatic trifle, in order that
no one might expect either a great work or one of a very elaborate
character. It was a little sketch, which, after being performed a few
times, was received with so much applause, that the directors of the
theatre accepted it; nay, even Mrs. Heiberg, the favorite of the
public, desired to take a part in it. People had amused themselves; had
thought the selection of the music excellent. I knew that the piece had
stood its rehearsal--and then suddenly it was hissed. Some young men,
who gave the word to hiss, had said to some others, who inquired from
them their reasons for doing so, that the trifle had too much luck, and
then Andersen would be getting too mettlesome.

I was not, on this evening, at the theatre myself, and had not the
least idea of what was going on. On the following I went to the house
of one of my friends. I had head-ache, and was looking very grave. The
lady of the house met me with a sympathizing manner, took my hand, and
said, "Is it really worth while to take it so much to heart? There were
only two who hissed, the whole house beside took your part."

"Hissed! My part! Have I been hissed?" exclaimed I.

It was quite comic; one person assured me that this hissing had been a
triumph for me; everybody had joined in acclamation, and "there was
only one who hissed."

After this, another person came, and I asked him of the number of those
who hissed. "Two," said he. The next person said "three," and said
positively there were no more. One of my most veracious friends now
made his appearance, and I asked him upon his conscience, how many he
had heard; he laid his hand upon his heart, and said that, at the very
highest, they were five.

"No," said I, "now I will ask nobody more; the number grows just as
with Falstaff; here stands one who asserts that there was only one
person who hissed."

Shocked, and yet inclined to set it all right again, he replied, "Yes,
that is possible, but then it was a strong, powerful hiss."

By my last works, and through a rational economy, I had now saved a
small sum of money, which I destined to the purposes of a new journey
to Paris, where I arrived in the winter of 1843, by way of D sseldorf,
through Belgium.

Marmier had already, in the _R vue de Paris_, written an article
on me, _La Vie d'un Po te_. He had also translated several of my
poems into French, and had actually honored me with a poem which is
printed in the above-named _R