Page 34 of Deja New
SEVENTEEN
AUGUST 1875
OSTERBRO, COPHENHAGEN, KINGDOM OF DENMARK
Death, the last guest, was coming, but he’d been the one to open the door. He wondered if they would carve the truth
(here lies Hans Christian Andersen, who fell out of bed and never recovered)
on his tombstone.*
He decided they wouldn’t. Or, worse, they would carvetheirtruth on his tombstone. People who read his stories thought they knew him. In the beginning, he had found it droll. But as time went on, it became less amusing and more depressing. And he had never been one to need any help succumbing to melancholy.
He imagined a conversation with the tombstone committee: “Let us keep things as simple as we can. Name and dates, I think.” Then he imagined the gentle arguing that would ensue.
They would say, “So humble, even though you’re of nobility,” to the son of an illiterate washerwoman.
They would describe him as “A weaver of tales!” though it was nothing so profound (though in his youth he had apprenticed to an actual weaver).
They would say “A born scholar!” about a man whose school years were the worst, most hateful years of his life.*
And “A national treasure!” to a man whose works sold poorly until they were translated into other languages.
And “You would have made a fine husband!” to a man who only ever fell in love with women he could never have.
And “But such a gift with children! What a wonderful father you would make!” to a celibate.
Nobody knows me. Nobody at all.This thought, this yearning to be known, remembered, had been with him as long as he could remember. But nothing he did made any difference. They read his stories and created their own vision of him in their minds, one that bore little resemblance to the actual man. Perhaps that was a blessing. Was it the worst thing in the world that he had been turned into a character in his own stories?
Well. Yes. Because hewasn’ta fairy-tale creature, damn it all, and he had no interest in disappearing into the pages of his own books.
The bright spot in the mess was that he made time to meet with the composer to discuss the music for his funeral. The composer had been surprised—usually people consulted himafterthe death—and a little taken aback at his calm practicality. “Most of the people who will walk after me will be children,” he’d told the bemused music teacher, “so make the beat keep time with little steps.”
It seemed the least he could do, a phrase he normally detested (Nothing is the least one could do.). A last thing to do for children who were never his, honoring a life he never had.
