This was almost the only sign that the sun had risen, for it did not get much lighter or warmer all day.  The air was thick with fog—­not the whitish-gray sea mist, but brown-gray, close, dead Russian fog, which had not become lighter in passing over Sweden; and the east wind came with it and packed it well and securely down among the houses of Copenhagen.

Under the trees along Kastelgraven and in Groenningen the ground was quite black after the dripping from the branches.  But along the middle of the streets and on the roofs there was a thin white layer of snow.

All was yet quite still over at Burmeister and Wain’s; the black morning smoke curled up from the chimneys, and the east wind dashed it down upon the white roofs.  Then it became still blacker, and spread over the harbour among the rigging of the ships, which lay sad and dark in the gray morning light, with white streaks of snow along their sides.  At the Custom House the bloodhounds would soon be shut in, and the iron gates opened.

The east wind was strong, rolling the waves in upon Langelinie, and breaking them in grayish-green foam among the slimy stones, whilst long swelling billows dashed into the harbour, broke under the Custom House, and rolled great names and gloomy memories over the stocks round the fleet’s anchorage, where lay the old dismantled wooden frigates in all their imposing uselessness.

The harbour was still full of ships, and goods were piled high in the warehouses and upon the quays.

Nobody could know what kind of winter they were to have—­whether they would be cut off for months from the world, or if it would go by with fogs and snow-slush.

Therefore there lay row upon row of petroleum casks, which, together with the enormous coal mountains, awaited a severe winter, and there lay pipes and hogsheads of wine and cognac, patiently waiting for new adulterations; oil and tallow and cork and iron—­all lay and waited, each its own destiny.

Everywhere lay work waiting—­heavy work, coarse work, and fine work, from the holds of the massive English coal-steamers, right up to the three gilded cupolas on the Emperor of Russia’s new church in Bredgade.

But as yet there was no one to put a hand to all this work.  The town slept heavily, the air was thick, winter hung over the city, and it was so still in the streets that one could hear the water from the melting snow on the roofs fall down into the spouts with a deep gurgling, as if even the great stone houses yet sobbed in semi-slumber.

A little sleepy morning clock chimed over upon Holmen; here and there a door was opened, and a dog came out to howl; curtains were rolled up and windows were opened; the servant-girls went about in the houses, and did their cleaning by a naked light which stood and flickered; at a window in the palace sat a gilded lacquey and rubbed his nose in that early morning hour.

The fog lay thick over the harbour, and hung in the rigging of the great ships as if in a forest; rain and flakes of wet snow made it still thicker, but the east wind pressed it down between the houses, and completely filled Amalieplads, so that Frederick V. sat as if in the clouds, and turned his proud nose unconcernedly towards his half-finished church.