Chap­ter II takes a bewil­der­ing turn when Coun­cil­lor Knap, dis­tract­ed by nos­tal­gic mus­ings about Denmark’s past, steps into a pair of mag­i­cal galosh­es. In an instant, he is swept back­ward through cen­turies, land­ing in a ver­sion of Copen­hagen that bare­ly resem­bles the one he knows. The cob­bled streets have turned to muck, gaslights have van­ished, and the hous­es now lean with tim­ber frames and straw-cov­ered roofs. At first, he assumes he’s stum­bled into some vivid reen­act­ment, but the cold breeze and for­eign stares tell him oth­er­wise. As he wan­ders fur­ther, try­ing to ori­ent him­self, the real­iza­tion dawns that he hasn’t just imag­ined the past—he’s been dropped right in the mid­dle of it. Every­thing famil­iar has dis­ap­peared. Mod­ern knowl­edge becomes use­less when no one shares it. A grow­ing sense of dis­place­ment starts to pull at him as he rec­og­nizes just how lit­tle he belongs in this for­got­ten era.

Not far from the square, a reli­gious pro­ces­sion moves through the street, led by a man announced as the Bish­op of Zealand. The sight, though fas­ci­nat­ing, is equal­ly alarm­ing. Knap watch­es, unable to rec­on­cile the grandeur of medieval garb with the mud-cov­ered roads. Hop­ing to find refuge or direc­tion, he walks toward Chris­tian­shafen but encoun­ters a shore­line where streets should be. Fer­ry­men offer a ride across the dark waters, but their dialect is jar­ring, thick with ancient turns of phrase he strug­gles to grasp. He answers them with terms from his own time, which only earns con­fused glances. The city he once nav­i­gat­ed with ease has become a maze of unfa­mil­iar sounds and strange cus­toms. Knap begins to feel like a ghost, unseen by time yet ful­ly affect­ed by it. His author­i­ty, sta­tus, and edu­ca­tion have no place here. For the first time in mem­o­ry, he feels help­less.

Still deter­mined to make sense of things, he enters what looks like a mod­est tav­ern. Inside, the atmos­phere is thick with smoke, rough laugh­ter, and the scent of roast­ed meat. Men play dice and speak of events and rulers Knap had only read about in his­to­ry books. He tries to par­tic­i­pate, ref­er­enc­ing mod­ern lit­er­a­ture, but none of the names mean any­thing to the crowd. His words are met with frowns or out­right ridicule. He brings up steamships and rail­roads, only to be mis­tak­en for a mad­man. It becomes clear that even his attempts to make small talk are out of sync with the world around him. These men drink to the health of a long-dead monarch and toast bat­tles long for­got­ten. Every­thing Knap says feels like a spark in dry tin­der, but instead of light­ing con­nec­tion, it caus­es only con­fu­sion. He leaves the inn feel­ing more lost than before.

The absur­di­ty of his sit­u­a­tion deep­ens with every pass­ing minute. Even the stars above seem less com­fort­ing, as if their con­stel­la­tions had rearranged them­selves with time. With no idea how to return, he starts to pan­ic. The cold night air bites at him, and he miss­es the warmth of his own bed. Worse still, he begins to ques­tion whether this real­i­ty is any less valid than his own. The past, once admired from the safe­ty of mod­ern his­to­ry books, now feels sharp and unfor­giv­ing. Knap’s identity—formed through log­ic, progress, and governance—crumbles in a time where none of those things mat­ter. He is mere­ly a stranger in out­dat­ed shoes, mis­un­der­stood and dis­placed. As the hours stretch on, the fear that he may nev­er return takes root.

This com­i­cal, yet unset­tling episode cap­tures more than just a case of mis­tak­en time. It explores the dis­con­nec­tion between mem­o­ry and real­i­ty, between admi­ra­tion and expe­ri­ence. Knap had roman­ti­cized the past, but liv­ing it is a much dif­fer­ent affair. Through the lens of Andersen’s tale, nos­tal­gia is revealed not as a warm embrace, but a trap. Peo­ple often believe that ear­li­er times were sim­pler, better—but Knap’s jour­ney proves oth­er­wise. Clean streets, com­mon lan­guage, and the com­fort of famil­iar­i­ty are not things to take for grant­ed. The past may be rich with sto­ry, but it is also fraught with lim­i­ta­tion. This expe­ri­ence teach­es the Coun­cil­lor some­thing moder­ni­ty could not: that progress, with all its messi­ness, still offers tools for belong­ing.

From a broad­er per­spec­tive, the chap­ter com­ments on how frag­ile com­fort becomes when con­text is removed. Knap’s edu­ca­tion and refine­ment serve him lit­tle in a world where they are unrec­og­nized. It’s a reminder that under­stand­ing and adap­ta­tion mat­ter more than facts alone. Knowl­edge must meet its moment to have val­ue. For today’s read­er, the mes­sage is just as clear: roman­ti­ciz­ing the past over­looks its strug­gles. The sto­ry invites reflec­tion on how far soci­ety has come—and why, despite flaws, the present may be more hos­pitable than any era imag­ined from afar. Through mis­ad­ven­ture, Knap gains insight into his own life, one that only a bizarre, mag­i­cal detour through time could pro­vide.