{"id":1928,"date":"2012-03-21T15:12:01","date_gmt":"2012-03-21T14:12:01","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.hcandersen-homepage.dk\/?page_id=1928"},"modified":"2013-09-28T22:09:28","modified_gmt":"2013-09-28T20:09:28","slug":"the-psyche","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.hcandersen-homepage.dk\/?page_id=1928","title":{"rendered":"The Psyche"},"content":{"rendered":"

The Psyche<\/strong><\/p>\n

By Hans Christian Andersen (1862)<\/strong><\/p>\n

In the fresh morning dawn, in the rosy air gleams a great Star, the brightest Star of the morning. His rays tremble on the white wall, as if he wished to write down on it what he can tell, what he has seen there and elsewhere during thousands of years in our rolling world. Let us hear one of his stories.<\/p>\n

\u201cA short time ago\u201d\u2014the Star\u2019s \u201cshort time ago\u201d is called among men \u201ccenturies ago\u201d\u2014\u201cmy rays followed a young artist. It was in the city of the Popes, in the world-city, Rome. Much has been changed there in the course of time, but the changes have not come so quickly as the change from youth to old age. Then already the palace of the Caesars was a ruin, as it is now; fig trees and laurels grew among the fallen marble columns, and in the desolate bathing-halls, where the gilding still clings to the wall; the Coliseum was a gigantic ruin; the church bells sounded, the incense sent up its fragrant cloud, and through the streets marched processions with flaming tapers and glowing canopies. Holy Church was there, and art was held as a high and holy thing. In Rome lived the greatest painter in the world, Raphael; there also dwelt the first of sculptors, Michael Angelo. Even the Pope paid homage to these two, and honored them with a visit. Art was recognized and honored, and was rewarded also. But, for all that, everything great and splendid was not seen and known.<\/p>\n

\u201cIn a narrow lane stood an old house. Once it had been a temple; a young sculptor now dwelt there. He was young and quite unknown. He certainly had friends, young artists, like himself, young in spirit, young in hopes and thoughts; they told him he was rich in talent, and an artist, but that he was foolish for having no faith in his own power; for he always broke what he had fashioned out of clay, and never completed anything; and a work must be completed if it is to be seen and to bring money.<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018You are a dreamer,\u2019 they went on to say to him, \u2018and that\u2019s your misfortune. But the reason of this is, that you have never lived, you have never tasted life, you have never enjoyed it in great wholesome draughts, as it ought to be enjoyed. In youth one must mingle one\u2019s own personality with life, that they may become one. Look at the great master Raphael, whom the Pope honors and the world admires. He\u2019s no despiser of wine and bread.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018And he even appreciates the baker\u2019s daughter, the pretty Fornarina,\u2019 added Angelo, one of the merriest of the young friends.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, they said a good many things of the kind, according to their age and their reason. They wanted to draw the young artist out with them into the merry wild life, the mad life as it might also be called; and at certain times he felt an inclination for it. He had warm blood, a strong imagination, and could take part in the merry chat, and laugh aloud with the rest; but what they called \u2018Raphael\u2019s merry life\u2019 disappeared before him like a vapor when he saw the divine radiance that beamed forth from the pictures of the great master; and when he stood in the Vatican, before the forms of beauty which the masters had hewn out of marble thousands of years since, his breast swelled, and he felt within himself something high, something holy, something elevating, great and good, and he wished that he could produce similar forms from the blocks of marble. He wished to make a picture of that which was within him, stirring upward from his heart to the realms of the Infinite; but how, and in what form? The soft clay was fashioned under his fingers into forms of beauty, but the next day he broke what he had fashioned, according to his wont.<\/p>\n

\u201cOne day he walked past one of those rich palaces of which Rome has many to show. He stopped before the great open portal, and beheld a garden surrounded by cloistered walks. The garden bloomed with a goodly show of the fairest roses. Great white lilies with green juicy leaves shot upward from the marble basin in which the clear water was splashing; and a form glided past, the daughter of the princely house, graceful, delicate, and wonderfully fair. Such a form of female loveliness he had never before beheld\u2014yet stay: he had seen it, painted by Raphael, painted as a Psyche, in one of the Roman palaces. Yes, there it had been painted; but here it passed by him in living reality.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe remembrance lived in his thoughts, in his heart. He went home to his humble room, and modelled a Psyche of clay. It was the rich young Roman girl, the noble maiden; and for the first time he looked at his work with satisfaction. It had a meaning for him, for it was she. And the friends who saw his work shouted aloud for joy; they declared that this work was a manifestation of his artistic power, of which they had long been aware, and that now the world should be made aware of it too.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe clay figure was lifelike and beautiful, but it had not the whiteness or the durability of marble. So they declared that the Psyche must henceforth live in marble. He already possessed a costly block of that stone. It had been lying for years, the property of his parents, in the courtyard. Fragments of glass, climbing weeds, and remains of artichokes had gathered about it and sullied its purity; but under the surface the block was as white as the mountain snow; and from this block the Psyche was to arise.\u201d<\/p>\n

Now, it happened one morning\u2014the bright Star tells nothing about this, but we know it occurred\u2014that a noble Roman company came into the narrow lane. The carriage stopped at the top of the lane, and the company proceeded on foot towards the house, to inspect the young sculptor\u2019s work, for they had heard him spoken of by chance. And who were these distinguished guests? Poor young man! or fortunate young man he might be called. The noble young lady stood in the room and smiled radiantly when her father said to her, \u201cIt is your living image.\u201d That smile could not be copied, any more than the look could be reproduced, the wonderful look which she cast upon the young artist. It was a fiery look, that seemed at once to elevate and to crush him.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe Psyche must be executed in marble,\u201d said the wealthy patrician. And those were words of life for the dead clay and the heavy block of marble, and words of life likewise for the deeply-moved artist. \u201cWhen the work is finished I will purchase it,\u201d continued the rich noble.<\/p>\n

A new era seemed to have arisen in the poor studio. Life and cheerfulness gleamed there, and busy industry plied its work. The beaming Morning Star beheld how the work progressed. The clay itself seemed inspired since she had been there, and moulded itself, in heightened beauty, to a likeness of the well-known features.<\/p>\n

\u201cNow I know what life is,\u201d cried the artist rejoicingly; \u201cit is Love! It is the lofty abandonment of self for the dawning of the beautiful in the soul! What my friends call life and enjoyment is a passing shadow; it is like bubbles among seething dregs, not the pure heavenly wine that consecrates us to life.\u201d<\/p>\n

The marble block was reared in its place. The chisel struck great fragments from it; the measurements were taken, points and lines were made, the mechanical part was executed, till gradually the stone assumed a human female form, a shape of beauty, and became converted into the Psyche, fair and glorious\u2014a divine being in human shape. The heavy stone appeared as a gliding, dancing, airy Psyche, with the heavenly innocent smile\u2014the smile that had mirrored itself in the soul of the young artist.<\/p>\n

The Star of the roseate dawn beheld and understood what was stirring within the young man, and could read the meaning of the changing color of his cheek, of the light that flashed from his eye, as he stood busily working, reproducing what had been put into his soul from above.<\/p>\n

\u201cThou art a master like those masters among the ancient Greeks,\u201d exclaimed his delighted friends; \u201csoon shall the whole world admire thy Psyche.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMy Psyche!\u201d he repeated. \u201cYes, mine. She must be mine. I, too, am an artist, like those great men who are gone. Providence has granted me the boon, and has made me the equal of that lady of noble birth.\u201d<\/p>\n

And he knelt down and breathed a prayer of thankfulnesss to Heaven, and then he forgot Heaven for her sake\u2014for the sake of her picture in stone\u2014for her Psyche which stood there as if formed of snow, blushing in the morning dawn.<\/p>\n

He was to see her in reality, the living, graceful Psyche, whose words sounded like music in his ears. He could now carry the news into the rich palace that the marble Psyche was finished. He betook himself thither, strode through the open courtyard where the waters ran splashing from the dolphin\u2019s jaws into the marble basins, where the snowy lilies and the fresh roses bloomed in abundance. He stepped into the great lofty hall, whose walls and ceilings shone with gilding and bright colors and heraldic devices. Gayly-dressed serving-men, adorned with trappings like sleigh horses, walked to and fro, and some reclined at their ease upon the carved oak seats, as if they were the masters of the house. He told them what had brought him to the palace, and was conducted up the shining marble staircase, covered with soft carpets and adorned with many a statue. Then he went on through richly-furnished chambers, over mosaic floors, amid gorgeous pictures. All this pomp and luxury seemed to weary him; but soon he felt relieved, for the princely old master of the house received him most graciously,, almost heartily; and when he took his leave he was requested to step into the Signora\u2019s apartment, for she, too, wished to see him. The servants led him through more luxurious halls and chambers into her room, where she appeared the chief and leading ornament.<\/p>\n

She spoke to him. No hymn of supplication, no holy chant, could melt his soul like the sound of her voice. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. No rose was softer, but a fire thrilled through him from this rose\u2014a feeling of power came upon him, and words poured from his tongue\u2014he knew not what he said. Does the crater of the volcano know that the glowing lava is pouring from it? He confessed what he felt for her. She stood before him astonished, offended, proud, with contempt in her face, an expression of disgust, as if she had suddenly touched a cold unclean reptile. Her cheeks reddened, her lips grew white, and her eyes flashed fire, though they were dark as the blackness of night.<\/p>\n

\u201cMadman!\u201d she cried, \u201caway! begone!\u201d<\/p>\n

And she turned her back upon him. Her beautiful face wore an expression like that of the stony countenance with the snaky locks.<\/p>\n

Like a stricken, fainting man, he tottered down the staircase and out into the street. Like a man walking in his sleep, he found his way back to his dwelling. Then he woke up to madness and agony, and seized his hammer, swung it high in the air, and rushed forward to shatter the beautiful marble image. But, in his pain, he had not noticed that his friend Angelo stood beside him; and Angelo held back his arm with a strong grasp, crying,<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you mad? What are you about?\u201d<\/p>\n

They struggled together. Angelo was the stronger; and, with a deep sigh of exhaustion, the young artist threw himself into a chair.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat has happened?\u201d asked Angelo. \u201cCommand yourself. Speak!\u201d<\/p>\n

But what could he say? How could he explain? And as Angelo could make no sense of his friend\u2019s incoherent words, he forbore to question him further, and merely said,<\/p>\n

\u201cYour blood grows thick from your eternal dreaming. Be a man, as all others are, and don\u2019t go on living in ideals, for that is what drives men crazy. A jovial feast will make you sleep quietly and happily. Believe me, the time will come when you will be old, and your sinews will shrink, and then, on some fine sunshiny day, when everything is laughing and rejoicing, you will lie there a faded plant, that will grow no more. I do not live in dreams, but in reality. Come with me. Be a man!\u201d<\/p>\n

And he drew the artist away with him. At this moment he was able to do so, for a fire ran in the blood of the young sculptor; a change had taken place in his soul; he felt a longing to tear from the old, the accustomed\u2014to forget, if possible, his own individuality; and therefore it was that he followed Angelo.<\/p>\n

In an out-of-the-way suburb of Rome lay a tavern much visited by artists. It was built on the ruins of some ancient baths. The great yellow citrons hung down among the dark shining leaves, and covered a part of the old reddish-yellow walls. The tavern consisted of a vaulted chamber, almost like a cavern, in the ruins. A lamp burned there before the picture of the Madonna. A great fire gleamed on the hearth, and roasting and boiling was going on there; without, under the citron trees and laurels, stood a few covered tables.<\/p>\n

The two artists were received by their friends with shouts of welcome. Little was eaten, but much was drunk, and the spirits of the company rose. Songs were sung and ditties were played on the guitar; presently the Salterello sounded, and the merry dance began. Two young Roman girls, who sat as models to the artists, took part in the dance and in the festivity. Two charming Bacchantes were they; certainly not Psyches\u2014not delicate, beautiful roses, but fresh, hearty, glowing carnations.<\/p>\n

How hot it was on that day! Even after sundown it was hot. There was fire in the blood, fire in every glance, fire everywhere. The air gleamed with gold and roses, and life seemed like gold and roses.<\/p>\n

\u201cAt last you have joined us, for once,\u201d said his friends. \u201cNow let yourself be carried by the waves within and around you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNever yet have I felt so well, so merry!\u201d cried the young artist. \u201cYou are right\u2014you are all of you right. I was a fool\u2014a dreamer. Man belongs to reality, and not to fancy.\u201d<\/p>\n

With songs and with sounding guitars the young people returned that evening from the tavern, through the narrow streets; the two glowing carnations, daughters of the Campagna, went with them.<\/p>\n

In Angelo\u2019s room, among a litter of colored sketches (studies) and glowing pictures, the voices sounded mellower, but not less merrily. On the ground lay many a sketch that resembled the daughters of the Campagna, in their fresh, hearty comeliness, but the two originals were far handsomer than their portraits. All the burners of the six-armed lamp flared and flamed; and the human flamed up from within, and appeared in the glare as if it were divine.<\/p>\n

\u201cApollo! Jupiter! I feel myself raised to our heaven\u2014to your glory! I feel as if the blossom of life were unfolding itself in my veins at this moment!\u201d<\/p>\n

Yes, the blossom unfolded itself, and then burst and fell, and an evil vapor arose from it, blinding the sight, leading astray the fancy; the firework of the senses went out, and it became dark.<\/p>\n

He was again in his own room. There he sat down on his bed and collected his thoughts.<\/p>\n

\u201cFie on thee!\u201d these were the words that sounded out of his mouth from the depths of his heart. \u201cWretched man, go, begone!\u201d And a deep painful sigh burst from his bosom.<\/p>\n

\u201cAway! begone!\u201d These, her words, the words of the living Psyche, echoed through his heart, escaped from his lips. He buried his head in the pillows, his thoughts grew confused, and he fell asleep.<\/p>\n

In the morning dawn he started up, and collected his thoughts anew. What had happened? Had all the past been a dream? The visit to her, the feast at the tavern, the evening with the purple carnations of the Campagna? No, it was all real\u2014a reality he had never before experienced.<\/p>\n

In the purple air gleamed the bright Star, and its beams fell upon him and upon the marble Psyche. He trembled as he looked at that picture of immortality, and his glance seemed impure to him. He threw the cloth over the statue, and then touched it once more to unveil the form\u2014but he was not able to look again at his own work.<\/p>\n

Gloomy, quiet, absorbed in his own thoughts, he sat there through the long day; he heard nothing of what was going on around him, and no man guessed what was passing in this human soul.<\/p>\n

And days and weeks went by, but the nights passed more slowly than the days. The flashing Star beheld him one morning as he rose, pale and trembling with fever, from his sad couch; then he stepped towards the statue, threw back the covering, took one long, sorrowful gaze at his work, and then, almost sinking beneath the burden, he dragged the statue out into the garden. In that place was an old dry well, now nothing but a hole. Into this he cast the Psyche, threw earth in above her, and covered up the spot with twigs and nettles.<\/p>\n

\u201cAway! begone!\u201d Such was the short epitaph he spoke.<\/p>\n

The Star beheld all this from the pink morning sky, and its beam trembled upon two great tears upon the pale feverish cheeks of the young man; and soon it was said that he was sick unto death, and he lay stretched upon a bed of pain.<\/p>\n

The convent Brother Ignatius visited him as a physician and a friend, and brought him words of comfort, of religion, and spoke to him of the peace and happiness of the church, of the sinfulness of man, of rest and mercy to be found in heaven.<\/p>\n

And the words fell like warm sunbeams upon a teeming soil. The soil smoked and sent up clouds of mist, fantastic pictures, pictures in which there was reality; and from these floating islands he looked across at human life. He found it vanity and delusion\u2014and vanity and delusion it had been to him. They told him that art was a sorcerer, betraying us to vanity and to earthly lusts; that we are false to ourselves, unfaithful to our friends, unfaithful towards Heaven; and that the serpent was always repeating within us, \u201cEat, and thou shalt become as God.\u201d<\/p>\n

And it appeared to him as if now, for the first time, he knew himself, and had found the way that leads to truth and to peace. In the church was the light and the brightness of God\u2014in the monk\u2019s cell he should find the rest through which the tree of human life might grow on into eternity.<\/p>\n

Brother Ignatius strengthened his longings, and the determination became firm within him. A child of the world became a servant of the church\u2014the young artist renounced the world, and retired into the cloister.<\/p>\n

The brothers came forward affectionately to welcome him, and his inauguration was as a Sunday feast. Heaven seemed to him to dwell in the sunshine of the church, and to beam upon him from the holy pictures and from the cross. And when, in the evening, at the sunset hour, he stood in his little cell, and, opening the window, looked out upon old Rome, upon the desolated temples, and the great dead Coliseum\u2014when he saw all this in its spring garb, when the acacias bloomed, and the ivy was fresh, and roses burst forth everywhere, and the citron and orange were in the height of their beauty, and the palm trees waved their branches\u2014then he felt a deeper emotion than had ever yet thrilled through him. The quiet open Campagna spread itself forth towards the blue snow-covered mountains, which seemed to be painted in the air; all the outlines melting into each other, breathing peace and beauty, floating, dreaming\u2014and all appearing like a dream!<\/p>\n

Yes, this world was a dream, and the dream lasts for hours, and may return for hours; but convent life is a life of years\u2014long years, and many years.<\/p>\n

From within comes much that renders men sinful and impure. He fully realized the truth of this. What flames arose up in him at times! What a source of evil, of that which we would not, welled up continually! He mortified his body, but the evil came from within.<\/p>\n

One day, after the lapse of many years, he met Angelo, who recognized him.<\/p>\n

\u201cMan!\u201d exclaimed Angelo. \u201cYes, it is thou! Art thou happy now? Thou hast sinned against God, and cast away His boon from thee\u2014hast neglected thy mission in this world! Read the parable of the intrusted talent! The MASTER, who spoke that parable, spoke the truth! What hast thou gained? What hast thou found? Dost thou not fashion for thyself a religion and a dreamy life after thine own idea, as almost all do? Suppose all this is a dream, a fair delusion!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGet thee away from me, Satan!\u201d said the monk; and he quitted Angelo.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere is a devil, a personal devil! This day I have seen him!\u201d said the monk to himself. \u201cOnce I extended a finger to him, and he took my whole hand. But now,\u201d he sighed, \u201cthe evil is within me, and it is in yonder man; but it does not bow him down; he goes abroad with head erect, and enjoys his comfort; and I grasped at comfort in the consolations of religion. If it were nothing but a consolation? Supposing everything here were, like the world I have quitted, only a beautiful fancy, a delusion like the beauty of the evening clouds, like the misty blue of the distant hills!\u2014when you approach them, they are very different! O eternity! Thou actest like the great calm ocean, that beckons us, and fills us with expectation\u2014and when we embark upon thee, we sink, disappear, and cease to be. Delusion! away with it! begone!\u201d<\/p>\n

And tearless, but sunk in bitter reflection, he sat upon his hard couch, and then knelt down\u2014before whom? Before the stone cross fastened to the wall? No, it was only habit that made him take this position.<\/p>\n

The more deeply he looked into his own heart, the blacker did the darkness seem.\u2014\u201cNothing within, nothing without\u2014this life squanderied and cast away!\u201d And this thought rolled and grew like a snowball, until it seemed to crush him.<\/p>\n

\u201cI can confide my griefs to none. I may speak to none of the gnawing worm within. My secret is my prisoner; if I let the captive escape, I shall be his!\u201d<\/p>\n

And the godlike power that dwelt within him suffered and strove.<\/p>\n

\u201cO Lord, my Lord!\u201d he cried, in his despair, \u201cbe merciful and grant me faith. I threw away the gift thou hadst vouchsafed to me, I left my mission unfulfilled. I lacked strength, and strength thou didst not give me. Immortality\u2014the Psyche in my breast\u2014away with it!\u2014it shall be buried like that Psyche, the best gleam of my life; never will it arise out of its grave!\u201d<\/p>\n

The Star glowed in the roseate air, the Star that shall surely be extinguished and pass away while the soul still lives on; its trembling beam fell upon the white wall, but it wrote nothing there upon being made perfect in God, nothing of the hope of mercy, of the reliance on the divine love that thrills through the heart of the believer.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe Psyche within can never die. Shall it live in consciousness? Can the incomprehensible happen? Yes, yes. My being is incomprehensible. Thou art unfathomable, O Lord. Thy whole world is incomprehensible\u2014a wonder-work of power, of glory and of love.\u201d<\/p>\n

His eyes gleamed, and then closed in death. The tolling of the church bell was the last sound that echoed above him, above the dead man; and they buried him, covering him with earth that had been brought from Jerusalem, and in which was mingled the dust of many of the pious dead.<\/p>\n

When years had gone by his skeleton was dug up, as the skeletons of the monks who had died before him had been; it was clad in a brown frock, a rosary was put into the bony hand, and the form was placed among the ranks of other skeletons in the cloisters of the convent. And the sun shone without, while within the censers were waved and the Mass was celebrated.<\/p>\n

And years rolled by.<\/p>\n

The bones fell asunder and became mingled with others. Skulls were piled up till they formed an outer wall around the church; and there lay also his head in the burning sun, for many dead were there, and no one knew their names, and his name was forgotten also. And see, something was moving in the sunshine, in the sightless cavernous eyes! What might that be? A sparkling lizard moved about in the skull, gliding in and out through the sightless holes. The lizard now represented all the life left in that head, in which once great thoughts, bright dreams, the love of art and of the glorious, had arisen, whence hot tears had rolled down, where hope and immortality had had their being. The lizard sprang away and disappeared, and the skull itself crumbled to pieces and became dust among dust.<\/p>\n

Centuries passed away. The bright Star gleamed unaltered, radiant and large, as it had gleamed for thousands of years, and the air glowed red with tints fresh as roses, crimson like blood.<\/p>\n

There, where once had stood the narrow lane containing the ruins of the temple, a nunnery was now built. A grave was being dug in the convent garden for a young nun who had died, and was to be laid in the earth this morning. The spade struck against a hard substance; it was a stone, that shone dazzling white. A block of marble soon appeared, a rounded shoulder was laid bare; and now the spade was plied with a more careful hand, and presently a female head was seen, and butterflies\u2019 wings. Out of the grave in which the young nun was to be laid they lifted, in the rosy morning, a wonderful statue of a Psyche carved in white marble.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow beautiful, how perfect it is!\u201d cried the spectators. \u201cA relic of the best period of art.\u201d<\/p>\n

And who could the sculptor have been? No one knew; no one remembered him, except the bright star that had gleamed for thousands of years. The star had seen the course of that life on earth, and knew of the man\u2019s trials, of his weakness\u2014in fact, that he had been but human. The man\u2019s life had passed away, his dust had been scattered abroad as dust is destined to be; but the result of his noblest striving, the glorious work that gave token of the divine element within him\u2014the Psyche that never dies, that lives beyond posterity\u2014the brightness even of this earthly Psyche remained here after him, and was seen and acknowledged and appreciated.<\/p>\n

The bright Morning Star in the roseate air threw its glancing ray downward upon the Psyche, and upon the radiant countenances of the admiring spectators, who here beheld the image of the soul portrayed in marble.<\/p>\n

What is earthly will pass away and be forgotten, and the Star in the vast firmament knows it. What is heavenly will shine brightly through posterity; and when the ages of posterity are past, the Psyche\u2014the soul\u2014will still live on!<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0Indeks over H.C. Andersens eventyr \u2014\u00a0Index of Hans Christian Andersen Fairy tales<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Psyche By Hans Christian Andersen (1862) In the fresh morning dawn, in the rosy air gleams a great Star, the brightest Star of the morning. His rays tremble on the white wall, as if he wished to write down on it what he can tell, what he has seen there and elsewhere during thousands … L\u00e6s mere The Psyche<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":"","_links_to":"","_links_to_target":""},"class_list":["post-1928","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.hcandersen-homepage.dk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1928","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.hcandersen-homepage.dk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.hcandersen-homepage.dk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.hcandersen-homepage.dk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.hcandersen-homepage.dk\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1928"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.hcandersen-homepage.dk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1928\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":53787,"href":"https:\/\/www.hcandersen-homepage.dk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1928\/revisions\/53787"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.hcandersen-homepage.dk\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1928"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}