At a rich merchant's house, there was a children's party attended by the offspring of wealthy and prominent families. The merchant was an educated man, having been sent to college by his father, a formerly honest and industrious cattle dealer who had amassed a fortune, which his son had further increased. Though clever and kind-hearted, the merchant was more often noted for his wealth than his character. Guests of all sorts frequented his home—the well-born, the intellectual, and some who possessed neither distinction.
At the party, the children engaged in candid prattle. Among them was a beautiful but terribly proud little girl—a trait she had learned from the servants, not her sensible parents. Her father held the high court position of groom of the Chambers. "I am a child of the court," she declared, asserting that only the well-born could rise in the world. Reading and hard work were useless, she claimed, for those not well-born. "And those whose names end with 'sen,'" she added, "can never be anything. We must hold our arms akimbo, elbows pointed, to keep such people at a distance." She demonstrated with her pretty arms.
The merchant's daughter grew angry, for her father's name was Petersen. She retorted proudly, "But my papa can buy a hundred dollars' worth of bonbons and give them away. Can yours?"
The daughter of a newspaper editor then spoke up: "My papa can put your papa and everybody's papa in the newspaper. Everyone is afraid of him because he controls the paper." The little maiden looked as proud as a princess.
Outside the ajar door stood a poor boy, peeking through the crack. Of such low station, he was not permitted to enter. He had been turning the spit for the cook, who allowed him to watch the merry, well-dressed children. "Oh, if I could be one of them," he thought. Hearing the talk about names saddened him deeply. His parents could not afford a newspaper, much less write for one. Worst of all, his father's name—and thus his own—ended in "sen," so he believed he could never succeed. Yet, he resigned himself to his station in life.
That was the evening's event.
Many years later, most children had grown up. A splendid house filled with beautiful and valuable objects stood in town, attracting visitors from far and wide. Which child from that party owned it? It was not easy to guess. The house belonged to the poor boy who had stood behind the door that night. He had achieved greatness, despite his name ending in "sen"—for he was Thorwaldsen.
As for the other three children—those of birth, money, and intellectual pride—they were respected and honored in the world, well-provided for by their birth and position. They had no reason to reproach themselves for their thoughts and words that long-ago evening, for it was, after all, mere "children's prattle."