“Poor child!” said he, “how little it needs to make thee happy! You know not those vast and insatiable longings—that indefinable want of know ledge that grows for ever—the aspiration of the soul toward the infinite.”
Raising his eyes to the cloudless and spangled heaven, “Is it an illusion?” he cried, as he fixed his gaze upon a star, till then unnoticed, that blazed brilliantly near the constellation of Cassiopea. “Look there!” said he to his attendants. “Do I dream? See you that flashing globe that hangs there over the tower?”
“Yes, my lord,” they answered; “and its light eclipses all the neighbouring stars.”
“Whence comast thou, then,” said he, “new and unknown world? O science, inexhaustible and sublime, thou art still my only love!”
He withdrew hastily, and shut himself into his observatory. Christina and all other earthly things were soon forgotten before the new celestial visitor.
By the dawn of the next morning, Christina, habited for her voyage, was waiting anxiously the moment when she could speak with the astronomer; but his assistants had been ordered to permit none to interrupt him. Succeeding at last in transmitting a message to him—that she was ready to start for Copenhagen, according to the arrangement of the evening before — she was entrusted with a letter addressed to the king; and placing that most precious document in her bosom, hastened to the boat, which awaited her; and, as the weather was favourable, arrived in Copenhagen the same day, and presented herself at the palace. The notorious aversion of Frederic the Second from everything in the shape of ceremony and etiquette, together with his respect for Tycho Brahd, whose reputation he considered an honour to his reign, of course smoothed away all difficulties in the way of an audience; and Christina in a few minutes found herself in the presence of a little, affable, plainly dressed, elderly gentleman. While he was reading the letter, she breathed an earnest prayer that he might not refuse its request, on which the happiness of her life depended; and anxiously watched his majesty’s countenance, thinking it strange that he never raised his eyes to look at her, or showed any symptom of surprise.
“Tell him,” said the king, quietly laying aside the letter, “that I will do what he desires. I shall give the necessary orders at once.”
“Indeed, sire?” said Christina, “you consent, then? I was dreading a refusal”
“Why should I refuse, child?” said the king.
“Because, sire, I am only the daughter of a poor peasant, and he is a noble.”
“And what has that to do with it?” said his Majesty in some astonishment, “there must be some mistake! Do you know that he is only asking me for a book?”
“A book, sir!” repeated the amazed Christina. “I thought he asked your Majesty’s consent to our marriage! — he always said he loved me!”
“I have no doubt he does,” replied Frederic, laughing. “But a new star, it seems, has made him forget the old one. Here! read what he says, for yourself!”
On this discovery all poor Christina’s hopes took wing, and flew away ever so high above her head. She took the letter despondingly, and read these words:
Sire, — A new star has appeared to me this evening. I am in need of a book which is indispensable to my calculations, for I cannot altogether trust my memory. The observatory of Leipzig contains a copy of the work of Leovitius, which I remember to have read in my youth. Will your Majesty be so good as to have it sent to me with all convenient expedition?
“Tell him from me,” continued the king, “that he shall have it within a week, and scold him at the same time for thinking more of the book than of yourself.”
“Sire,” said Christina, “I will go myself to Leipzig — since the book is so important that it has made him forget to make me happy. I wish him to receive it from my own hands.”
“No, no, child,” said Frederic, “they would not entrust it to you. Return to Veen and have patience with your disappointment! Tycho Brahè will most probably send you to me again in a day or two.”
“I hope so, sire,” said Christina with a sigh; “for I am sure he loves me, and did not mean to deceive me.”
On her arrival in Veen, she returned to her father’s house, and was forbidden by him to visit Uranienborg again — a superfluous prohibition, for Tycho Brahb still remained in his observatory and seemed to have altogether forgotten this lower world. His nights were spent in gazing upon the strange and beautiful visitor whose brilliancy outshone Venus; and his days in consulting the records and calculations of his predecessors. His eyes constantly bent upon it, he measured its distance and inquired of himself how a new world had been suddenly lighted up in space, and whether it should remain fixed where he saw it, or retire again into the dark and measureless depths from which it had come forth. He took possession of it, like a navigator who appropriates a newly discovered land; he gave it his name, and commanded it to tell of him to future generations.
One doubt, however, cast a shadow upon his exultation— others in times past had probably observed the same mass of radiance. He found in Josephus that a star of the same magnitude and brilliancy had shone over Jerusalem and announced its fall Hipparchus had seen it outblazing Cassiopea and paling again beside that constellation; and the more recent work of Leovitius, which was sent by the king, informed him of the appearance of the same star three hundred years before. Still he gazed upon it unweariedly— days and weeks flew away unmeasured. When clouds hid it from his view, he was impatient; when it shone out in the clear expanse his ecstacy returned. In fact, it was no longer mere science that guided him with
its inflexible laws, but a glowing imagination—that spirit of poetry which slumbers in every soul—bore him away upon its rainbow-wings.