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ANDERSEN'S FAIRY TALES
CONTENTS
The Emperor's New Clothes
The Swineherd
The Real Princess
The Shoes of Fortune
The Fir Tree
The Snow Queen
The Leap-Frog
The Elderbush
The Bell
The Old House
The Happy Family
The Story of a Mother
The False Collar
The Shadow
The Little Match Girl
The Dream of Little Tuk
The Naughty Boy
The Red Shoes
THE EMPEROR'S NEW CLOTHES
Many years ago, there was an Emperor, who was so
excessively fond of new
clothes, that he spent all his money in dress. He
did not trouble himself in
the least about his soldiers; nor did he care to go
either to the theatre or
the chase, except for the opportunities then
afforded him for displaying his
new clothes. He had a different suit for each hour
of the day; and as of any
other king or emperor, one is accustomed to say, "he
is sitting in council,"
it was always said of him, "The Emperor is sitting
in his wardrobe."
Time passed merrily in the large town which was his
capital; strangers arrived
every day at the court. One day, two rogues, calling
themselves weavers, made
their appearance. They gave out that they knew how
to weave stuffs of the most
beautiful colors and elaborate patterns, the clothes
manufactured from which
should have the wonderful property of remaining
invisible to everyone who was
unfit for the office he held, or who was
extraordinarily simple in character.
"These must, indeed, be splendid clothes!" thought
the Emperor. "Had I such a
suit, I might at once find out what men in my realms
are unfit for their
office, and also be able to distinguish the wise
from the foolish! This stuff
must be woven for me immediately." And he caused
large sums of money to be
given to both the weavers in order that they might
begin their work directly.
So the two pretended weavers set up two looms, and
affected to work very
busily, though in reality they did nothing at all.
They asked for the most
delicate silk and the purest gold thread; put both
into their own knapsacks;
and then continued their pretended work at the empty
looms until late at
night.
"I should like to know how the weavers are getting
on with my cloth," said the
Emperor to himself, after some little time had
elapsed; he was, however,
rather embarrassed, when he remembered that a
simpleton, or one unfit for his
office, would be unable to see the manufacture. To
be sure, he thought he had
nothing to risk in his own person; but yet, he would
prefer sending somebody
else, to bring him intelligence about the weavers,
and their work, before he
troubled himself in the affair. All the people
throughout the city had heard
of the wonderful property the cloth was to possess;
and all were anxious to
learn how wise, or how ignorant, their neighbors
might prove to be.
"I will send my faithful old minister to the
weavers," said the Emperor at
last, after some deliberation, "he will be best able
to see how the cloth
looks; for he is a man of sense, and no one can be
more suitable for his
office than he is."
So the faithful old minister went into the hall,
where the knaves were working
with all their might, at their empty looms. "What
can be the meaning of this?"
thought the old man, opening his eyes very wide. "I
cannot discover the least
bit of thread on the looms." However, he did not
express his thoughts aloud.
The impostors requested him very courteously to be
so good as to come nearer
their looms; and then asked him whether the design
pleased him, and whether
the colors were not very beautiful; at the same time
pointing to the empty
frames. The poor old minister looked and looked, he
could not discover
anything on the looms, for a very good reason, viz:
there was nothing there.
"What!" thought he again. "Is it possible that I am
a simpleton? I have never
thought so myself; and no one must know it now if I
am so. Can it be, that I
am unfit for my office? No, that must not be said
either. I will never confess
that I could not see the stuff."
"Well, Sir Minister!" said one of the knaves, still
pretending to work. "You
do not say whether the stuff pleases you."
"Oh, it is excellent!" replied the old minister,
looking at the loom through
his spectacles. "This pattern, and the colors, yes,
I will tell the Emperor
without delay, how very beautiful I think them."
"We shall be much obliged to you," said the
impostors, and then they named the
different colors and described the pattern of the
pretended stuff. The old
minister listened attentively to their words, in
order that he might repeat
them to the Emperor; and then the knaves asked for
more silk and gold, saying
that it was necessary to complete what they had
begun. However, they put all
that was given them into their knapsacks; and
continued to work with as much
apparent diligence as before at their empty looms.
The Emperor now sent another officer of his court to
see how the men were
getting on, and to ascertain whether the cloth would
soon be ready. It was
just the same with this gentleman as with the
minister; he surveyed the looms
on all sides, but could see nothing at all but the
empty frames.
"Does not the stuff appear as beautiful to you, as
it did to my lord the
minister?" asked the impostors of the Emperor's
second ambassador; at the same
time making the same gestures as before, and talking
of the design and colors
which were not there.
"I certainly am not stupid!" thought the messenger.
"It must be, that I am not
fit for my good, profitable office! That is very
odd; however, no one shall
know anything about it." And accordingly he praised
the stuff he could not
see, and declared that he was delighted with both
colors and patterns.
"Indeed, please your Imperial Majesty," said he to
his sovereign when he
returned, "the cloth which the weavers are preparing
is extraordinarily
magnificent."
The whole city was talking of the splendid cloth
which the Emperor had ordered
to be woven at his own expense.
And now the Emperor himself wished to see the costly
manufacture, while it was
still in the loom. Accompanied by a select number of
officers of the court,
among whom were the two honest men who had already
admired the cloth, he went
to the crafty impostors, who, as soon as they were
aware of the Emperor's
approach, went on working more diligently than ever;
although they still did
not pass a single thread through the looms.
"Is not the work absolutely magnificent?" said the
two officers of the crown,
already mentioned. "If your Majesty will only be
pleased to look at it! What a
splendid design! What glorious colors!" and at the
same time they pointed to
the empty frames; for they imagined that everyone
else could see this
exquisite piece of workmanship.
"How is this?" said the Emperor to himself. "I can
see nothing! This is indeed
a terrible affair! Am I a simpleton, or am I unfit
to be an Emperor? That
would be the worst thing that could happen--Oh! the
cloth is charming," said
he, aloud. "It has my complete approbation." And he
smiled most graciously,
and looked closely at the empty looms; for on no
account would he say that he
could not see what two of the officers of his court
had praised so much. All
his retinue now strained their eyes, hoping to
discover something on the
looms, but they could see no more than the others;
nevertheless, they all
exclaimed, "Oh, how beautiful!" and advised his
majesty to have some new
clothes made from this splendid material, for the
approaching procession.
"Magnificent! Charming! Excellent!" resounded on all
sides; and everyone was
uncommonly gay. The Emperor shared in the general
satisfaction; and presented
the impostors with the riband of an order of
knighthood, to be worn in their
button-holes, and the title of "Gentlemen Weavers."
The rogues sat up the whole of the night before the
day on which the
procession was to take place, and had sixteen lights
burning, so that everyone
might see how anxious they were to finish the
Emperor's new suit. They
pretended to roll the cloth off the looms; cut the
air with their scissors;
and sewed with needles without any thread in them.
"See!" cried they, at last.
"The Emperor's new clothes are ready!"
And now the Emperor, with all the grandees of his
court, came to the weavers;
and the rogues raised their arms, as if in the act
of holding something up,
saying, "Here are your Majesty's trousers! Here is
the scarf! Here is the
mantle! The whole suit is as light as a cobweb; one
might fancy one has
nothing at all on, when dressed in it; that,
however, is the great virtue of
this delicate cloth."
"Yes indeed!" said all the courtiers, although not
one of them could see
anything of this exquisite manufacture.
"If your Imperial Majesty will be graciously pleased
to take off your clothes,
we will fit on the new suit, in front of the looking
glass."
The Emperor was accordingly undressed, and the
rogues pretended to array him
in his new suit; the Emperor turning round, from
side to side, before the
looking glass.
"How splendid his Majesty looks in his new clothes,
and how well they fit!"
everyone cried out. "What a design! What colors!
These are indeed royal
robes!"
"The canopy which is to be borne over your Majesty,
in the procession, is
waiting," announced the chief master of the
ceremonies.
"I am quite ready," answered the Emperor. "Do my new
clothes fit well?" asked
he, turning himself round again before the looking
glass, in order that he
might appear to be examining his handsome suit.
The lords of the bedchamber, who were to carry his
Majesty's train felt about
on the ground, as if they were lifting up the ends
of the mantle; and
pretended to be carrying something; for they would
by no means betray anything
like simplicity, or unfitness for their office.
So now the Emperor walked under his high canopy in
the midst of the
procession, through the streets of his capital; and
all the people standing
by, and those at the windows, cried out, "Oh! How
beautiful are our Emperor's
new clothes! What a magnificent train there is to
the mantle; and how
gracefully the scarf hangs!" in short, no one would
allow that he could not
see these much-admired clothes; because, in doing
so, he would have declared
himself either a simpleton or unfit for his office.
Certainly, none of the
Emperor's various suits, had ever made so great an
impression, as these
invisible ones.
"But the Emperor has nothing at all on!" said a
little child.
"Listen to the voice of innocence!" exclaimed his
father; and what the child
had said was whispered from one to another.
"But he has nothing at all on!" at last cried out
all the people. The Emperor
was vexed, for he knew that the people were right;
but he thought the
procession must go on now! And the lords of the
bedchamber took greater pains
than ever, to appear holding up a train, although,
in reality, there was no
train to hold.
THE SWINEHERD
There was once a poor Prince, who had a kingdom. His
kingdom was very small,
but still quite large enough to marry upon; and he
wished to marry.
It was certainly rather cool of him to say to the
Emperor's daughter, "Will
you have me?" But so he did; for his name was
renowned far and wide; and there
were a hundred princesses who would have answered,
"Yes!" and "Thank you
kindly." We shall see what this princess said.
Listen!
It happened that where the Prince's father lay
buried, there grew a rose
tree--a most beautiful rose tree, which blossomed
only once in every five
years, and even then bore only one flower, but that
was a rose! It smelt so
sweet that all cares and sorrows were forgotten by
him who inhaled its
fragrance.
And furthermore, the Prince had a nightingale, who
could sing in such a manner
that it seemed as though all sweet melodies dwelt in
her little throat. So the
Princess was to have the rose, and the nightingale;
and they were accordingly
put into large silver caskets, and sent to her.
The Emperor had them brought into a large hall,
where the Princess was playing
at "Visiting," with the ladies of the court; and
when she saw the caskets with
the presents, she clapped her hands for joy.
"Ah, if it were but a little pussy-cat!" said she;
but the rose tree, with its
beautiful rose came to view.
"Oh, how prettily it is made!" said all the court
ladies.
"It is more than pretty," said the Emperor, "it is
charming!"
But the Princess touched it, and was almost ready to
cry.
"Fie, papa!" said she. "It is not made at all, it is
natural!"
"Let us see what is in the other casket, before we
get into a bad humor," said
the Emperor. So the nightingale came forth and sang
so delightfully that at
first no one could say anything ill-humored of her.
"Superbe! Charmant!" exclaimed the ladies; for they
all used to chatter French,
each one worse than her neighbor.
"How much the bird reminds me of the musical box
that belonged to our blessed
Empress," said an old knight. "Oh yes! These are the
same tones, the same
execution."
"Yes! yes!" said the Emperor, and he wept like a
child at the remembrance.
"I will still hope that it is not a real bird," said
the Princess.
"Yes, it is a real bird," said those who had brought
it. "Well then let the
bird fly," said the Princess; and she positively
refused to see the Prince.
However, he was not to be discouraged; he daubed his
face over brown and
black; pulled his cap over his ears, and knocked at
the door.
"Good day to my lord, the Emperor!" said he. "Can I
have employment at the
palace?"
"Why, yes," said the Emperor. "I want some one to
take care of the pigs, for
we have a great many of them."
So the Prince was appointed "Imperial Swineherd." He
had a dirty little room
close by the pigsty; and there he sat the whole day,
and worked. By the
evening he had made a pretty little kitchen-pot.
Little bells were hung all
round it; and when the pot was boiling, these bells
tinkled in the most
charming manner, and played the old melody,
"Ach! du lieber Augustin,
Alles ist weg, weg, weg!"*
* "Ah! dear Augustine!
All is gone, gone, gone!"
But what was still more curious, whoever held his
finger in the smoke of the
kitchen-pot, immediately smelt all the dishes that
were cooking on every
hearth in the city--this, you see, was something
quite different from the
rose.
Now the Princess happened to walk that way; and when
she heard the tune, she
stood quite still, and seemed pleased; for she could
play "Lieber Augustine";
it was the only piece she knew; and she played it
with one finger.
"Why there is my piece," said the Princess. "That
swineherd must certainly
have been well educated! Go in and ask him the price
of the instrument."
So one of the court-ladies must run in; however, she
drew on wooden slippers
first.
"What will you take for the kitchen-pot?" said the
lady.
"I will have ten kisses from the Princess," said the
swineherd.
"Yes, indeed!" said the lady.
"I cannot sell it for less," rejoined the swineherd.
"He is an impudent fellow!" said the Princess, and
she walked on; but when she
had gone a little way, the bells tinkled so prettily
"Ach! du lieber Augustin,
Alles ist weg, weg, weg!"
"Stay," said the Princess. "Ask him if he will have
ten kisses from the ladies
of my court."
"No, thank you!" said the swineherd. "Ten kisses
from the Princess, or I keep
the kitchen-pot myself."
"That must not be, either!" said the Princess. "But
do you all stand before me
that no one may see us."
And the court-ladies placed themselves in front of
her, and spread out their
dresses--the swineherd got ten kisses, and the
Princess--the kitchen-pot.
That was delightful! The pot was boiling the whole
evening, and the whole of
the following day. They knew perfectly well what was
cooking at every fire
throughout the city, from the chamberlain's to the
cobbler's; the court-ladies
danced and clapped their hands.
"We know who has soup, and who has pancakes for
dinner to-day, who has
cutlets, and who has eggs. How interesting!"
"Yes, but keep my secret, for I am an Emperor's
daughter."
The swineherd--that is to say--the Prince, for no
one knew that he was other
than an ill-favored swineherd, let not a day pass
without working at
something; he at last constructed a rattle, which,
when it was swung round,
played all the waltzes and jig tunes, which have
ever been heard since the
creation of the world.
"Ah, that is superbe!" said the Princess when she
passed by. "I have never
heard prettier compositions! Go in and ask him the
price of the instrument;
but mind, he shall have no more kisses!"
"He will have a hundred kisses from the Princess!"
said the lady who had been
to ask.
"I think he is not in his right senses!" said the
Princess, and walked on, but
when she had gone a little way, she stopped again.
"One must encourage art,"
said she, "I am the Emperor's daughter. Tell him he
shall, as on yesterday,
have ten kisses from me, and may take the rest from
the ladies of the court."
"Oh--but we should not like that at all!" said they.
"What are you muttering?"
asked the Princess. "If I can kiss him, surely you
can. Remember that you owe
everything to me." So the ladies were obliged to go
to him again.
"A hundred kisses from the Princess," said he, "or
else let everyone keep his
own!"
"Stand round!" said she; and all the ladies stood
round her whilst the
kissing was going on.
"What can be the reason for such a crowd close by
the pigsty?" said the
Emperor, who happened just then to step out on the
balcony; he rubbed his
eyes, and put on his spectacles. "They are the
ladies of the court; I must go
down and see what they are about!" So he pulled up
his slippers at the heel,
for he had trodden them down.
As soon as he had got into the court-yard, he moved
very softly, and the
ladies were so much engrossed with counting the
kisses, that all might go on
fairly, that they did not perceive the Emperor. He
rose on his tiptoes.
"What is all this?" said he, when he saw what was
going on, and he boxed the
Princess's ears with his slipper, just as the
swineherd was taking the
eighty-sixth kiss.
"March out!" said the Emperor, for he was very
angry; and both Princess and
swineherd were thrust out of the city.
The Princess now stood and wept, the swineherd
scolded, and the rain poured
down.
"Alas! Unhappy creature that I am!" said the
Princess. "If I had but married
the handsome young Prince! Ah! how unfortunate I
am!"
And the swineherd went behind a tree, washed the
black and brown color from
his face, threw off his dirty clothes, and stepped
forth in his princely
robes; he looked so noble that the Princess could
not help bowing before him.
"I am come to despise thee," said he. "Thou would'st
not have an honorable
Prince! Thou could'st not prize the rose and the
nightingale, but thou wast
ready to kiss the swineherd for the sake of a
trumpery plaything. Thou art
rightly served."
He then went back to his own little kingdom, and
shut the door of his palace
in her face. Now she might well sing,
"Ach! du lieber Augustin,
Alles ist weg, weg, weg!"
THE REAL PRINCESS
There was once a Prince who wished to marry a
Princess; but then she must be a
real Princess. He travelled all over the world in
hopes of finding such a
lady; but there was always something wrong.
Princesses he found in plenty; but
whether they were real Princesses it was impossible
for him to decide, for now
one thing, now another, seemed to him not quite
right about the ladies. At
last he returned to his palace quite cast down,
because he wished so much to
have a real Princess for his wife.
One evening a fearful tempest arose, it thundered
and lightened, and the rain
poured down from the sky in torrents: besides, it
was as dark as pitch. All at
once there was heard a violent knocking at the door,
and the old King, the
Prince's father, went out himself to open it.
It was a Princess who was standing outside the door.
What with the rain and
the wind, she was in a sad condition; the water
trickled down from her hair,
and her clothes clung to her body. She said she was
a real Princess.
"Ah! we shall soon see that!" thought the old
Queen-mother; however, she said
not a word of what she was going to do; but went
quietly into the bedroom,
took all the bed-clothes off the bed, and put three
little peas on the
bedstead. She then laid twenty mattresses one upon
another over the three
peas, and put twenty feather beds over the
mattresses.
Upon this bed the Princess was to pass the night.
The next morning she was asked how she had slept.
"Oh, very badly indeed!" she
replied. "I have scarcely closed my eyes the whole
night through. I do not
know what was in my bed, but I had something hard
under me, and am all over
black and blue. It has hurt me so much!"
Now it was plain that the lady must be a real
Princess, since she had been
able to feel the three little peas through the
twenty mattresses and twenty
feather beds. None but a real Princess could have
had such a delicate sense of
feeling.
The Prince accordingly made her his wife; being now
convinced that he had
found a real Princess. The three peas were however
put into the cabinet of
curiosities, where they are still to be seen,
provided they are not lost.
Wasn't this a lady of real delicacy?
THE SHOES OF FORTUNE
I. A Beginning
Every author has some peculiarity in his
descriptions or in his style of
writing. Those who do not like him, magnify it,
shrug up their shoulders, and
exclaim--there he is again! I, for my part, know
very well how I can bring
about this movement and this exclamation. It would
happen immediately if I
were to begin here, as I intended to do, with: "Rome
has its Corso, Naples its
Toledo"--"Ah! that Andersen; there he is again!"
they would cry; yet I must,
to please my fancy, continue quite quietly, and add:
"But Copenhagen has its
East Street."
Here, then, we will stay for the present. In one of
the houses not far from
the new market a party was invited--a very large
party, in order, as is often
the case, to get a return invitation from the
others. One half of the company
was already seated at the card-table, the other half
awaited the result of the
stereotype preliminary observation of the lady of
the house:
"Now let us see what we can do to amuse ourselves."
They had got just so far, and the conversation began
to crystallise, as it
could but do with the scanty stream which the
commonplace world supplied.
Amongst other things they spoke of the middle ages:
some praised that period
as far more interesting, far more poetical than our
own too sober present;
indeed Councillor Knap defended this opinion so
warmly, that the hostess
declared immediately on his side, and both exerted
themselves with unwearied
eloquence. The Councillor boldly declared the time
of King Hans to be the
noblest and the most happy period.*
* A.D. 1482-1513
While the conversation turned on this subject, and
was only for a moment
interrupted by the arrival of a journal that
contained nothing worth reading,
we will just step out into the antechamber, where
cloaks, mackintoshes,
sticks, umbrellas, and shoes, were deposited. Here
sat two female figures, a
young and an old one. One might have thought at
first they were servants come
to accompany their mistresses home; but on looking
nearer, one soon saw they
could scarcely be mere servants; their forms were
too noble for that, their
skin too fine, the cut of their dress too striking.
Two fairies were they; the
younger, it is true, was not Dame Fortune herself,
but one of the
waiting-maids of her handmaidens who carry about the
lesser good things that
she distributes; the other looked extremely
gloomy--it was Care. She always
attends to her own serious business herself, as then
she is sure of having it
done properly.
They were telling each other, with a confidential
interchange of ideas, where
they had been during the day. The messenger of
Fortune had only executed a few
unimportant commissions, such as saving a new bonnet
from a shower of rain,
etc.; but what she had yet to perform was something
quite unusual.
"I must tell you," said she, "that to-day is my
birthday; and in honor of it,
a pair of walking-shoes or galoshes has been
entrusted to me, which I am to
carry to mankind. These shoes possess the property
of instantly transporting
him who has them on to the place or the period in
which he most wishes to be;
every wish, as regards time or place, or state of
being, will be immediately
fulfilled, and so at last man will be happy, here
below."
"Do you seriously believe it?" replied Care, in a
severe tone of reproach.
"No; he will be very unhappy, and will assuredly
bless the moment when he
feels that he has freed himself from the fatal
shoes."
"Stupid nonsense!" said the other angrily. "I will
put them here by the door.
Some one will make a mistake for certain and take
the wrong ones--he will be a
happy man."
Such was their conversation.
II. What Happened to the Councillor
It was late; Councillor Knap, deeply occupied with
the times of King Hans,
intended to go home, and malicious Fate managed
matters so that his feet,
instead of finding their way to his own galoshes,
slipped into those of
Fortune. Thus caparisoned the good man walked out of
the well-lighted rooms
into East Street. By the magic power of the shoes he
was carried back to the
times of King Hans; on which account his foot very
naturally sank in the mud
and puddles of the street, there having been in
those days no pavement in
Copenhagen.
"Well! This is too bad! How dirty it is here!"
sighed the Councillor. "As to a
pavement, I can find no traces of one, and all the
lamps, it seems, have gone
to sleep."
The moon was not yet very high; it was besides
rather foggy, so that in the
darkness all objects seemed mingled in chaotic
confusion. At the next corner
hung a votive lamp before a Madonna, but the light
it gave was little better
than none at all; indeed, he did not observe it
before he was exactly under
it, and his eyes fell upon the bright colors of the
pictures which represented
the well-known group of the Virgin and the infant
Jesus.
"That is probably a wax-work show," thought he; "and
the people delay taking
down their sign in hopes of a late visitor or two."
A few persons in the costume of the time of King
Hans passed quickly by him.
"How strange they look! The good folks come probably
from a masquerade!"
Suddenly was heard the sound of drums and fifes; the
bright blaze of a fire
shot up from time to time, and its ruddy gleams
seemed to contend with the
bluish light of the torches. The Councillor stood
still, and watched a most
strange procession pass by. First came a dozen
drummers, who understood pretty
well how to handle their instruments; then came
halberdiers, and some armed
with cross-bows. The principal person in the
procession was a priest.
Astonished at what he saw, the Councillor asked what
was the meaning of
all this mummery, and who that man was.
"That's the Bishop of Zealand," was the answer.
"Good Heavens! What has taken possession of the
Bishop?" sighed the
Councillor, shaking his head. It certainly could not
be the Bishop; even
though he was considered the most absent man in the
whole kingdom, and people
told the drollest anecdotes about him. Reflecting on
the matter, and without
looking right or left, the Councillor went through
East Street and across the
Habro-Platz. The bridge leading to Palace Square was
not to be found; scarcely
trusting his senses, the nocturnal wanderer
discovered a shallow piece of
water, and here fell in with two men who very
comfortably were rocking to and
fro in a boat.
"Does your honor want to cross the ferry to the
Holme?" asked they.
"Across to the Holme!" said the Councillor, who knew
nothing of the age in
which he at that moment was. "No, I am going to
Christianshafen, to Little
Market Street."
Both men stared at him in astonishment.
"Only just tell me where the bridge is," said he.
"It is really unpardonable
that there are no lamps here; and it is as dirty as
if one had to wade through
a morass."
The longer he spoke with the boatmen, the more
unintelligible did their
language become to him.
"I don't understand your Bornholmish dialect," said
he at last, angrily, and
turning his back upon them. He was unable to find
the bridge: there was no
railway either. "It is really disgraceful what a
state this place is in,"
muttered he to himself. Never had his age, with
which, however, he was always
grumbling, seemed so miserable as on this evening.
"I'll take a
hackney-coach!" thought he. But where were the
hackney-coaches? Not one
was to be seen.
"I must go back to the New Market; there, it is to
be hoped, I shall find some
coaches; for if I don't, I shall never get safe to
Christianshafen."
So off he went in the direction of East Street, and
had nearly got to the end
of it when the moon shone forth.
"God bless me! What wooden scaffolding is that which
they have set up there?"
cried he involuntarily, as he looked at East Gate,
which, in those days, was
at the end of East Street.
He found, however, a little side-door open, and
through this he went, and
stepped into our New Market of the present time. It
was a huge desolate plain;
some wild bushes stood up here and there, while
across the field flowed a
broad canal or river. Some wretched hovels for the
Dutch sailors, resembling
great boxes, and after which the place was named,
lay about in confused
disorder on the opposite bank.
"I either behold a fata morgana, or I am regularly
tipsy," whimpered out the
Councillor. "But what's this?"
He turned round anew, firmly convinced that he was
seriously ill. He gazed at
the street formerly so well known to him, and now so
strange in appearance,
and looked at the houses more attentively: most of
them were of wood, slightly
put together; and many had a thatched roof.
"No--I am far from well," sighed he; "and yet I
drank only one glass of punch;
but I cannot suppose it--it was, too, really very
wrong to give us punch and
hot salmon for supper. I shall speak about it at the
first opportunity. I have
half a mind to go back again, and say what I suffer.
But no, that would be too
silly; and Heaven only knows if they are up still."
He looked for the house, but it had vanished.
"It is really dreadful," groaned he with increasing
anxiety; "I cannot
recognise East Street again; there is not a single
decent shop from one end to
the other! Nothing but wretched huts can I see
anywhere; just as if I were at
Ringstead. Oh! I am ill! I can scarcely bear myself
any longer. Where the
deuce can the house be? It must be here on this very
spot; yet there is not
the slightest idea of resemblance, to such a degree
has everything changed
this night! At all events here are some people up
and stirring. Oh! oh! I am
certainly very ill."
He now hit upon a half-open door, through a chink of
which a faint light
shone. It was a sort of hostelry of those times; a
kind of public-house. The
room had some resemblance to the clay-floored halls
in Holstein; a pretty
numerous company, consisting of seamen, Copenhagen
burghers, and a few
scholars, sat here in deep converse over their
pewter cans, and gave little
heed to the person who entered.
"By your leave!" said the Councillor to the Hostess,
who came bustling towards
him. "I've felt so queer all of a sudden; would you
have the goodness to send
for a hackney-coach to take me to Christianshafen?"
The woman examined him with eyes of astonishment,
and shook her head; she then
addressed him in German. The Councillor thought she
did not understand Danish,
and therefore repeated his wish in German. This, in
connection with his
costume, strengthened the good woman in the belief
that he was a foreigner.
That he was ill, she comprehended directly; so she
brought him a pitcher of
water, which tasted certainly pretty strong of the
sea, although it had been
fetched from the well.
The Councillor supported his head on his hand, drew
a long breath, and thought
over all the wondrous things he saw around him.
"Is this the Daily News of this evening?" he asked
mechanically, as he saw the
Hostess push aside a large sheet of paper.
The meaning of this councillorship query remained,
of course, a riddle to her,
yet she handed him the paper without replying. It
was a coarse wood-cut,
representing a splendid meteor "as seen in the town
of Cologne," which was to
be read below in bright letters.
"That is very old!" said the Councillor, whom this
piece of antiquity began to
make considerably more cheerful. "Pray how did you
come into possession of
this rare print? It is extremely interesting,
although the whole is a mere
fable. Such meteorous appearances are to be
explained in this way--that they
are the reflections of the Aurora Borealis, and it
is highly probable they are
caused principally by electricity."
Those persons who were sitting nearest him and heard
his speech, stared at him
in wonderment; and one of them rose, took off his
hat respectfully, and said
with a serious countenance, "You are no doubt a very
learned man, Monsieur."
"Oh no," answered the Councillor, "I can only join
in conversation on this
topic and on that, as indeed one must do according
to the demands of the world
at present."
"Modestia is a fine virtue," continued the
gentleman; "however, as to your
speech, I must say mihi secus videtur: yet I am
willing to suspend my
judicium."
"May I ask with whom I have the pleasure of
speaking?" asked the Councillor.
"I am a Bachelor in Theologia," answered the
gentleman with a stiff reverence.
This reply fully satisfied the Councillor; the title
suited the dress. "He is
certainly," thought he, "some village
schoolmaster--some queer old fellow,
such as one still often meets with in Jutland."
"This is no locus docendi, it is true," began the
clerical gentleman; "yet I
beg you earnestly to let us profit by your learning.
Your reading in the
ancients is, sine dubio, of vast extent?"
"Oh yes, I've read something, to be sure," replied
the Councillor. "I like
reading all useful works; but I do not on that
account despise the modern
ones; 'tis only the unfortunate 'Tales of Every-day
Life' that I cannot
bear--we have enough and more than enough such in
reality."
"'Tales of Every-day Life?'" said our Bachelor
inquiringly.
"I mean those new fangled novels, twisting and
writhing themselves in the dust
of commonplace, which also expect to find a reading
public."
"Oh," exclaimed the clerical gentleman smiling,
"there is much wit in them;
besides they are read at court. The King likes the
history of Sir Iffven and
Sir Gaudian particularly, which treats of King
Arthur, and his Knights of the
Round Table; he has more than once joked about it
with his high vassals."
"I have not read that novel," said the Councillor;
"it must be quite a new
one, that Heiberg has published lately."
"No," answered the theologian of the time of King
Hans: "that book is not
written by a Heiberg, but was imprinted by Godfrey
von Gehmen."
"Oh, is that the author's name?" said the Councillor.
"It is a very old name,
and, as well as I recollect, he was the first
printer that appeared in
Denmark."
"Yes, he is our first printer," replied the clerical
gentleman hastily.
So far all went on well. Some one of the worthy
burghers now spoke of the
dreadful pestilence that had raged in the country a
few years back, meaning
that of 1484. The Councillor imagined it was the
cholera that was meant, which
people made so much fuss about; and the discourse
passed off satisfactorily
enough. The war of the buccaneers of 1490 was so
recent that it could not fail
being alluded to; the English pirates had, they
said, most shamefully taken
their ships while in the roadstead; and the
Councillor, before whose eyes the
Herostratic* event of 1801 still floated vividly,
agreed entirely with the
others in abusing the rascally English. With other
topics he was not so
fortunate; every moment brought about some new
confusion, and threatened to
become a perfect Babel; for the worthy Bachelor was
really too ignorant, and
the simplest observations of the Councillor sounded
to him too daring and
phantastical. They looked at one another from the
crown of the head to the
soles of the feet; and when matters grew to too high
a pitch, then the
Bachelor talked Latin, in the hope of being better
understood--but it was of
no use after all.
* Herostratus, or Eratostratus--an Ephesian, who
wantonly set fire to the
famous temple of Diana, in order to commemorate his
name by so uncommon an
action.
"What's the matter?" asked the Hostess, plucking the
Councillor by the sleeve;
and now his recollection returned, for in the course
of the conversation he
had entirely forgotten all that had preceded it.
"Merciful God, where am I!" exclaimed he in agony;
and while he so thought,
all his ideas and feelings of overpowering
dizziness, against which he
struggled with the utmost power of desperation,
encompassed him with renewed
force. "Let us drink claret and mead, and Bremen
beer," shouted one of the
guests--"and you shall drink with us!"
Two maidens approached. One wore a cap of two
staring colors, denoting the
class of persons to which she belonged. They poured
out the liquor, and made
the most friendly gesticulations; while a cold
perspiration trickled down the
back of the poor Councillor.
"What's to be the end of this! What's to become of
me!" groaned he; but he was
forced, in spite of his opposition, to drink with
the rest. They took hold of
the worthy man; who, hearing on every side that he
was intoxicated, did not in
the least doubt the truth of this certainly not very
polite assertion; but on
the contrary, implored the ladies and gentlemen
present to procure him a
hackney-coach: they, however, imagined he was
talking Russian.
Never before, he thought, had he been in such a
coarse and ignorant company;
one might almost fancy the people had turned
heathens again. "It is the most
dreadful moment of my life: the whole world is
leagued against me!" But
suddenly it occurred to him that he might stoop down
under the table, and then
creep unobserved out of the door. He did so; but
just as he was going, the
others remarked what he was about; they laid hold of
him by the legs; and now,
happily for him, off fell his fatal shoes--and with
them the charm was at an
end.
The Councillor saw quite distinctly before him a
lantern burning, and behind
this a large handsome house. All seemed to him in
proper order as usual; it
was East Street, splendid and elegant as we now see
it. He lay with his feet
towards a doorway, and exactly opposite sat the
watchman asleep.
"Gracious Heaven!" said he. "Have I lain here in the
street and dreamed? Yes;
'tis East Street! How splendid and light it is! But
really it is terrible
what an effect that one glass of punch must have had
on me!"
Two minutes later, he was sitting in a hackney-coach
and driving to
Frederickshafen. He thought of the distress and
agony he had endured, and
praised from the very bottom of his heart the happy
reality--our own
time--which, with all its deficiencies, is yet much
better than that in which,
so much against his inclination, he had lately been.
III. The Watchman's Adventure
"Why, there is a pair of galoshes, as sure as I'm
alive!" said the watchman,
awaking from a gentle slumber. "They belong no doubt
to the lieutenant who
lives over the way. They lie close to the door."
The worthy man was inclined to ring and deliver them
at the house, for there
was still a light in the window; but he did not like
disturbing the other
people in their beds, and so very considerately he
left the matter alone.
"Such a pair of shoes must be very warm and
comfortable," said he; "the
leather is so soft and supple." They fitted his feet
as though they had been
made for him. "'Tis a curious world we live in,"
continued he, soliloquizing.
"There is the lieutenant, now, who might go quietly
to bed if he chose, where
no doubt he could stretch himself at his ease; but
does he do it? No; he
saunters up and down his room, because, probably, he
has enjoyed too many of
the good things of this world at his dinner. That's
a happy fellow! He has
neither an infirm mother, nor a whole troop of
everlastingly hungry children
to torment him. Every evening he goes to a party,
where his nice supper costs
him nothing: would to Heaven I could but change with
him! How happy should I
be!"
While expressing his wish, the charm of the shoes,
which he had put on, began
to work; the watchman entered into the being and
nature of the lieutenant. He
stood in the handsomely furnished apartment, and
held between his fingers a
small sheet of rose-colored paper, on which some
verses were written--written
indeed by the officer himself; for who has not, at
least once in his life,
had a lyrical moment? And if one then marks down
one's thoughts, poetry is
produced. But here was written:
OH, WERE I RICH!
"Oh, were I rich! Such was my wish, yea such
When hardly three feet high, I longed for much.
Oh, were I rich! an officer were I,
With sword, and uniform, and plume so high.
And the time came, and officer was I!
But yet I grew not rich. Alas, poor me!
Have pity, Thou, who all man's wants dost see.
"I sat one evening sunk in dreams of bliss,
A maid of seven years old gave me a kiss,
I at that time was rich in poesy
And tales of old, though poor as poor could be;
But all she asked for was this poesy.
Then was I rich, but not in gold, poor me!
As Thou dost know, who all men's hearts canst see.
"Oh, were I rich! Oft asked I for this boon.
The child grew up to womanhood full soon.
She is so pretty, clever, and so kind
Oh, did she know what's hidden in my mind--
A tale of old. Would she to me were kind!
But I'm condemned to silence! oh, poor me!
As Thou dost know, who all men's hearts canst see.
"Oh, were I rich in calm and peace of mind,
My grief you then would not here written find!
O thou, to whom I do my heart devote,
Oh read this page of glad days now remote,
A dark, dark tale, which I tonight devote!
Dark is the future now. Alas, poor me!
Have pity Thou, who all men's pains dost see."
Such verses as these people write when they are in
love! But no man in his
senses ever thinks of printing them. Here one of the
sorrows of life, in which
there is real poetry, gave itself vent; not that
barren grief which the poet
may only hint at, but never depict in its
detail--misery and want: that animal
necessity, in short, to snatch at least at a fallen
leaf of the bread-fruit
tree, if not at the fruit itself. The higher the
position in which one finds
oneself transplanted, the greater is the suffering.
Everyday necessity is the
stagnant pool of life--no lovely picture reflects
itself therein. Lieutenant,
love, and lack of money--that is a symbolic
triangle, or much the same as the
half of the shattered die of Fortune. This the
lieutenant felt most
poignantly, and this was the reason he leant his
head against the window, and
sighed so deeply.
"The poor watchman out there in the street is far
happier than I. He knows not
what I term privation. He has a home, a wife, and
children, who weep with him
over his sorrows, who rejoice with him when he is
glad. Oh, far happier were
I, could I exchange with him my being--with his
desires and with his hopes
perform the weary pilgrimage of life! Oh, he is a
hundred times happier than
I!"
In the same moment the watchman was again watchman.
It was the shoes that
caused the metamorphosis by means of which, unknown
to himself, he took upon
him the thoughts and feelings of the officer; but,
as we have just seen, he
felt himself in his new situation much less
contented, and now preferred the
very thing which but some minutes before he had
rejected. So then the watchman
was again watchman.
"That was an unpleasant dream," said he; "but 'twas
droll enough altogether. I
fancied that I was the lieutenant over there: and
yet the thing was not very
much to my taste after all. I missed my good old
mother and the dear little
ones; who almost tear me to pieces for sheer love."
He seated himself once more and nodded: the dream
continued to haunt him, for
he still had the shoes on his feet. A falling star
shone in the dark
firmament.
"There falls another star," said he: "but what does
it matter; there are
always enough left. I should not much mind examining
the little glimmering
things somewhat nearer, especially the moon; for
that would not slip so easily
through a man's fingers. When we die--so at least
says the student, for whom
my wife does the washing--we shall fly about as
light as a feather from one
such a star to the other. That's, of course, not
true: but 'twould be pretty
enough if it were so. If I could but once take a
leap up there, my body might
stay here on the steps for what I care."
Behold--there are certain things in the world to
which one ought never to give
utterance except with the greatest caution; but
doubly careful must one be
when we have the Shoes of Fortune on our feet. Now
just listen to what
happened to the watchman.
As to ourselves, we all know the speed produced by
the employment of steam; we
have experienced it either on railroads, or in boats
when crossing the sea;
but such a flight is like the travelling of a sloth
in comparison with the
velocity with which light moves. It flies nineteen
million times faster than
the best race-horse; and yet electricity is quicker
still. Death is an
electric shock which our heart receives; the freed
soul soars upwards on the
wings of electricity. The sun's light wants eight
minutes and some seconds to
perform a journey of more than twenty million of our
Danish* miles; borne by
electricity, the soul wants even some minutes less
to accomplish the same
flight. To it the space between the heavenly bodies
is not greater than the
distance between the homes of our friends in town is
for us, even if they live
a short way from each other; such an electric shock
in the heart, however,
costs us the use of the body here below; unless,
like the watchman of East
Street, we happen to have on the Shoes of Fortune.
* A Danish mile is nearly 4 3/4 English.
In a few seconds the watchman had done the fifty-two
thousand of our miles up
to the moon, which, as everyone knows, was formed
out of matter much lighter
than our earth; and is, so we should say, as soft as
newly-fallen snow. He
found himself on one of the many circumjacent
mountain-ridges with which we
are acquainted by means of Dr. Madler's "Map of the
Moon." Within, down it
sunk perpendicularly into a caldron, about a Danish
mile in depth; while below
lay a town, whose appearance we can, in some
measure, realize to ourselves by
beating the white of an egg in a glass of water. The
matter of which it was
built was just as soft, and formed similar towers,
and domes, and pillars,
transparent and rocking in the thin air; while above
his head our earth was
rolling like a large fiery ball.
He perceived immediately a quantity of beings who
were certainly what we call
"men"; yet they looked different to us. A far more
correct imagination than
that of the pseudo-Herschel* had created them; and
if they had been placed in
rank and file, and copied by some skilful painter's
hand, one would, without
doubt, have exclaimed involuntarily, "What a
beautiful arabesque!"
*This relates to a book published some years ago in
Germany, and said to be by
Herschel, which contained a description of the moon
and its inhabitants,
written with such a semblance of truth that many
were deceived by the
imposture.
Probably a translation of the celebrated Moon hoax,
written by Richard A.
Locke, and originally published in New York.
They had a language too; but surely nobody can
expect that the soul of the
watchman should understand it. Be that as it may, it
did comprehend it; for in
our souls there germinate far greater powers than we
poor mortals, despite all
our cleverness, have any notion of. Does she not
show us--she the queen in the
land of enchantment--her astounding dramatic talent
in all our dreams? There
every acquaintance appears and speaks upon the
stage, so entirely in
character, and with the same tone of voice, that
none of us, when awake, were
able to imitate it. How well can she recall persons
to our mind, of whom we
have not thought for years; when suddenly they step
forth "every inch a man,"
resembling the real personages, even to the finest
features, and become the
heroes or heroines of our world of dreams. In
reality, such remembrances are
rather unpleasant: every sin, every evil thought,
may, like a clock with alarm
or chimes, be repeated at pleasure; then the
question is if we can trust
ourselves to give an account of every unbecoming
word in our heart and on our
lips.
The watchman's spirit understood the language of the
inhabitants of the moon
pretty well. The Selenites* disputed variously about
our earth, and expressed
their doubts if it could be inhabited: the air, they
said, must certainly be
too dense to allow any rational dweller in the moon
the necessary free
respiration. They considered the moon alone to be
inhabited: they imagined it
was the real heart of the universe or planetary
system, on which the genuine
Cosmopolites, or citizens of the world, dwelt. What
strange things men--no,
what strange things Selenites sometimes take into
their heads!
* Dwellers in the moon.
About politics they had a good deal to say. But
little Denmark must take care
what it is about, and not run counter to the moon;
that great realm, that
might in an ill-humor bestir itself, and dash down a
hail-storm in our faces,
or force the Baltic to overflow the sides of its
gigantic basin.
We will, therefore, not listen to what was spoken,
and on no condition run in
the possibility of telling tales out of school; but
we will rather proceed,
like good quiet citizens, to East Street, and
observe what happened meanwhile
to the body of the watchman.
He sat lifeless on the steps: the morning-star,*
that is to say, the heavy
wooden staff, headed with iron spikes, and which had
nothing else in common
with its sparkling brother in the sky, had glided
from his hand; while his
eyes were fixed with glassy stare on the moon,
looking for the good old fellow
of a spirit which still haunted it.
*The watchmen in Germany, had formerly, and in some
places they still carry
with them, on their rounds at night, a sort of mace
or club, known in ancient
times by the above denomination.
"What's the hour, watchman?" asked a passer-by. But
when the watchman gave no
reply, the merry roysterer, who was now returning
home from a noisy drinking
bout, took it into his head to try what a tweak of
the nose would do, on which
the supposed sleeper lost his balance, the body lay
motionless, stretched out
on the pavement: the man was dead. When the patrol
came up, all his comrades,
who comprehended nothing of the whole affair, were
seized with a dreadful
fright, for dead he was, and he remained so. The
proper authorities were
informed of the circumstance, people talked a good
deal about it, and in the
morning the body was carried to the hospital.
Now that would be a very pretty joke, if the spirit
when it came back and
looked for the body in East Street, were not to find
one. No doubt it would,
in its anxiety, run off to the police, and then to
the "Hue and Cry" office,
to announce that "the finder will be handsomely
rewarded," and at last away to
the hospital; yet we may boldly assert that the soul
is shrewdest when it
shakes off every fetter, and every sort of
leading-string--the body only makes
it stupid.
The seemingly dead body of the watchman wandered, as
we have said, to the
hospital, where it was brought into the general
viewing-room: and the first
thing that was done here was naturally to pull off
the galoshes--when the
spirit, that was merely gone out on adventures, must
have returned with the
quickness of lightning to its earthly tenement. It
took its direction towards
the body in a straight line; and a few seconds
after, life began to show
itself in the man. He asserted that the preceding
night had been the worst
that ever the malice of fate had allotted him; he
would not for two silver
marks again go through what he had endured while
moon-stricken; but now,
however, it was over.
The same day he was discharged from the hospital as
perfectly cured; but the
Shoes meanwhile remained behind.
IV. A Moment of Head Importance--An Evening's
"Dramatic Readings"--A Most
Strange Journey
Every inhabitant of Copenhagen knows, from personal
inspection, how the
entrance to Frederick's Hospital looks; but as it is
possible that others, who
are not Copenhagen people, may also read this little
work, we will beforehand
give a short description of it.
The extensive building is separated from the street
by a pretty high railing,
the thick iron bars of which are so far apart, that
in all seriousness, it is
said, some very thin fellow had of a night
occasionally squeezed himself
through to go and pay his little visits in the town.
The part of the body most
difficult to manage on such occasions was, no doubt,
the head; here, as is so
often the case in the world, long-headed people get
through best. So much,
then, for the introduction.
One of the young men, whose head, in a physical
sense only, might be said to
be of the thickest, had the watch that evening. The
rain poured down in
torrents; yet despite these two obstacles, the young
man was obliged to go
out, if it were but for a quarter of an hour; and as
to telling the
door-keeper about it, that, he thought, was quite
unnecessary, if, with a
whole skin, he were able to slip through the
railings. There, on the floor lay
the galoshes, which the watchman had forgotten; he
never dreamed for a moment
that they were those of Fortune; and they promised
to do him good service in
the wet; so he put them on. The question now was, if
he could squeeze himself
through the grating, for he had never tried before.
Well, there he stood.
"Would to Heaven I had got my head through!" said
he, involuntarily; and
instantly through it slipped, easily and without
pain, notwithstanding it was
pretty large and thick. But now the rest of the body
was to be got through!
"Ah! I am much too stout," groaned he aloud, while
fixed as in a vice. "I had
thought the head was the most difficult part of the
matter--oh! oh! I really
cannot squeeze myself through!"
He now wanted to pull his over-hasty head back
again, but he could not. For
his neck there was room enough, but for nothing
more. His first feeling was of
anger; his next that his temper fell to zero. The
Shoes of Fortune had placed
him in the most dreadful situation; and,
unfortunately, it never occurred to
him to wish himself free. The pitch-black clouds
poured down their contents in
still heavier torrents; not a creature was to be
seen in the streets. To reach
up to the bell was what he did not like; to cry
aloud for help would have
availed him little; besides, how ashamed would he
have been to be found caught
in a trap, like an outwitted fox! How was he to
twist himself through! He saw
clearly that it was his irrevocable destiny to
remain a prisoner till dawn,
or, perhaps, even late in the morning; then the
smith must be fetched to file
away the bars; but all that would not be done so
quickly as he could think
about it. The whole Charity School, just opposite,
would be in motion; all the
new booths, with their not very courtier-like swarm
of seamen, would join them
out of curiosity, and would greet him with a wild
"hurrah!" while he was
standing in his pillory: there would be a mob, a
hissing, and rejoicing, and
jeering, ten times worse than in the rows about the
Jews some years ago--"Oh,
my blood is mounting to my brain; 'tis enough to
drive one mad! I shall go
wild! I know not what to do. Oh! were I but loose;
my dizziness would then
cease; oh, were my head but loose!"
You see he ought to have said that sooner; for the
moment he expressed the
wish his head was free; and cured of all his
paroxysms of love, he hastened
off to his room, where the pains consequent on the
fright the Shoes had
prepared for him, did not so soon take their leave.
But you must not think that the affair is over now;
it grows much worse.
The night passed, the next day also; but nobody came
to fetch the Shoes.
In the evening "Dramatic Readings" were to be given
at the little theatre in
King Street. The house was filled to suffocation;
and among other pieces to be
recited was a new poem by H. C. Andersen, called, My
Aunt's Spectacles; the
contents of which were pretty nearly as follows:
"A certain person had an aunt, who boasted of
particular skill in
fortune-telling with cards, and who was constantly
being stormed by persons
that wanted to have a peep into futurity. But she
was full of mystery about
her art, in which a certain pair of magic spectacles
did her essential
service. Her nephew, a merry boy, who was his aunt's
darling, begged so long
for these spectacles, that, at last, she lent him
the treasure, after having
informed him, with many exhortations, that in order
to execute the interesting
trick, he need only repair to some place where a
great many persons were
assembled; and then, from a higher position, whence
he could overlook the
crowd, pass the company in review before him through
his spectacles.
Immediately 'the inner man' of each individual would
be displayed before him,
like a game of cards, in which he unerringly might
read what the future of
every person presented was to be. Well pleased the
little magician hastened
away to prove the powers of the spectacles in the
theatre; no place seeming to
him more fitted for such a trial. He begged
permission of the worthy audience,
and set his spectacles on his nose. A motley
phantasmagoria presents itself
before him, which he describes in a few satirical
touches, yet without
expressing his opinion openly: he tells the people
enough to set them all
thinking and guessing; but in order to hurt nobody,
he wraps his witty
oracular judgments in a transparent veil, or rather
in a lurid thundercloud,
shooting forth bright sparks of wit, that they may
fall in the powder-magazine
of the expectant audience."
The humorous poem was admirably recited, and the
speaker much applauded. Among
the audience was the young man of the hospital, who
seemed to have forgotten
his adventure of the preceding night. He had on the
Shoes; for as yet no
lawful owner had appeared to claim them; and besides
it was so very dirty
out-of-doors, they were just the thing for him, he
thought.
The beginning of the poem he praised with great
generosity: he even found the
idea original and effective. But that the end of it,
like the Rhine, was very
insignificant, proved, in his opinion, the author's
want of invention; he was
without genius, etc. This was an excellent
opportunity to have said something
clever.
Meanwhile he was haunted by the idea--he should like
to possess such a pair of
spectacles himself; then, perhaps, by using them
circumspectly, one would be
able to look into people's hearts, which, he
thought, would be far more
interesting than merely to see what was to happen
next year; for that we
should all know in proper time, but the other never.
"I can now," said he to himself, "fancy the whole
row of ladies and gentlemen
sitting there in the front row; if one could but see
into their hearts--yes,
that would be a revelation--a sort of bazar. In that
lady yonder, so strangely
dressed, I should find for certain a large
milliner's shop; in that one the
shop is empty, but it wants cleaning plain enough.
But there would also be
some good stately shops among them. Alas!" sighed
he, "I know one in which all
is stately; but there sits already a spruce young
shopman, which is the only
thing that's amiss in the whole shop. All would be
splendidly decked out, and
we should hear, 'Walk in, gentlemen, pray walk in;
here you will find all you
please to want.' Ah! I wish to Heaven I could walk
in and take a trip right
through the hearts of those present!"
And behold! to the Shoes of Fortune this was the
cue; the whole man shrunk
together and a most uncommon journey through the
hearts of the front row of
spectators, now began. The first heart through which
he came, was that of a
middle-aged lady, but he instantly fancied himself
in the room of the
"Institution for the cure of the crooked and
deformed," where casts of
mis-shapen limbs are displayed in naked reality on
the wall. Yet there was
this difference, in the institution the casts were
taken at the entry of the
patient; but here they were retained and guarded in
the heart while the sound
persons went away. They were, namely, casts of
female friends, whose bodily or
mental deformities were here most faithfully
preserved.
With the snake-like writhings of an idea he glided
into another female heart;
but this seemed to him like a large holy fane.* The
white dove of innocence
fluttered over the altar. How gladly would he have
sunk upon his knees; but he
must away to the next heart; yet he still heard the
pealing tones of the
organ, and he himself seemed to have become a newer
and a better man; he felt
unworthy to tread the neighboring sanctuary which a
poor garret, with a sick
bed-rid mother, revealed. But God's warm sun
streamed through the open window;
lovely roses nodded from the wooden flower-boxes on
the roof, and two sky-blue
birds sang rejoicingly, while the sick mother
implored God's richest blessings
on her pious daughter.
* temple
He now crept on hands and feet through a butcher's
shop; at least on every
side, and above and below, there was nought but
flesh. It was the heart of a
most respectable rich man, whose name is certain to
be found in the Directory.
He was now in the heart of the wife of this worthy
gentleman. It was an old,
dilapidated, mouldering dovecot. The husband's
portrait was used as a
weather-cock, which was connected in some way or
other with the doors, and so
they opened and shut of their own accord, whenever
the stern old husband
turned round.
Hereupon he wandered into a boudoir formed entirely
of mirrors, like the one
in Castle Rosenburg; but here the glasses magnified
to an astonishing degree.
On the floor, in the middle of the room, sat, like a
Dalai-Lama, the
insignificant "Self" of the person, quite confounded
at his own greatness. He
then imagined he had got into a needle-case full of
pointed needles of every
size.
"This is certainly the heart of an old maid,"
thought he. But he was mistaken.
It was the heart of a young military man; a man, as
people said, of talent and
feeling.
In the greatest perplexity, he now came out of the
last heart in the row; he
was unable to put his thoughts in order, and fancied
that his too lively
imagination had run away with him.
"Good Heavens!" sighed he. "I have surely a
disposition to madness--'tis
dreadfully hot here; my blood boils in my veins and
my head is burning like a
coal." And he now remembered the important event of
the evening before, how
his head had got jammed in between the iron railings
of the hospital. "That's
what it is, no doubt," said he. "I must do something
in time: under such
circumstances a Russian bath might do me good. I
only wish I were already on
the upper bank."*
*In these Russian (vapor) baths the person extends
himself on a bank or form,
and as he gets accustomed to the heat, moves to
another higher up towards the
ceiling, where, of course, the vapor is warmest. In
this manner he ascends
gradually to the highest.
And so there he lay on the uppermost bank in the
vapor-bath; but with all his
clothes on, in his boots and galoshes, while the hot
drops fell scalding from
the ceiling on his face.
"Holloa!" cried he, leaping down. The bathing
attendant, on his side, uttered
a loud cry of astonishment when he beheld in the
bath, a man completely
dressed.
The other, however, retained sufficient presence of
mind to whisper to him,
"'Tis a bet, and I have won it!" But the first thing
he did as soon as he got
home, was to have a large blister put on his chest
and back to draw out his
madness.
The next morning he had a sore chest and a bleeding
back; and, excepting the
fright, that was all that he had gained by the Shoes
of Fortune.
V. Metamorphosis of the Copying-Clerk
The watchman, whom we have certainly not forgotten,
thought meanwhile of the
galoshes he had found and taken with him to the
hospital; he now went to fetch
them; and as neither the lieutenant, nor anybody
else in the street, claimed
them as his property, they were delivered over to
the police-office.*
*As on the continent, in all law and police
practices nothing is verbal, but
any circumstance, however trifling, is reduced to
writing, the labor, as well
as the number of papers that thus accumulate, is
enormous. In a
police-office, consequently, we find copying-clerks
among many other scribes
of various denominations, of which, it seems, our
hero was one.
"Why, I declare the Shoes look just like my own,"
said one of the clerks,
eying the newly-found treasure, whose hidden powers,
even he, sharp as he was,
was not able to discover. "One must have more than
the eye of a shoemaker to
know one pair from the other," said he,
soliloquizing; and putting, at the
same time, the galoshes in search of an owner,
beside his own in the corner.
"Here, sir!" said one of the men, who panting
brought him a tremendous pile of
papers.
The copying-clerk turned round and spoke awhile with
the man about the reports
and legal documents in question; but when he had
finished, and his eye fell
again on the Shoes, he was unable to say whether
those to the left or those to
the right belonged to him. "At all events it must be
those which are wet,"
thought he; but this time, in spite of his
cleverness, he guessed quite wrong,
for it was just those of Fortune which played as it
were into his hands, or
rather on his feet. And why, I should like to know,
are the police never to be
wrong? So he put them on quickly, stuck his papers
in his pocket, and took
besides a few under his arm, intending to look them
through at home to make
the necessary notes. It was noon; and the weather,
that had threatened rain,
began to clear up, while gaily dressed holiday folks
filled the streets. "A
little trip to Fredericksburg would do me no great
harm," thought he; "for I,
poor beast of burden that I am, have so much to
annoy me, that I don't know
what a good appetite is. 'Tis a bitter crust, alas!
at which I am condemned to
gnaw!"
Nobody could be more steady or quiet than this young
man; we therefore wish
him joy of the excursion with all our heart; and it
will certainly be
beneficial for a person who leads so sedentary a
life. In the park he met a
friend, one of our young poets, who told him that
the following day he should
set out on his long-intended tour.
"So you are going away again!" said the clerk. "You
are a very free and happy
being; we others are chained by the leg and held
fast to our desk."
"Yes; but it is a chain, friend, which ensures you
the blessed bread of
existence," answered the poet. "You need feel no
care for the coming morrow:
when you are old, you receive a pension."
"True," said the clerk, shrugging his shoulders;
"and yet you are the better
off. To sit at one's ease and poetise--that is a
pleasure; everybody has
something agreeable to say to you, and you are
always your own master. No,
friend, you should but try what it is to sit from
one year's end to the other
occupied with and judging the most trivial matters."
The poet shook his head, the copying-clerk did the
same. Each one kept to his
own opinion, and so they separated.
"It's a strange race, those poets!" said the clerk,
who was very fond of
soliloquizing. "I should like some day, just for a
trial, to take such nature
upon me, and be a poet myself; I am very sure I
should make no such miserable
verses as the others. Today, methinks, is a most
delicious day for a poet.
Nature seems anew to celebrate her awakening into
life. The air is so
unusually clear, the clouds sail on so buoyantly,
and from the green herbage a
fragrance is exhaled that fills me with delight. For
many a year have I not
felt as at this moment."
We see already, by the foregoing effusion, that he
is become a poet; to give
further proof of it, however, would in most cases be
insipid, for it is a most
foolish notion to fancy a poet different from other
men. Among the latter
there may be far more poetical natures than many an
acknowledged poet, when
examined more closely, could boast of; the
difference only is, that the poet
possesses a better mental memory, on which account
he is able to retain the
feeling and the thought till they can be embodied by
means of words; a faculty
which the others do not possess. But the transition
from a commonplace nature
to one that is richly endowed, demands always a more
or less breakneck leap
over a certain abyss which yawns threateningly
below; and thus must the sudden
change with the clerk strike the reader.
"The sweet air!" continued he of the police-office,
in his dreamy imaginings;
"how it reminds me of the violets in the garden of
my aunt Magdalena! Yes,
then I was a little wild boy, who did not go to
school very regularly. O
heavens! 'tis a long time since I have thought on
those times. The good old
soul! She lived behind the Exchange. She always had
a few twigs or green
shoots in water--let the winter rage without as it
might. The violets exhaled
their sweet breath, whilst I pressed against the
windowpanes covered with
fantastic frost-work the copper coin I had heated on
the stove, and so made
peep-holes. What splendid vistas were then opened to
my view! What change--what
magnificence! Yonder in the canal lay the ships
frozen up, and deserted by
their whole crews, with a screaming crow for the
sole occupant. But when the
spring, with a gentle stirring motion, announced her
arrival, a new and busy
life arose; with songs and hurrahs the ice was sawn
asunder, the ships were
fresh tarred and rigged, that they might sail away
to distant lands. But I
have remained here--must always remain here, sitting
at my desk in the office,
and patiently see other people fetch their passports
to go abroad. Such is my
fate! Alas!"--sighed he, and was again silent.
"Great Heaven! What is come to
me! Never have I thought or felt like this before!
It must be the summer air
that affects me with feelings almost as disquieting
as they are refreshing."
He felt in his pocket for the papers. "These
police-reports will soon stem the
torrent of my ideas, and effectually hinder any
rebellious overflowing of the
time-worn banks of official duties"; he said to
himself consolingly, while his
eye ran over the first page. "DAME TIGBRITH, tragedy
in five acts." "What is
that? And yet it is undeniably my own handwriting.
Have I written the tragedy?
Wonderful, very wonderful!--And this--what have I
here? 'INTRIGUE ON THE
RAMPARTS; or THE DAY OF REPENTANCE: vaudeville with
new songs to the most
favorite airs.' The deuce! Where did I get all this
rubbish? Some one must
have slipped it slyly into my pocket for a joke.
There is too a letter to me;
a crumpled letter and the seal broken."
Yes; it was not a very polite epistle from the
manager of a theatre, in which
both pieces were flatly refused.
"Hem! hem!" said the clerk breathlessly, and quite
exhausted he seated himself
on a bank. His thoughts were so elastic, his heart
so tender; and
involuntarily he picked one of the nearest flowers.
It is a simple daisy, just
bursting out of the bud. What the botanist tells us
after a number of
imperfect lectures, the flower proclaimed in a
minute. It related the mythus
of its birth, told of the power of the sun-light
that spread out its delicate
leaves, and forced them to impregnate the air with
their incense--and then he
thought of the manifold struggles of life, which in
like manner awaken the
budding flowers of feeling in our bosom. Light and
air contend with chivalric
emulation for the love of the fair flower that
bestowed her chief favors on
the latter; full of longing she turned towards the
light, and as soon as it
vanished, rolled her tender leaves together and
slept in the embraces of the
air. "It is the light which adorns me," said the
flower.
"But 'tis the air which enables thee to breathe,"
said the poet's voice.
Close by stood a boy who dashed his stick into a wet
ditch. The drops of water
splashed up to the green leafy roof, and the clerk
thought of the million of
ephemera which in a single drop were thrown up to a
height, that was as great
doubtless for their size, as for us if we were to be
hurled above the clouds.
While he thought of this and of the whole
metamorphosis he had undergone, he
smiled and said, "I sleep and dream; but it is
wonderful how one can dream so
naturally, and know besides so exactly that it is
but a dream. If only
to-morrow on awaking, I could again call all to mind
so vividly! I seem in
unusually good spirits; my perception of things is
clear, I feel as light and
cheerful as though I were in heaven; but I know for
a certainty, that if
to-morrow a dim remembrance of it should swim before
my mind, it will then
seem nothing but stupid nonsense, as I have often
experienced
already--especially before I enlisted under the
banner of the police, for that
dispels like a whirlwind all the visions of an
unfettered imagination. All we
hear or say in a dream that is fair and beautiful is
like the gold of the
subterranean spirits; it is rich and splendid when
it is given us, but viewed
by daylight we find only withered leaves. Alas!" he
sighed quite sorrowful,
and gazed at the chirping birds that hopped
contentedly from branch to branch,
"they are much better off than I! To fly must be a
heavenly art; and happy do
I prize that creature in which it is innate. Yes!
Could I exchange my nature
with any other creature, I fain would be such a
happy little lark!"
He had hardly uttered these hasty words when the
skirts and sleeves of his
coat folded themselves together into wings; the
clothes became feathers, and
the galoshes claws. He observed it perfectly, and
laughed in his heart. "Now
then, there is no doubt that I am dreaming; but I
never before was aware of
such mad freaks as these." And up he flew into the
green roof and sang; but in
the song there was no poetry, for the spirit of the
poet was gone. The Shoes,
as is the case with anybody who does what he has to
do properly, could only
attend to one thing at a time. He wanted to be a
poet, and he was one; he now
wished to be a merry chirping bird: but when he was
metamorphosed into one,
the former peculiarities ceased immediately. "It is
really pleasant enough,"
said he: "the whole day long I sit in the office
amid the driest law-papers,
and at night I fly in my dream as a lark in the
gardens of Fredericksburg; one
might really write a very pretty comedy upon it." He
now fluttered down into
the grass, turned his head gracefully on every side,
and with his bill pecked
the pliant blades of grass, which, in comparison to
his present size, seemed
as majestic as the palm-branches of northern Africa.
Unfortunately the pleasure lasted but a moment.
Presently black night
overshadowed our enthusiast, who had so entirely
missed his part of
copying-clerk at a police-office; some vast object
seemed to be thrown over
him. It was a large oil-skin cap, which a sailor-boy
of the quay had thrown
over the struggling bird; a coarse hand sought its
way carefully in under the
broad rim, and seized the clerk over the back and
wings. In the first moment
of fear, he called, indeed, as loud as he
could--"You impudent little
blackguard! I am a copying-clerk at the
police-office; and you know you cannot
insult any belonging to the constabulary force
without a chastisement.
Besides, you good-for-nothing rascal, it is strictly
forbidden to catch birds
in the royal gardens of Fredericksburg; but your
blue uniform betrays where
you come from." This fine tirade sounded, however,
to the ungodly sailor-boy
like a mere "Pippi-pi." He gave the noisy bird a
knock on his beak, and walked
on.
He was soon met by two schoolboys of the upper
class--that is to say as
individuals, for with regard to learning they were
in the lowest class in the
school; and they bought the stupid bird. So the
copying-clerk came to
Copenhagen as guest, or rather as prisoner in a
family living in Gother
Street.
"'Tis well that I'm dreaming," said the clerk, "or I
really should get angry.
First I was a poet; now sold for a few pence as a
lark; no doubt it was that
accursed poetical nature which has metamorphosed me
into such a poor harmless
little creature. It is really pitiable, particularly
when one gets into the
hands of a little blackguard, perfect in all sorts
of cruelty to animals: all
I should like to know is, how the story will end."
The two schoolboys, the proprietors now of the
transformed clerk, carried him
into an elegant room. A stout stately dame received
them with a smile; but she
expressed much dissatisfaction that a common
field-bird, as she called the
lark, should appear in such high society. For
to-day, however, she would allow
it; and they must shut him in the empty cage that
was standing in the window.
"Perhaps he will amuse my good Polly," added the
lady, looking with a
benignant smile at a large green parrot that swung
himself backwards and
forwards most comfortably in his ring, inside a
magnificent brass-wired cage.
"To-day is Polly's birthday," said she with stupid
simplicity: "and the little
brown field-bird must wish him joy."
Mr. Polly uttered not a syllable in reply, but swung
to and fro with dignified
condescension; while a pretty canary, as yellow as
gold, that had lately been
brought from his sunny fragrant home, began to sing
aloud.
"Noisy creature! Will you be quiet!" screamed the
lady of the house, covering
the cage with an embroidered white pocket
handkerchief.
"Chirp, chirp!" sighed he. "That was a dreadful
snowstorm"; and he sighed
again, and was silent.
The copying-clerk, or, as the lady said, the brown
field-bird, was put into a
small cage, close to the Canary, and not far from
"my good Polly." The only
human sounds that the Parrot could bawl out were,
"Come, let us be men!"
Everything else that he said was as unintelligible
to everybody as the
chirping of the Canary, except to the clerk, who was
now a bird too: he
understood his companion perfectly.
"I flew about beneath the green palms and the
blossoming almond-trees," sang
the Canary; "I flew around, with my brothers and
sisters, over the beautiful
flowers, and over the glassy lakes, where the bright
water-plants nodded to me
from below. There, too, I saw many
splendidly-dressed paroquets, that told the
drollest stories, and the wildest fairy tales
without end."
"Oh! those were uncouth birds," answered the Parrot.
"They had no education,
and talked of whatever came into their head.
"If my mistress and all her friends can laugh at
what I say, so may you too,
I should think. It is a great fault to have no taste
for what is witty or
amusing--come, let us be men."
"Ah, you have no remembrance of love for the
charming maidens that danced
beneath the outspread tents beside the bright
fragrant flowers? Do you no
longer remember the sweet fruits, and the cooling
juice in the wild plants of
our never-to-be-forgotten home?" said the former
inhabitant of the Canary
Isles, continuing his dithyrambic.
"Oh, yes," said the Parrot; "but I am far better off
here. I am well fed, and
get friendly treatment. I know I am a clever fellow;
and that is all I care
about. Come, let us be men. You are of a poetical
nature, as it is called--I,
on the contrary, possess profound knowledge and
inexhaustible wit. You have
genius; but clear-sighted, calm discretion does not
take such lofty flights,
and utter such high natural tones. For this they
have covered you over--they
never do the like to me; for I cost more. Besides,
they are afraid of my beak;
and I have always a witty answer at hand. Come, let
us be men!"
"O warm spicy land of my birth," sang the Canary
bird; "I will sing of thy
dark-green bowers, of the calm bays where the
pendent boughs kiss the surface
of the water; I will sing of the rejoicing of all my
brothers and sisters
where the cactus grows in wanton luxuriance."
"Spare us your elegiac tones," said the Parrot
giggling. "Rather speak of
something at which one may laugh heartily. Laughing
is an infallible sign of
the highest degree of mental development. Can a dog,
or a horse laugh? No, but
they can cry. The gift of laughing was given to man
alone. Ha! ha! ha!"
screamed Polly, and added his stereotype witticism.
"Come, let us be men!"
"Poor little Danish grey-bird," said the Canary;
"you have been caught too. It
is, no doubt, cold enough in your woods, but there
at least is the breath of
liberty; therefore fly away. In the hurry they have
forgotten to shut your
cage, and the upper window is open. Fly, my friend;
fly away. Farewell!"
Instinctively the Clerk obeyed; with a few strokes
of his wings he was out of
the cage; but at the same moment the door, which was
only ajar, and which led
to the next room, began to creak, and supple and
creeping came the large
tomcat into the room, and began to pursue him. The
frightened Canary fluttered
about in his cage; the Parrot flapped his wings, and
cried, "Come, let us be
men!" The Clerk felt a mortal fright, and flew
through the window, far away
over the houses and streets. At last he was forced
to rest a little.
The neighboring house had a something familiar about
it; a window stood open;
he flew in; it was his own room. He perched upon the
table.
"Come, let us be men!" said he, involuntarily
imitating the chatter of the
Parrot, and at the same moment he was again a
copying-clerk; but he was
sitting in the middle of the table.
"Heaven help me!" cried he. "How did I get up
here--and so buried in sleep,
too? After all, that was a very unpleasant,
disagreeable dream that haunted
me! The whole story is nothing but silly, stupid
nonsense!"
VI. The Best That the Galoshes Gave
The following day, early in the morning, while the
Clerk was still in bed,
someone knocked at his door. It was his neighbor, a
young Divine, who lived on
the same floor. He walked in.
"Lend me your Galoshes," said he; "it is so wet in
the garden, though the sun
is shining most invitingly. I should like to go out
a little."
He got the Galoshes, and he was soon below in a
little duodecimo garden, where
between two immense walls a plumtree and an
apple-tree were standing. Even
such a little garden as this was considered in the
metropolis of Copenhagen as
a great luxury.
The young man wandered up and down the narrow paths,
as well as the prescribed
limits would allow; the clock struck six; without
was heard the horn of a
post-boy.
"To travel! to travel!" exclaimed he, overcome by
most painful and passionate
remembrances. "That is the happiest thing in the
world! That is the highest
aim of all my wishes! Then at last would the
agonizing restlessness be
allayed, which destroys my existence! But it must be
far, far away! I would
behold magnificent Switzerland; I would travel to
Italy, and--"
It was a good thing that the power of the Galoshes
worked as instantaneously
as lightning in a powder-magazine would do,
otherwise the poor man with his
overstrained wishes would have travelled about the
world too much for himself
as well as for us. In short, he was travelling. He
was in the middle of
Switzerland, but packed up with eight other
passengers in the inside of an
eternally-creaking diligence; his head ached till it
almost split, his weary
neck could hardly bear the heavy load, and his feet,
pinched by his torturing
boots, were terribly swollen. He was in an
intermediate state between sleeping
and waking; at variance with himself, with his
company, with the country, and
with the government. In his right pocket he had his
letter of credit, in the
left, his passport, and in a small leathern purse
some double louis d'or,
carefully sewn up in the bosom of his waistcoat.
Every dream proclaimed that
one or the other of these valuables was lost;
wherefore he started up as in a
fever; and the first movement which his hand made,
described a magic triangle
from the right pocket to the left, and then up
towards the bosom, to feel if
he had them all safe or not. From the roof inside
the carriage, umbrellas,
walking-sticks, hats, and sundry other articles were
depending, and hindered
the view, which was particularly imposing. He now
endeavored as well as he was
able to dispel his gloom, which was caused by
outward chance circumstances
merely, and on the bosom of nature imbibe the milk
of purest human enjoyment.
Grand, solemn, and dark was the whole landscape
around. The gigantic
pine-forests, on the pointed crags, seemed almost
like little tufts of
heather, colored by the surrounding clouds. It began
to snow, a cold wind blew
and roared as though it were seeking a bride.
"Augh!" sighed he, "were we only on the other side
the Alps, then we should
have summer, and I could get my letters of credit
cashed. The anxiety I feel
about them prevents me enjoying Switzerland. Were I
but on the other side!"
And so saying he was on the other side in Italy,
between Florence and Rome.
Lake Thracymene, illumined by the evening sun, lay
like flaming gold between
the dark-blue mountain-ridges; here, where Hannibal
defeated Flaminius, the
rivers now held each other in their green embraces;
lovely, half-naked
children tended a herd of black swine, beneath a
group of fragrant
laurel-trees, hard by the road-side. Could we render
this inimitable picture
properly, then would everybody exclaim, "Beautiful,
unparalleled Italy!" But
neither the young Divine said so, nor anyone of his
grumbling companions in
the coach of the vetturino.
The poisonous flies and gnats swarmed around by
thousands; in vain one waved
myrtle-branches about like mad; the audacious insect
population did not cease
to sting; nor was there a single person in the
well-crammed carriage whose
face was not swollen and sore from their ravenous
bites. The poor horses,
tortured almost to death, suffered most from this
truly Egyptian plague; the
flies alighted upon them in large disgusting swarms;
and if the coachman got
down and scraped them off, hardly a minute elapsed
before they were there
again. The sun now set: a freezing cold, though of
short duration pervaded the
whole creation; it was like a horrid gust coming
from a burial-vault on a warm
summer's day--but all around the mountains retained
that wonderful green tone
which we see in some old pictures, and which, should
we not have seen a
similar play of color in the South, we declare at
once to be unnatural. It was
a glorious prospect; but the stomach was empty, the
body tired; all that the
heart cared and longed for was good night-quarters;
yet how would they be? For
these one looked much more anxiously than for the
charms of nature, which
every where were so profusely displayed.
The road led through an olive-grove, and here the
solitary inn was situated.
Ten or twelve crippled-beggars had encamped outside.
The healthiest of them
resembled, to use an expression of Marryat's,
"Hunger's eldest son when he had
come of age"; the others were either blind, had
withered legs and crept about
on their hands, or withered arms and fingerless
hands. It was the most
wretched misery, dragged from among the filthiest
rags. "Excellenza,
miserabili!" sighed they, thrusting forth their
deformed limbs to view. Even
the hostess, with bare feet, uncombed hair, and
dressed in a garment of
doubtful color, received the guests grumblingly. The
doors were fastened with
a loop of string; the floor of the rooms presented a
stone paving half torn
up; bats fluttered wildly about the ceiling; and as
to the smell
therein--no--that was beyond description.
"You had better lay the cloth below in the stable,"
said one of the
travellers; "there, at all events, one knows what
one is breathing."
The windows were quickly opened, to let in a little
fresh air. Quicker,
however, than the breeze, the withered, sallow arms
of the beggars were thrust
in, accompanied by the eternal whine of "Miserabili,
miserabili, excellenza!"
On the walls were displayed innumerable
inscriptions, written in nearly every
language of Europe, some in verse, some in prose,
most of them not very
laudatory of "bella Italia."
The meal was served. It consisted of a soup of
salted water, seasoned with
pepper and rancid oil. The last ingredient played a
very prominent part in the
salad; stale eggs and roasted cocks'-combs furnished
the grand dish of the
repast; the wine even was not without a disgusting
taste--it was like a
medicinal draught.
At night the boxes and other effects of the
passengers were placed against the
rickety doors. One of the travellers kept watch
while the others slept. The
sentry was our young Divine. How close it was in the
chamber! The heat
oppressive to suffocation--the gnats hummed and
stung unceasingly--the
"miserabili" without whined and moaned in their
sleep.
"Travelling would be agreeable enough," said he
groaning, "if one only had no
body, or could send it to rest while the spirit went
on its pilgrimage
unhindered, whither the voice within might call it.
Wherever I go, I am
pursued by a longing that is insatiable--that I
cannot explain to myself, and
that tears my very heart. I want something better
than what is but what is
fled in an instant. But what is it, and where is it
to be found? Yet, I know
in reality what it is I wish for. Oh! most happy
were I, could I but reach one
aim--could but reach the happiest of all!"
And as he spoke the word he was again in his home;
the long white curtains
hung down from the windows, and in the middle of the
floor stood the black
coffin; in it he lay in the sleep of death. His wish
was fulfilled--the body
rested, while the spirit went unhindered on its
pilgrimage. "Let no one deem
himself happy before his end," were the words of
Solon; and here was a new and
brilliant proof of the wisdom of the old apothegm.
Every corpse is a sphynx of immortality; here too on
the black coffin the
sphynx gave us no answer to what he who lay within
had written two days
before:
"O mighty Death! thy silence teaches nought,
Thou leadest only to the near grave's brink;
Is broken now the ladder of my thoughts?
Do I instead of mounting only sink?
Our heaviest grief the world oft seeth not,
Our sorest pain we hide from stranger eyes:
And for the sufferer there is nothing left
But the green mound that o'er the coffin lies."
Two figures were moving in the chamber. We knew them
both; it was the fairy of
Care, and the emissary of Fortune. They both bent
over the corpse.
"Do you now see," said Care, "what happiness your
Galoshes have brought to
mankind?"
"To him, at least, who slumbers here, they have
brought an imperishable
blessing," answered the other.
"Ah no!" replied Care. "He took his departure
himself; he was not called away.
His mental powers here below were not strong enough
to reach the treasures
lying beyond this life, and which his destiny
ordained he should obtain. I
will now confer a benefit on him."
And she took the Galoshes from his feet; his sleep
of death was ended; and he
who had been thus called back again to life arose
from his dread couch in all
the vigor of youth. Care vanished, and with her the
Galoshes. She has no doubt
taken them for herself, to keep them to all
eternity.
THE FIR TREE
Out in the woods stood a nice little Fir Tree. The
place he had was a very
good one: the sun shone on him: as to fresh air,
there was enough of that, and
round him grew many large-sized comrades, pines as
well as firs. But the
little Fir wanted so very much to be a grown-up
tree.
He did not think of the warm sun and of the fresh
air; he did not care for the
little cottage children that ran about and prattled
when they were in the
woods looking for wild-strawberries. The children
often came with a whole
pitcher full of berries, or a long row of them
threaded on a straw, and sat
down near the young tree and said, "Oh, how pretty
he is! What a nice little
fir!" But this was what the Tree could not bear to
hear.
At the end of a year he had shot up a good deal, and
after another year he was
another long bit taller; for with fir trees one can
always tell by the shoots
how many years old they are.
"Oh! Were I but such a high tree as the others are,"
sighed he. "Then I should
be able to spread out my branches, and with the tops
to look into the wide
world! Then would the birds build nests among my
branches: and when there was
a breeze, I could bend with as much stateliness as
the others!"
Neither the sunbeams, nor the birds, nor the red
clouds which morning and
evening sailed above him, gave the little Tree any
pleasure.
In winter, when the snow lay glittering on the
ground, a hare would often come
leaping along, and jump right over the little Tree.
Oh, that made him so
angry! But two winters were past, and in the third
the Tree was so large that
the hare was obliged to go round it. "To grow and
grow, to get older and be
tall," thought the Tree--"that, after all, is the
most delightful thing in the
world!"
In autumn the wood-cutters always came and felled
some of the largest trees.
This happened every year; and the young Fir Tree,
that had now grown to a very
comely size, trembled at the sight; for the
magnificent great trees fell to
the earth with noise and cracking, the branches were
lopped off, and the trees
looked long and bare; they were hardly to be
recognised; and then they were
laid in carts, and the horses dragged them out of
the wood.
Where did they go to? What became of them?
In spring, when the swallows and the storks came,
the Tree asked them, "Don't
you know where they have been taken? Have you not
met them anywhere?"
The swallows did not know anything about it; but the
Stork looked musing,
nodded his head, and said, "Yes; I think I know; I
met many ships as I was
flying hither from Egypt; on the ships were
magnificent masts, and I venture
to assert that it was they that smelt so of fir. I
may congratulate you, for
they lifted themselves on high most majestically!"
"Oh, were I but old enough to fly across the sea!
But how does the sea look in
reality? What is it like?"
"That would take a long time to explain," said the
Stork, and with these words
off he went.
"Rejoice in thy growth!" said the Sunbeams. "Rejoice
in thy vigorous growth,
and in the fresh life that moveth within thee!"
And the Wind kissed the Tree, and the Dew wept tears
over him; but the Fir
understood it not.
When Christmas came, quite young trees were cut
down: trees which often were
not even as large or of the same age as this Fir
Tree, who could never rest,
but always wanted to be off. These young trees, and
they were always the
finest looking, retained their branches; they were
laid on carts, and the
horses drew them out of the wood.
"Where are they going to?" asked the Fir. "They are
not taller than I; there
was one indeed that was considerably shorter; and
why do they retain all their
branches? Whither are they taken?"
"We know! We know!" chirped the Sparrows. "We have
peeped in at the windows in
the town below! We know whither they are taken! The
greatest splendor and the
greatest magnificence one can imagine await them. We
peeped through the
windows, and saw them planted in the middle of the
warm room and ornamented
with the most splendid things, with gilded apples,
with gingerbread, with
toys, and many hundred lights!"
"And then?" asked the Fir Tree, trembling in every
bough. "And then? What
happens then?"
"We did not see anything more: it was incomparably
beautiful."
"I would fain know if I am destined for so glorious
a career," cried the Tree,
rejoicing. "That is still better than to cross the
sea! What a longing do I
suffer! Were Christmas but come! I am now tall, and
my branches spread like
the others that were carried off last year! Oh! were
I but already on the
cart! Were I in the warm room with all the splendor
and magnificence! Yes;
then something better, something still grander, will
surely follow, or
wherefore should they thus ornament me? Something
better, something still
grander must follow--but what? Oh, how I long, how I
suffer! I do not know
myself what is the matter with me!"
"Rejoice in our presence!" said the Air and the
Sunlight. "Rejoice in thy own
fresh youth!"
But the Tree did not rejoice at all; he grew and
grew, and was green both
winter and summer. People that saw him said, "What a
fine tree!" and towards
Christmas he was one of the first that was cut down.
The axe struck deep into
the very pith; the Tree fell to the earth with a
sigh; he felt a pang--it was
like a swoon; he could not think of happiness, for
he was sorrowful at being
separated from his home, from the place where he had
sprung up. He well knew
that he should never see his dear old comrades, the
little bushes and flowers
around him, anymore; perhaps not even the birds! The
departure was not at all
agreeable.
The Tree only came to himself when he was unloaded
in a court-yard with the
other trees, and heard a man say, "That one is
splendid! We don't want the
others." Then two servants came in rich livery and
carried the Fir Tree into a
large and splendid drawing-room. Portraits were
hanging on the walls, and near
the white porcelain stove stood two large Chinese
vases with lions on the
covers. There, too, were large easy-chairs, silken
sofas, large tables full of
picture-books and full of toys, worth hundreds and
hundreds of crowns--at
least the children said so. And the Fir Tree was
stuck upright in a cask that
was filled with sand; but no one could see that it
was a cask, for green cloth
was hung all round it, and it stood on a large
gaily-colored carpet. Oh! how
the Tree quivered! What was to happen? The servants,
as well as the young
ladies, decorated it. On one branch there hung
little nets cut out of colored
paper, and each net was filled with sugarplums; and
among the other boughs
gilded apples and walnuts were suspended, looking as
though they had grown
there, and little blue and white tapers were placed
among the leaves. Dolls
that looked for all the world like men--the Tree had
never beheld such
before--were seen among the foliage, and at the very
top a large star of gold
tinsel was fixed. It was really splendid--beyond
description splendid.
"This evening!" they all said. "How it will shine
this evening!"
"Oh!" thought the Tree. "If the evening were but
come! If the tapers were but
lighted! And then I wonder what will happen! Perhaps
the other trees from the
forest will come to look at me! Perhaps the sparrows
will beat against the
windowpanes! I wonder if I shall take root here, and
winter and summer stand
covered with ornaments!"
He knew very much about the matter--but he was so
impatient that for sheer
longing he got a pain in his back, and this with
trees is the same thing as a
headache with us.
The candles were now lighted--what brightness! What
splendor! The Tree
trembled so in every bough that one of the tapers
set fire to the foliage. It
blazed up famously.
"Help! Help!" cried the young ladies, and they
quickly put out the fire.
Now the Tree did not even dare tremble. What a state
he was in! He was so
uneasy lest he should lose something of his
splendor, that he was quite
bewildered amidst the glare and brightness; when
suddenly both folding-doors
opened and a troop of children rushed in as if they
would upset the Tree. The
older persons followed quietly; the little ones
stood quite still. But it was
only for a moment; then they shouted that the whole
place re-echoed with their
rejoicing; they danced round the Tree, and one
present after the other was
pulled off.
"What are they about?" thought the Tree. "What is to
happen now!" And the
lights burned down to the very branches, and as they
burned down they were put
out one after the other, and then the children had
permission to plunder the
Tree. So they fell upon it with such violence that
all its branches cracked;
if it had not been fixed firmly in the ground, it
would certainly have tumbled
down.
The children danced about with their beautiful
playthings; no one looked at
the Tree except the old nurse, who peeped between
the branches; but it was
only to see if there was a fig or an apple left that
had been forgotten.
"A story! A story!" cried the children, drawing a
little fat man towards the
Tree. He seated himself under it and said, "Now we
are in the shade, and the
Tree can listen too. But I shall tell only one
story. Now which will you have;
that about Ivedy-Avedy, or about Humpy-Dumpy, who
tumbled downstairs, and yet
after all came to the throne and married the
princess?"
"Ivedy-Avedy," cried some; "Humpy-Dumpy," cried the
others. There was such a
bawling and screaming--the Fir Tree alone was
silent, and he thought to
himself, "Am I not to bawl with the rest? Am I to do
nothing whatever?" for he
was one of the company, and had done what he had to
do.
And the man told about Humpy-Dumpy that tumbled
down, who notwithstanding came
to the throne, and at last married the princess. And
the children clapped
their hands, and cried. "Oh, go on! Do go on!" They
wanted to hear about
Ivedy-Avedy too, but the little man only told them
about Humpy-Dumpy. The Fir
Tree stood quite still and absorbed in thought; the
birds in the wood had
never related the like of this. "Humpy-Dumpy fell
downstairs, and yet he
married the princess! Yes, yes! That's the way of
the world!" thought the Fir
Tree, and believed it all, because the man who told
the story was so
good-looking. "Well, well! who knows, perhaps I may
fall downstairs, too, and
get a princess as wife!" And he looked forward with
joy to the morrow, when
he hoped to be decked out again with lights,
playthings, fruits, and tinsel.
"I won't tremble to-morrow!" thought the Fir Tree.
"I will enjoy to the full
all my splendor! To-morrow I shall hear again the
story of Humpy-Dumpy, and
perhaps that of Ivedy-Avedy too." And the whole
night the Tree stood still and
in deep thought.
In the morning the servant and the housemaid came
in.
"Now then the splendor will begin again," thought
the Fir. But they dragged
him out of the room, and up the stairs into the
loft: and here, in a dark
corner, where no daylight could enter, they left
him. "What's the meaning of
this?" thought the Tree. "What am I to do here? What
shall I hear now, I
wonder?" And he leaned against the wall lost in
reverie. Time enough had he
too for his reflections; for days and nights passed
on, and nobody came up;
and when at last somebody did come, it was only to
put some great trunks in a
corner, out of the way. There stood the Tree quite
hidden; it seemed as if he
had been entirely forgotten.
"'Tis now winter out-of-doors!" thought the Tree.
"The earth is hard and
covered with snow; men cannot plant me now, and
therefore I have been put up
here under shelter till the spring-time comes! How
thoughtful that is! How
kind man is, after all! If it only were not so dark
here, and so terribly
lonely! Not even a hare! And out in the woods it was
so pleasant, when the
snow was on the ground, and the hare leaped by;
yes--even when he jumped over
me; but I did not like it then! It is really
terribly lonely here!"
"Squeak! Squeak!" said a little Mouse, at the same
moment, peeping out of his
hole. And then another little one came. They snuffed
about the Fir Tree, and
rustled among the branches.
"It is dreadfully cold," said the Mouse. "But for
that, it would be delightful
here, old Fir, wouldn't it?"
"I am by no means old," said the Fir Tree. "There's
many a one considerably
older than I am."
"Where do you come from," asked the Mice; "and what
can you do?" They were so
extremely curious. "Tell us about the most beautiful
spot on the earth. Have
you never been there? Were you never in the larder,
where cheeses lie on the
shelves, and hams hang from above; where one dances
about on tallow candles:
that place where one enters lean, and comes out
again fat and portly?"
"I know no such place," said the Tree. "But I know
the wood, where the sun
shines and where the little birds sing." And then he
told all about his youth;
and the little Mice had never heard the like before;
and they listened and
said,
"Well, to be sure! How much you have seen! How happy
you must have been!"
"I!" said the Fir Tree, thinking over what he had
himself related. "Yes, in
reality those were happy times." And then he told
about Christmas-eve, when he
was decked out with cakes and candles.
"Oh," said the little Mice, "how fortunate you have
been, old Fir Tree!"
"I am by no means old," said he. "I came from the
wood this winter; I am in my
prime, and am only rather short for my age."
"What delightful stories you know," said the Mice:
and the next night they
came with four other little Mice, who were to hear
what the Tree recounted:
and the more he related, the more he remembered
himself; and it appeared as if
those times had really been happy times. "But they
may still come--they may
still come! Humpy-Dumpy fell downstairs, and yet he
got a princess!" and he
thought at the moment of a nice little Birch Tree
growing out in the woods: to
the Fir, that would be a real charming princess.
"Who is Humpy-Dumpy?" asked the Mice. So then the
Fir Tree told the whole
fairy tale, for he could remember every single word
of it; and the little Mice
jumped for joy up to the very top of the Tree. Next
night two more Mice came,
and on Sunday two Rats even; but they said the
stories were not interesting,
which vexed the little Mice; and they, too, now
began to think them not so
very amusing either.
"Do you know only one story?" asked the Rats.
"Only that one," answered the Tree. "I heard it on
my happiest evening; but I
did not then know how happy I was."
"It is a very stupid story! Don't you know one about
bacon and tallow candles?
Can't you tell any larder stories?"
"No," said the Tree.
"Then good-bye," said the Rats; and they went home.
At last the little Mice stayed away also; and the
Tree sighed: "After all, it
was very pleasant when the sleek little Mice sat
round me, and listened to
what I told them. Now that too is over. But I will
take good care to enjoy
myself when I am brought out again."
But when was that to be? Why, one morning there came
a quantity of people and
set to work in the loft. The trunks were moved, the
tree was pulled out and
thrown--rather hard, it is true--down on the floor,
but a man drew him towards
the stairs, where the daylight shone.
"Now a merry life will begin again," thought the
Tree. He felt the fresh air,
the first sunbeam--and now he was out in the
courtyard. All passed so quickly,
there was so much going on around him, the Tree
quite forgot to look to
himself. The court adjoined a garden, and all was in
flower; the roses hung so
fresh and odorous over the balustrade, the lindens
were in blossom, the
Swallows flew by, and said, "Quirre-vit! My husband
is come!" but it was not
the Fir Tree that they meant.
"Now, then, I shall really enjoy life," said he
exultingly, and spread out his
branches; but, alas, they were all withered and
yellow! It was in a corner
that he lay, among weeds and nettles. The golden
star of tinsel was still on
the top of the Tree, and glittered in the sunshine.
In the court-yard some of the merry children were
playing who had danced at
Christmas round the Fir Tree, and were so glad at
the sight of him. One of the
youngest ran and tore off the golden star.
"Only look what is still on the ugly old Christmas
tree!" said he, trampling
on the branches, so that they all cracked beneath
his feet.
And the Tree beheld all the beauty of the flowers,
and the freshness in the
garden; he beheld himself, and wished he had
remained in his dark corner in
the loft; he thought of his first youth in the wood,
of the merry
Christmas-eve, and of the little Mice who had
listened with so much pleasure
to the story of Humpy-Dumpy.
"'Tis over--'tis past!" said the poor Tree. "Had I
but rejoiced when I had
reason to do so! But now 'tis past, 'tis past!"
And the gardener's boy chopped the Tree into small
pieces; there was a whole
heap lying there. The wood flamed up splendidly
under the large brewing
copper, and it sighed so deeply! Each sigh was like
a shot.
The boys played about in the court, and the youngest
wore the gold star on his
breast which the Tree had had on the happiest
evening of his life. However,
that was over now--the Tree gone, the story at an
end. All, all was
over--every tale must end at last.
THE SNOW QUEEN
FIRST STORY. Which Treats of a Mirror and of the
Splinters
Now then, let us begin. When we are at the end of
the story, we shall know
more than we know now: but to begin.
Once upon a time there was a wicked sprite, indeed
he was the most mischievous
of all sprites. One day he was in a very good humor,
for he had made a mirror
with the power of causing all that was good and
beautiful when it was
reflected therein, to look poor and mean; but that
which was good-for-nothing
and looked ugly was shown magnified and increased in
ugliness. In this mirror
the most beautiful landscapes looked like boiled
spinach, and the best persons
were turned into frights, or appeared to stand on
their heads; their faces
were so distorted that they were not to be
recognised; and if anyone had a
mole, you might be sure that it would be magnified
and spread over both nose
and mouth.
"That's glorious fun!" said the sprite. If a good
thought passed through a
man's mind, then a grin was seen in the mirror, and
the sprite laughed
heartily at his clever discovery. All the little
sprites who went to his
school--for he kept a sprite school--told each other
that a miracle had
happened; and that now only, as they thought, it
would be possible to see how
the world really looked. They ran about with the
mirror; and at last there was
not a land or a person who was not represented
distorted in the mirror. So
then they thought they would fly up to the sky, and
have a joke there. The
higher they flew with the mirror, the more terribly
it grinned: they could
hardly hold it fast. Higher and higher still they
flew, nearer and nearer to
the stars, when suddenly the mirror shook so
terribly with grinning, that it
flew out of their hands and fell to the earth, where
it was dashed in a
hundred million and more pieces. And now it worked
much more evil than before;
for some of these pieces were hardly so large as a
grain of sand, and they
flew about in the wide world, and when they got into
people's eyes, there they
stayed; and then people saw everything perverted, or
only had an eye for that
which was evil. This happened because the very
smallest bit had the same power
which the whole mirror had possessed. Some persons
even got a splinter in
their heart, and then it made one shudder, for their
heart became like a lump
of ice. Some of the broken pieces were so large that
they were used for
windowpanes, through which one could not see one's
friends. Other pieces were
put in spectacles; and that was a sad affair when
people put on their glasses
to see well and rightly. Then the wicked sprite
laughed till he almost choked,
for all this tickled his fancy. The fine splinters
still flew about in the
air: and now we shall hear what happened next.
SECOND STORY. A Little Boy and a Little Girl
In a large town, where there are so many houses, and
so many people, that
there is no roof left for everybody to have a little
garden; and where, on
this account, most persons are obliged to content
themselves with flowers in
pots; there lived two little children, who had a
garden somewhat larger than a
flower-pot. They were not brother and sister; but
they cared for each other as
much as if they were. Their parents lived exactly
opposite. They inhabited two
garrets; and where the roof of the one house joined
that of the other, and the
gutter ran along the extreme end of it, there was to
each house a small
window: one needed only to step over the gutter to
get from one window to the
other.
The children's parents had large wooden boxes there,
in which vegetables for
the kitchen were planted, and little rosetrees
besides: there was a rose in
each box, and they grew splendidly. They now thought
of placing the boxes
across the gutter, so that they nearly reached from
one window to the other,
and looked just like two walls of flowers. The
tendrils of the peas hung down
over the boxes; and the rose-trees shot up long
branches, twined round the
windows, and then bent towards each other: it was
almost like a triumphant
arch of foliage and flowers. The boxes were very
high, and the children knew
that they must not creep over them; so they often
obtained permission to get
out of the windows to each other, and to sit on
their little stools among the
roses, where they could play delightfully. In winter
there was an end of this
pleasure. The windows were often frozen over; but
then they heated copper
farthings on the stove, and laid the hot farthing on
the windowpane, and then
they had a capital peep-hole, quite nicely rounded;
and out of each peeped a
gentle friendly eye--it was the little boy and the
little girl who were
looking out. His name was Kay, hers was Gerda. In
summer, with one jump, they
could get to each other; but in winter they were
obliged first to go down the
long stairs, and then up the long stairs again: and
out-of-doors there was
quite a snow-storm.
"It is the white bees that are swarming," said Kay's
old grandmother.
"Do the white bees choose a queen?" asked the little
boy; for he knew that the
honey-bees always have one.
"Yes," said the grandmother, "she flies where the
swarm hangs in the thickest
clusters. She is the largest of all; and she can
never remain quietly on the
earth, but goes up again into the black clouds. Many
a winter's night she
flies through the streets of the town, and peeps in
at the windows; and they
then freeze in so wondrous a manner that they look
like flowers."
"Yes, I have seen it," said both the children; and
so they knew that it was
true.
"Can the Snow Queen come in?" said the little girl.
"Only let her come in!" said the little boy. "Then
I'd put her on the stove,
and she'd melt."
And then his grandmother patted his head and told
him other stories.
In the evening, when little Kay was at home, and
half undressed, he climbed up
on the chair by the window, and peeped out of the
little hole. A few
snow-flakes were falling, and one, the largest of
all, remained lying on the
edge of a flower-pot.
The flake of snow grew larger and larger; and at
last it was like a young
lady, dressed in the finest white gauze, made of a
million little flakes like
stars. She was so beautiful and delicate, but she
was of ice, of dazzling,
sparkling ice; yet she lived; her eyes gazed
fixedly, like two stars; but
there was neither quiet nor repose in them. She
nodded towards the window, and
beckoned with her hand. The little boy was
frightened, and jumped down from
the chair; it seemed to him as if, at the same
moment, a large bird flew past
the window.
The next day it was a sharp frost--and then the
spring came; the sun shone,
the green leaves appeared, the swallows built their
nests, the windows were
opened, and the little children again sat in their
pretty garden, high up on
the leads at the top of the house.
That summer the roses flowered in unwonted beauty.
The little girl had learned
a hymn, in which there was something about roses;
and then she thought of her
own flowers; and she sang the verse to the little
boy, who then sang it with
her:
"The rose in the valley is blooming so sweet,
And angels descend there the children to greet."
And the children held each other by the hand, kissed
the roses, looked up at
the clear sunshine, and spoke as though they really
saw angels there. What
lovely summer-days those were! How delightful to be
out in the air, near the
fresh rose-bushes, that seem as if they would never
finish blossoming!
Kay and Gerda looked at the picture-book full of
beasts and of birds; and it
was then--the clock in the church-tower was just
striking five--that Kay said,
"Oh! I feel such a sharp pain in my heart; and now
something has got into my
eye!"
The little girl put her arms around his neck. He
winked his eyes; now there
was nothing to be seen.
"I think it is out now," said he; but it was not. It
was just one of those
pieces of glass from the magic mirror that had got
into his eye; and poor Kay
had got another piece right in his heart. It will
soon become like ice. It did
not hurt any longer, but there it was.
"What are you crying for?" asked he. "You look so
ugly! There's nothing the
matter with me. Ah," said he at once, "that rose is
cankered! And look, this
one is quite crooked! After all, these roses are
very ugly! They are just like
the box they are planted in!" And then he gave the
box a good kick with his
foot, and pulled both the roses up.
"What are you doing?" cried the little girl; and as
he perceived her fright,
he pulled up another rose, got in at the window, and
hastened off from dear
little Gerda.
Afterwards, when she brought her picture-book, he
asked, "What horrid beasts
have you there?" And if his grandmother told them
stories, he always
interrupted her; besides, if he could manage it, he
would get behind her, put
on her spectacles, and imitate her way of speaking;
he copied all her ways,
and then everybody laughed at him. He was soon able
to imitate the gait and
manner of everyone in the street. Everything that
was peculiar and displeasing
in them--that Kay knew how to imitate: and at such
times all the people said,
"The boy is certainly very clever!" But it was the
glass he had got in his
eye; the glass that was sticking in his heart, which
made him tease even
little Gerda, whose whole soul was devoted to him.
His games now were quite different to what they had
formerly been, they were
so very knowing. One winter's day, when the flakes
of snow were flying about,
he spread the skirts of his blue coat, and caught
the snow as it fell.
"Look through this glass, Gerda," said he. And every
flake seemed larger, and
appeared like a magnificent flower, or beautiful
star; it was splendid to look
at!
"Look, how clever!" said Kay. "That's much more
interesting than real flowers!
They are as exact as possible; there is not a fault
in them, if they did not
melt!"
It was not long after this, that Kay came one day
with large gloves on, and
his little sledge at his back, and bawled right into
Gerda's ears, "I have
permission to go out into the square where the
others are playing"; and off he
was in a moment.
There, in the market-place, some of the boldest of
the boys used to tie their
sledges to the carts as they passed by, and so they
were pulled along, and got
a good ride. It was so capital! Just as they were in
the very height of their
amusement, a large sledge passed by: it was painted
quite white, and there was
someone in it wrapped up in a rough white mantle of
fur, with a rough white
fur cap on his head. The sledge drove round the
square twice, and Kay tied on
his sledge as quickly as he could, and off he drove
with it. On they went
quicker and quicker into the next street; and the
person who drove turned
round to Kay, and nodded to him in a friendly
manner, just as if they knew
each other. Every time he was going to untie his
sledge, the person nodded to
him, and then Kay sat quiet; and so on they went
till they came outside the
gates of the town. Then the snow began to fall so
thickly that the little boy
could not see an arm's length before him, but still
on he went: when suddenly
he let go the string he held in his hand in order to
get loose from the
sledge, but it was of no use; still the little
vehicle rushed on with the
quickness of the wind. He then cried as loud as he
could, but no one heard
him; the snow drifted and the sledge flew on, and
sometimes it gave a jerk as
though they were driving over hedges and ditches. He
was quite frightened, and
he tried to repeat the Lord's Prayer; but all he
could do, he was only able to
remember the multiplication table.
The snow-flakes grew larger and larger, till at last
they looked just like
great white fowls. Suddenly they flew on one side;
the large sledge stopped,
and the person who drove rose up. It was a lady; her
cloak and cap were of
snow. She was tall and of slender figure, and of a
dazzling whiteness. It was
the Snow Queen.
"We have travelled fast," said she; "but it is
freezingly cold. Come under my
bearskin." And she put him in the sledge beside her,
wrapped the fur round
him, and he felt as though he were sinking in a
snow-wreath.
"Are you still cold?" asked she; and then she kissed
his forehead. Ah! it was
colder than ice; it penetrated to his very heart,
which was already almost a
frozen lump; it seemed to him as if he were about to
die--but a moment more
and it was quite congenial to him, and he did not
remark the cold that was
around him.
"My sledge! Do not forget my sledge!" It was the
first thing he thought of. It
was there tied to one of the white chickens, who
flew along with it on his
back behind the large sledge. The Snow Queen kissed
Kay once more, and then he
forgot little Gerda, grandmother, and all whom he
had left at his home.
"Now you will have no more kisses," said she, "or
else I should kiss you to
death!"
Kay looked at her. She was very beautiful; a more
clever, or a more lovely
countenance he could not fancy to himself; and she
no longer appeared of ice
as before, when she sat outside the window, and
beckoned to him; in his eyes
she was perfect, he did not fear her at all, and
told her that he could
calculate in his head and with fractions, even; that
he knew the number of
square miles there were in the different countries,
and how many inhabitants
they contained; and she smiled while he spoke. It
then seemed to him as if
what he knew was not enough, and he looked upwards
in the large huge empty
space above him, and on she flew with him; flew high
over the black clouds,
while the storm moaned and whistled as though it
were singing some old tune.
On they flew over woods and lakes, over seas, and
many lands; and beneath them
the chilling storm rushed fast, the wolves howled,
the snow crackled; above
them flew large screaming crows, but higher up
appeared the moon, quite large
and bright; and it was on it that Kay gazed during
the long long winter's
night; while by day he slept at the feet of the Snow
Queen.
THIRD STORY. Of the Flower-Garden At the Old Woman's
Who Understood Witchcraft
But what became of little Gerda when Kay did not
return? Where could he be?
Nobody knew; nobody could give any intelligence. All
the boys knew was, that
they had seen him tie his sledge to another large
and splendid one, which
drove down the street and out of the town. Nobody
knew where he was; many sad
tears were shed, and little Gerda wept long and
bitterly; at last she said he
must be dead; that he had been drowned in the river
which flowed close to the
town. Oh! those were very long and dismal winter
evenings!
At last spring came, with its warm sunshine.
"Kay is dead and gone!" said little Gerda.
"That I don't believe," said the Sunshine.
"Kay is dead and gone!" said she to the Swallows.
"That I don't believe," said they: and at last
little Gerda did not think so
any longer either.
"I'll put on my red shoes," said she, one morning;
"Kay has never seen them,
and then I'll go down to the river and ask there."
It was quite early; she kissed her old grandmother,
who was still asleep, put
on her red shoes, and went alone to the river.
"Is it true that you have taken my little
playfellow? I will make you a
present of my red shoes, if you will give him back
to me."
And, as it seemed to her, the blue waves nodded in a
strange manner; then she
took off her red shoes, the most precious things she
possessed, and threw them
both into the river. But they fell close to the
bank, and the little waves
bore them immediately to land; it was as if the
stream would not take what was
dearest to her; for in reality it had not got little
Kay; but Gerda thought
that she had not thrown the shoes out far enough, so
she clambered into a boat
which lay among the rushes, went to the farthest
end, and threw out the shoes.
But the boat was not fastened, and the motion which
she occasioned, made it
drift from the shore. She observed this, and
hastened to get back; but before
she could do so, the boat was more than a yard from
the land, and was gliding
quickly onward.
Little Gerda was very frightened, and began to cry;
but no one heard her
except the sparrows, and they could not carry her to
land; but they flew along
the bank, and sang as if to comfort her, "Here we
are! Here we are!" The boat
drifted with the stream, little Gerda sat quite
still without shoes, for they
were swimming behind the boat, but she could not
reach them, because the boat
went much faster than they did.
The banks on both sides were beautiful; lovely
flowers, venerable trees, and
slopes with sheep and cows, but not a human being
was to be seen.
"Perhaps the river will carry me to little Kay,"
said she; and then she grew
less sad. She rose, and looked for many hours at the
beautiful green banks.
Presently she sailed by a large cherry-orchard,
where was a little cottage
with curious red and blue windows; it was thatched,
and before it two wooden
soldiers stood sentry, and presented arms when
anyone went past.
Gerda called to them, for she thought they were
alive; but they, of course,
did not answer. She came close to them, for the
stream drifted the boat quite
near the land.
Gerda called still louder, and an old woman then
came out of the cottage,
leaning upon a crooked stick. She had a large
broad-brimmed hat on, painted
with the most splendid flowers.
"Poor little child!" said the old woman. "How did
you get upon the large rapid
river, to be driven about so in the wide world!" And
then the old woman went
into the water, caught hold of the boat with her
crooked stick, drew it to the
bank, and lifted little Gerda out.
And Gerda was so glad to be on dry land again; but
she was rather afraid of
the strange old woman.
"But come and tell me who you are, and how you came
here," said she.
And Gerda told her all; and the old woman shook her
head and said, "A-hem!
a-hem!" and when Gerda had told her everything, and
asked her if she had not
seen little Kay, the woman answered that he had not
passed there, but he no
doubt would come; and she told her not to be cast
down, but taste her
cherries, and look at her flowers, which were finer
than any in a
picture-book, each of which could tell a whole
story. She then took Gerda by
the hand, led her into the little cottage, and
locked the door.
The windows were very high up; the glass was red,
blue, and green, and the
sunlight shone through quite wondrously in all sorts
of colors. On the table
stood the most exquisite cherries, and Gerda ate as
many as she chose, for she
had permission to do so. While she was eating, the
old woman combed her hair
with a golden comb, and her hair curled and shone
with a lovely golden color
around that sweet little face, which was so round
and so like a rose.
"I have often longed for such a dear little girl,"
said the old woman. "Now
you shall see how well we agree together"; and while
she combed little Gerda's
hair, the child forgot her foster-brother Kay more
and more, for the old woman
understood magic; but she was no evil being, she
only practised witchcraft a
little for her own private amusement, and now she
wanted very much to keep
little Gerda. She therefore went out in the garden,
stretched out her crooked
stick towards the rose-bushes, which, beautifully as
they were blowing, all
sank into the earth and no one could tell where they
had stood. The old woman
feared that if Gerda should see the roses, she would
then think of her own,
would remember little Kay, and run away from her.
She now led Gerda into the flower-garden. Oh, what
odour and what loveliness
was there! Every flower that one could think of, and
of every season, stood
there in fullest bloom; no picture-book could be
gayer or more beautiful.
Gerda jumped for joy, and played till the sun set
behind the tall cherry-tree;
she then had a pretty bed, with a red silken
coverlet filled with blue
violets. She fell asleep, and had as pleasant dreams
as ever a queen on her
wedding-day.
The next morning she went to play with the flowers
in the warm sunshine, and
thus passed away a day. Gerda knew every flower;
and, numerous as they were,
it still seemed to Gerda that one was wanting,
though she did not know which.
One day while she was looking at the hat of the old
woman painted with
flowers, the most beautiful of them all seemed to
her to be a rose. The old
woman had forgotten to take it from her hat when she
made the others vanish in
the earth. But so it is when one's thoughts are not
collected. "What!" said
Gerda. "Are there no roses here?" and she ran about
amongst the flowerbeds,
and looked, and looked, but there was not one to be
found. She then sat down
and wept; but her hot tears fell just where a
rose-bush had sunk; and when her
warm tears watered the ground, the tree shot up
suddenly as fresh and blooming
as when it had been swallowed up. Gerda kissed the
roses, thought of her own
dear roses at home, and with them of little Kay.
"Oh, how long I have stayed!" said the little girl.
"I intended to look for
Kay! Don't you know where he is?" she asked of the
roses. "Do you think he is
dead and gone?"
"Dead he certainly is not," said the Roses. "We have
been in the earth where
all the dead are, but Kay was not there."
"Many thanks!" said little Gerda; and she went to
the other flowers, looked
into their cups, and asked, "Don't you know where
little Kay is?"
But every flower stood in the sunshine, and dreamed
its own fairy tale or its
own story: and they all told her very many things,
but not one knew anything
of Kay.
Well, what did the Tiger-Lily say?
"Hearest thou not the drum? Bum! Bum! Those are the
only two tones. Always
bum! Bum! Hark to the plaintive song of the old
woman, to the call of the
priests! The Hindoo woman in her long robe stands
upon the funeral pile; the
flames rise around her and her dead husband, but the
Hindoo woman thinks on
the living one in the surrounding circle; on him
whose eyes burn hotter than
the flames--on him, the fire of whose eyes pierces
her heart more than the
flames which soon will burn her body to ashes. Can
the heart's flame die in
the flame of the funeral pile?"
"I don't understand that at all," said little Gerda.
"That is my story," said the Lily.
What did the Convolvulus say?
"Projecting over a narrow mountain-path there hangs
an old feudal castle.
Thick evergreens grow on the dilapidated walls, and
around the altar, where a
lovely maiden is standing: she bends over the
railing and looks out upon the
rose. No fresher rose hangs on the branches than
she; no appleblossom carried
away by the wind is more buoyant! How her silken
robe is rustling!
"'Is he not yet come?'"
"Is it Kay that you mean?" asked little Gerda.
"I am speaking about my story--about my dream,"
answered the Convolvulus.
What did the Snowdrops say?
"Between the trees a long board is hanging--it is a
swing. Two little girls
are sitting in it, and swing themselves backwards
and forwards; their frocks
are as white as snow, and long green silk ribands
flutter from their bonnets.
Their brother, who is older than they are, stands up
in the swing; he twines
his arms round the cords to hold himself fast, for
in one hand he has a little
cup, and in the other a clay-pipe. He is blowing
soap-bubbles. The swing
moves, and the bubbles float in charming changing
colors: the last is still
hanging to the end of the pipe, and rocks in the
breeze. The swing moves. The
little black dog, as light as a soap-bubble, jumps
up on his hind legs to try
to get into the swing. It moves, the dog falls down,
barks, and is angry. They
tease him; the bubble bursts! A swing, a bursting
bubble--such is my song!"
"What you relate may be very pretty, but you tell it
in so melancholy a
manner, and do not mention Kay."
What do the Hyacinths say?
"There were once upon a time three sisters, quite
transparent, and very
beautiful. The robe of the one was red, that of the
second blue, and that of
the third white. They danced hand in hand beside the
calm lake in the clear
moonshine. They were not elfin maidens, but mortal
children. A sweet fragrance
was smelt, and the maidens vanished in the wood; the
fragrance grew
stronger--three coffins, and in them three lovely
maidens, glided out of the
forest and across the lake: the shining glow-worms
flew around like little
floating lights. Do the dancing maidens sleep, or
are they dead? The odour of
the flowers says they are corpses; the evening bell
tolls for the dead!"
"You make me quite sad," said little Gerda. "I
cannot help thinking of the
dead maidens. Oh! is little Kay really dead? The
Roses have been in the earth,
and they say no."
"Ding, dong!" sounded the Hyacinth bells. "We do not
toll for little Kay; we
do not know him. That is our way of singing, the
only one we have."
And Gerda went to the Ranunculuses, that looked
forth from among the shining
green leaves.
"You are a little bright sun!" said Gerda. "Tell me
if you know where I can
find my playfellow."
And the Ranunculus shone brightly, and looked again
at Gerda. What song could
the Ranunculus sing? It was one that said nothing
about Kay either.
"In a small court the bright sun was shining in the
first days of spring. The
beams glided down the white walls of a neighbor's
house, and close by the
fresh yellow flowers were growing, shining like gold
in the warm sun-rays. An
old grandmother was sitting in the air; her
grand-daughter, the poor and
lovely servant just come for a short visit. She
knows her grandmother. There
was gold, pure virgin gold in that blessed kiss.
There, that is my little
story," said the Ranunculus.
"My poor old grandmother!" sighed Gerda. "Yes, she
is longing for me, no
doubt: she is sorrowing for me, as she did for
little Kay. But I will soon
come home, and then I will bring Kay with me. It is
of no use asking the
flowers; they only know their own old rhymes, and
can tell me nothing." And
she tucked up her frock, to enable her to run
quicker; but the Narcissus gave
her a knock on the leg, just as she was going to
jump over it. So she stood
still, looked at the long yellow flower, and asked,
"You perhaps know
something?" and she bent down to the Narcissus. And
what did it say?
"I can see myself--I can see myself! Oh, how odorous
I am! Up in the little
garret there stands, half-dressed, a little Dancer.
She stands now on one leg,
now on both; she despises the whole world; yet she
lives only in imagination.
She pours water out of the teapot over a piece of
stuff which she holds in her
hand; it is the bodice; cleanliness is a fine thing.
The white dress is
hanging on the hook; it was washed in the teapot,
and dried on the roof. She
puts it on, ties a saffron-colored kerchief round
her neck, and then the gown
looks whiter. I can see myself--I can see myself!"
"That's nothing to me," said little Gerda. "That
does not concern me." And
then off she ran to the further end of the garden.
The gate was locked, but she shook the rusted bolt
till it was loosened, and
the gate opened; and little Gerda ran off barefooted
into the wide world. She
looked round her thrice, but no one followed her. At
last she could run no
longer; she sat down on a large stone, and when she
looked about her, she saw
that the summer had passed; it was late in the
autumn, but that one could not
remark in the beautiful garden, where there was
always sunshine, and where
there were flowers the whole year round.
"Dear me, how long I have staid!" said Gerda.
"Autumn is come. I must not rest
any longer." And she got up to go further.
Oh, how tender and wearied her little feet were! All
around it looked so cold
and raw: the long willow-leaves were quite yellow,
and the fog dripped from
them like water; one leaf fell after the other: the
sloes only stood full of
fruit, which set one's teeth on edge. Oh, how dark
and comfortless it was in
the dreary world!
FOURTH STORY. The Prince and Princess
Gerda was obliged to rest herself again, when,
exactly opposite to her, a
large Raven came hopping over the white snow. He had
long been looking at
Gerda and shaking his head; and now he said, "Caw!
Caw!" Good day! Good day!
He could not say it better; but he felt a sympathy
for the little girl, and
asked her where she was going all alone. The word
"alone" Gerda understood
quite well, and felt how much was expressed by it;
so she told the Raven her
whole history, and asked if he had not seen Kay.
The Raven nodded very gravely, and said, "It may
be--it may be!"
"What, do you really think so?" cried the little
girl; and she nearly squeezed
the Raven to death, so much did she kiss him.
"Gently, gently," said the Raven. "I think I know; I
think that it may be
little Kay. But now he has forgotten you for the
Princess."
"Does he live with a Princess?" asked Gerda.
"Yes--listen," said the Raven; "but it will be
difficult for me to speak your
language. If you understand the Raven language I can
tell you better."
"No, I have not learnt it," said Gerda; "but my
grandmother understands it,
and she can speak gibberish too. I wish I had learnt
it."
"No matter," said the Raven; "I will tell you as
well as I can; however, it
will be bad enough." And then he told all he knew.
"In the kingdom where we now are there lives a
Princess, who is
extraordinarily clever; for she has read all the
newspapers in the whole
world, and has forgotten them again--so clever is
she. She was lately, it is
said, sitting on her throne--which is not very
amusing after all--when she
began humming an old tune, and it was just, 'Oh, why
should I not be married?'
'That song is not without its meaning,' said she,
and so then she was
determined to marry; but she would have a husband
who knew how to give an
answer when he was spoken to--not one who looked
only as if he were a great
personage, for that is so tiresome. She then had all
the ladies of the court
drummed together; and when they heard her intention,
all were very pleased,
and said, 'We are very glad to hear it; it is the
very thing we were thinking
of.' You may believe every word I say," said the
Raven; "for I have a tame
sweetheart that hops about in the palace quite free,
and it was she who told
me all this.
"The newspapers appeared forthwith with a border of
hearts and the initials of
the Princess; and therein you might read that every
good-looking young man was
at liberty to come to the palace and speak to the
Princess; and he who spoke
in such wise as showed he felt himself at home
there, that one the Princess
would choose for her husband.
"Yes, Yes," said the Raven, "you may believe it; it
is as true as I am sitting
here. People came in crowds; there was a crush and a
hurry, but no one was
successful either on the first or second day. They
could all talk well enough
when they were out in the street; but as soon as
they came inside the
palace gates, and saw the guard richly dressed in
silver, and the lackeys in
gold on the staircase, and the large illuminated
saloons, then they were
abashed; and when they stood before the throne on
which the Princess was
sitting, all they could do was to repeat the last
word they had uttered, and
to hear it again did not interest her very much. It
was just as if the people
within were under a charm, and had fallen into a
trance till they came out
again into the street; for then--oh, then--they
could chatter enough. There
was a whole row of them standing from the town-gates
to the palace. I was
there myself to look," said the Raven. "They grew
hungry and thirsty; but from
the palace they got nothing whatever, not even a
glass of water. Some of the
cleverest, it is true, had taken bread and butter
with them: but none shared
it with his neighbor, for each thought, 'Let him
look hungry, and then the
Princess won't have him.'"
"But Kay--little Kay," said Gerda, "when did he
come? Was he among the
number?"
"Patience, patience; we are just come to him. It was
on the third day when a
little personage without horse or equipage, came
marching right boldly up to
the palace; his eyes shone like yours, he had
beautiful long hair, but his
clothes were very shabby."
"That was Kay," cried Gerda, with a voice of
delight. "Oh, now I've found
him!" and she clapped her hands for joy.
"He had a little knapsack at his back," said the
Raven.
"No, that was certainly his sledge," said Gerda;
"for when he went away he
took his sledge with him."
"That may be," said the Raven; "I did not examine
him so minutely; but I know
from my tame sweetheart, that when he came into the
court-yard of the palace,
and saw the body-guard in silver, the lackeys on the
staircase, he was not the
least abashed; he nodded, and said to them, 'It must
be very tiresome to stand
on the stairs; for my part, I shall go in.' The
saloons were gleaming with
lustres--privy councillors and excellencies were
walking about barefooted, and
wore gold keys; it was enough to make any one feel
uncomfortable. His boots
creaked, too, so loudly, but still he was not at all
afraid."
"That's Kay for certain," said Gerda. "I know he had
on new boots; I have
heard them creaking in grandmama's room."
"Yes, they creaked," said the Raven. "And on he went
boldly up to the
Princess, who was sitting on a pearl as large as a
spinning-wheel. All the
ladies of the court, with their attendants and
attendants' attendants, and all
the cavaliers, with their gentlemen and gentlemen's
gentlemen, stood round;
and the nearer they stood to the door, the prouder
they looked. It was hardly
possible to look at the gentleman's gentleman, so
very haughtily did he stand
in the doorway."
"It must have been terrible," said little Gerda.
"And did Kay get the
Princess?"
"Were I not a Raven, I should have taken the
Princess myself, although I am
promised. It is said he spoke as well as I speak
when I talk Raven language;
this I learned from my tame sweetheart. He was bold
and nicely behaved; he had
not come to woo the Princess, but only to hear her
wisdom. She pleased him,
and he pleased her."
"Yes, yes; for certain that was Kay," said Gerda.
"He was so clever; he could
reckon fractions in his head. Oh, won't you take me
to the palace?"
"That is very easily said," answered the Raven. "But
how are we to manage it?
I'll speak to my tame sweetheart about it: she must
advise us; for so much I
must tell you, such a little girl as you are will
never get permission to
enter."
"Oh, yes I shall," said Gerda; "when Kay hears that
I am here, he will come
out directly to fetch me."
"Wait for me here on these steps," said the Raven.
He moved his head backwards
and forwards and flew away.
The evening was closing in when the Raven returned.
"Caw--caw!" said he. "She
sends you her compliments; and here is a roll for
you. She took it out of the
kitchen, where there is bread enough. You are
hungry, no doubt. It is not
possible for you to enter the palace, for you are
barefooted: the guards in
silver, and the lackeys in gold, would not allow it;
but do not cry, you shall
come in still. My sweetheart knows a little back
stair that leads to the
bedchamber, and she knows where she can get the key
of it."
And they went into the garden in the large avenue,
where one leaf was falling
after the other; and when the lights in the palace
had all gradually
disappeared, the Raven led little Gerda to the back
door, which stood half
open.
Oh, how Gerda's heart beat with anxiety and longing!
It was just as if she had
been about to do something wrong; and yet she only
wanted to know if little
Kay was there. Yes, he must be there. She called to
mind his intelligent eyes,
and his long hair, so vividly, she could quite see
him as he used to laugh
when they were sitting under the roses at home. "He
will, no doubt, be glad to
see you--to hear what a long way you have come for
his sake; to know how
unhappy all at home were when he did not come back."
Oh, what a fright and a joy it was!
They were now on the stairs. A single lamp was
burning there; and on the floor
stood the tame Raven, turning her head on every side
and looking at Gerda, who
bowed as her grandmother had taught her to do.
"My intended has told me so much good of you, my
dear young lady," said the
tame Raven. "Your tale is very affecting. If you
will take the lamp, I will go
before. We will go straight on, for we shall meet no
one."
"I think there is somebody just behind us," said
Gerda; and something rushed
past: it was like shadowy figures on the wall;
horses with flowing manes and
thin legs, huntsmen, ladies and gentlemen on
horseback.
"They are only dreams," said the Raven. "They come
to fetch the thoughts of
the high personages to the chase; 'tis well, for now
you can observe them in
bed all the better. But let me find, when you enjoy
honor and distinction,
that you possess a grateful heart."
"Tut! That's not worth talking about," said the
Raven of the woods.
They now entered the first saloon, which was of
rose-colored satin, with
artificial flowers on the wall. Here the dreams were
rushing past, but they
hastened by so quickly that Gerda could not see the
high personages. One hall
was more magnificent than the other; one might
indeed well be abashed; and at
last they came into the bedchamber. The ceiling of
the room resembled a large
palm-tree with leaves of glass, of costly glass; and
in the middle, from a
thick golden stem, hung two beds, each of which
resembled a lily. One was
white, and in this lay the Princess; the other was
red, and it was here that
Gerda was to look for little Kay. She bent back one
of the red leaves, and saw
a brown neck. Oh! that was Kay! She called him quite
loud by name, held the
lamp towards him--the dreams rushed back again into
the chamber--he awoke,
turned his head, and--it was not little Kay!
The Prince was only like him about the neck; but he
was young and handsome.
And out of the white lily leaves the Princess
peeped, too, and asked what was
the matter. Then little Gerda cried, and told her
her whole history, and all
that the Ravens had done for her.
"Poor little thing!" said the Prince and the
Princess. They praised the Ravens
very much, and told them they were not at all angry
with them, but they were
not to do so again. However, they should have a
reward. "Will you fly about
here at liberty," asked the Princess; "or would you
like to have a fixed
appointment as court ravens, with all the broken
bits from the kitchen?"
And both the Ravens nodded, and begged for a fixed
appointment; for they
thought of their old age, and said, "It is a good
thing to have a provision
for our old days."
And the Prince got up and let Gerda sleep in his
bed, and more than this he
could not do. She folded her little hands and
thought, "How good men and
animals are!" and she then fell asleep and slept
soundly. All the dreams flew
in again, and they now looked like the angels; they
drew a little sledge, in
which little Kay sat and nodded his head; but the
whole was only a dream, and
therefore it all vanished as soon as she awoke.
The next day she was dressed from head to foot in
silk and velvet. They
offered to let her stay at the palace, and lead a
happy life; but she begged
to have a little carriage with a horse in front, and
for a small pair of
shoes; then, she said, she would again go forth in
the wide world and look for
Kay.
Shoes and a muff were given her; she was, too,
dressed very nicely; and when
she was about to set off, a new carriage stopped
before the door. It was of
pure gold, and the arms of the Prince and Princess
shone like a star upon it;
the coachman, the footmen, and the outriders, for
outriders were there, too,
all wore golden crowns. The Prince and the Princess
assisted her into the
carriage themselves, and wished her all success. The
Raven of the woods, who
was now married, accompanied her for the first three
miles. He sat beside
Gerda, for he could not bear riding backwards; the
other Raven stood in the
doorway, and flapped her wings; she could not
accompany Gerda, because she
suffered from headache since she had had a fixed
appointment and ate so much.
The carriage was lined inside with sugar-plums, and
in the seats were fruits
and gingerbread.
"Farewell! Farewell!" cried Prince and Princess; and
Gerda wept, and the Raven
wept. Thus passed the first miles; and then the
Raven bade her farewell, and
this was the most painful separation of all. He flew
into a tree, and beat his
black wings as long as he could see the carriage,
that shone from afar like a
sunbeam.
FIFTH STORY. The Little Robber Maiden
They drove through the dark wood; but the carriage
shone like a torch, and it
dazzled the eyes of the robbers, so that they could
not bear to look at it.
"'Tis gold! 'Tis gold!" they cried; and they rushed
forward, seized the
horses, knocked down the little postilion, the
coachman, and the servants, and
pulled little Gerda out of the carriage.
"How plump, how beautiful she is! She must have been
fed on nut-kernels," said
the old female robber, who had a long, scrubby
beard, and bushy eyebrows that
hung down over her eyes. "She is as good as a fatted
lamb! How nice she will
be!" And then she drew out a knife, the blade of
which shone so that it was
quite dreadful to behold.
"Oh!" cried the woman at the same moment. She had
been bitten in the ear by
her own little daughter, who hung at her back; and
who was so wild and
unmanageable, that it was quite amusing to see her.
"You naughty child!" said
the mother: and now she had not time to kill Gerda.
"She shall play with me," said the little robber
child. "She shall give me her
muff, and her pretty frock; she shall sleep in my
bed!" And then she gave her
mother another bite, so that she jumped, and ran
round with the pain; and the
Robbers laughed, and said, "Look, how she is dancing
with the little one!"
"I will go into the carriage," said the little
robber maiden; and she would
have her will, for she was very spoiled and very
headstrong. She and Gerda got
in; and then away they drove over the stumps of
felled trees, deeper and
deeper into the woods. The little robber maiden was
as tall as Gerda, but
stronger, broader-shouldered, and of dark
complexion; her eyes were quite
black; they looked almost melancholy. She embraced
little Gerda, and said,
"They shall not kill you as long as I am not
displeased with you. You are,
doubtless, a Princess?"
"No," said little Gerda; who then related all that
had happened to her, and
how much she cared about little Kay.
The little robber maiden looked at her with a
serious air, nodded her head
slightly, and said, "They shall not kill you, even
if I am angry with you:
then I will do it myself"; and she dried Gerda's
eyes, and put both her hands
in the handsome muff, which was so soft and warm.
At length the carriage stopped. They were in the
midst of the court-yard of a
robber's castle. It was full of cracks from top to
bottom; and out of the
openings magpies and rooks were flying; and the
great bull-dogs, each of which
looked as if he could swallow a man, jumped up, but
they did not bark, for
that was forbidden.
In the midst of the large, old, smoking hall burnt a
great fire on the stone
floor. The smoke disappeared under the stones, and
had to seek its own egress.
In an immense caldron soup was boiling; and rabbits
and hares were being
roasted on a spit.
"You shall sleep with me to-night, with all my
animals," said the little
robber maiden. They had something to eat and drink;
and then went into a
corner, where straw and carpets were lying. Beside
them, on laths and perches,
sat nearly a hundred pigeons, all asleep, seemingly;
but yet they moved a
little when the robber maiden came. "They are all
mine," said she, at the
same time seizing one that was next to her by the
legs and shaking it so that
its wings fluttered. "Kiss it," cried the little
girl, and flung the pigeon in
Gerda's face. "Up there is the rabble of the wood,"
continued she, pointing to
several laths which were fastened before a hole high
up in the wall; "that's
the rabble; they would all fly away immediately, if
they were not well
fastened in. And here is my dear old Bac"; and she
laid hold of the horns of a
reindeer, that had a bright copper ring round its
neck, and was tethered to
the spot. "We are obliged to lock this fellow in
too, or he would make his
escape. Every evening I tickle his neck with my
sharp knife; he is so
frightened at it!" and the little girl drew forth a
long knife, from a crack
in the wall, and let it glide over the Reindeer's
neck. The poor animal
kicked; the girl laughed, and pulled Gerda into bed
with her.
"Do you intend to keep your knife while you sleep?"
asked Gerda; looking at it
rather fearfully.
"I always sleep with the knife," said the little
robber maiden. "There is no
knowing what may happen. But tell me now, once more,
all about little Kay; and
why you have started off in the wide world alone."
And Gerda related all, from
the very beginning: the Wood-pigeons cooed above in
their cage, and the others
slept. The little robber maiden wound her arm round
Gerda's neck, held the
knife in the other hand, and snored so loud that
everybody could hear her; but
Gerda could not close her eyes, for she did not know
whether she was to live
or die. The robbers sat round the fire, sang and
drank; and the old female
robber jumped about so, that it was quite dreadful
for Gerda to see her.
Then the Wood-pigeons said, "Coo! Coo! We have seen
little Kay! A white hen
carries his sledge; he himself sat in the carriage
of the Snow Queen, who
passed here, down just over the wood, as we lay in
our nest. She blew upon us
young ones; and all died except we two. Coo! Coo!"
"What is that you say up there?" cried little Gerda.
"Where did the Snow Queen
go to? Do you know anything about it?"
"She is no doubt gone to Lapland; for there is
always snow and ice there. Only
ask the Reindeer, who is tethered there."
"Ice and snow is there! There it is, glorious and
beautiful!" said the
Reindeer. "One can spring about in the large shining
valleys! The Snow Queen
has her summer-tent there; but her fixed abode is
high up towards the North
Pole, on the Island called Spitzbergen."
"Oh, Kay! Poor little Kay!" sighed Gerda.
"Do you choose to be quiet?" said the robber maiden.
"If you don't, I shall
make you."
In the morning Gerda told her all that the
Wood-pigeons had said; and the
little maiden looked very serious, but she nodded
her head, and said, "That's
no matter--that's no matter. Do you know where
Lapland lies!" she asked of the
Reindeer.
"Who should know better than I?" said the animal;
and his eyes rolled in his
head. "I was born and bred there--there I leapt
about on the fields of snow."
"Listen," said the robber maiden to Gerda. "You see
that the men are gone;
but my mother is still here, and will remain.
However, towards morning she
takes a draught out of the large flask, and then she
sleeps a little: then I
will do something for you." She now jumped out of
bed, flew to her mother;
with her arms round her neck, and pulling her by the
beard, said, "Good
morrow, my own sweet nanny-goat of a mother." And
her mother took hold of her
nose, and pinched it till it was red and blue; but
this was all done out of
pure love.
When the mother had taken a sup at her flask, and
was having a nap, the little
robber maiden went to the Reindeer, and said, "I
should very much like to give
you still many a tickling with the sharp knife, for
then you are so amusing;
however, I will untether you, and help you out, so
that you may go back to
Lapland. But you must make good use of your legs;
and take this little girl
for me to the palace of the Snow Queen, where her
playfellow is. You have
heard, I suppose, all she said; for she spoke loud
enough, and you were
listening."
The Reindeer gave a bound for joy. The robber maiden
lifted up little Gerda,
and took the precaution to bind her fast on the
Reindeer's back; she even gave
her a small cushion to sit on. "Here are your
worsted leggins, for it will be
cold; but the muff I shall keep for myself, for it
is so very pretty. But I
do not wish you to be cold. Here is a pair of lined
gloves of my mother's;
they just reach up to your elbow. On with them! Now
you look about the hands
just like my ugly old mother!"
And Gerda wept for joy.
"I can't bear to see you fretting," said the little
robber maiden. "This is
just the time when you ought to look pleased. Here
are two loaves and a ham
for you, so that you won't starve." The bread and
the meat were fastened to
the Reindeer's back; the little maiden opened the
door, called in all the
dogs, and then with her knife cut the rope that
fastened the animal, and said
to him, "Now, off with you; but take good care of
the little girl!"
And Gerda stretched out her hands with the large
wadded gloves towards the
robber maiden, and said, "Farewell!" and the
Reindeer flew on over bush and
bramble through the great wood, over moor and heath,
as fast as he could go.
"Ddsa! Ddsa!" was heard in the sky. It was just as
if somebody was sneezing.
"These are my old northern-lights," said the
Reindeer, "look how they gleam!"
And on he now sped still quicker--day and night on
he went: the loaves were
consumed, and the ham too; and now they were in
Lapland.
SIXTH STORY. The Lapland Woman and the Finland Woman
Suddenly they stopped before a little house, which
looked very miserable. The
roof reached to the ground; and the door was so low,
that the family were
obliged to creep upon their stomachs when they went
in or out. Nobody was at
home except an old Lapland woman, who was dressing
fish by the light of an oil
lamp. And the Reindeer told her the whole of Gerda's
history, but first of all
his own; for that seemed to him of much greater
importance. Gerda was so
chilled that she could not speak.
"Poor thing," said the Lapland woman, "you have far
to run still. You have
more than a hundred miles to go before you get to
Finland; there the Snow
Queen has her country-house, and burns blue lights
every evening. I will give
you a few words from me, which I will write on a
dried haberdine, for paper I
have none; this you can take with you to the Finland
woman, and she will be
able to give you more information than I can."
When Gerda had warmed herself, and had eaten and
drunk, the Lapland woman
wrote a few words on a dried haberdine, begged Gerda
to take care of them, put
her on the Reindeer, bound her fast, and away sprang
the animal. "Ddsa! Ddsa!"
was again heard in the air; the most charming blue
lights burned the whole
night in the sky, and at last they came to Finland.
They knocked at the
chimney of the Finland woman; for as to a door, she
had none.
There was such a heat inside that the Finland woman
herself went about
almost naked. She was diminutive and dirty. She
immediately loosened little
Gerda's clothes, pulled off her thick gloves and
boots; for otherwise the heat
would have been too great--and after laying a piece
of ice on the Reindeer's
head, read what was written on the fish-skin. She
read it three times: she
then knew it by heart; so she put the fish into the
cupboard--for it might
very well be eaten, and she never threw anything
away.
Then the Reindeer related his own story first, and
afterwards that of little
Gerda; and the Finland woman winked her eyes, but
said nothing.
"You are so clever," said the Reindeer; "you can, I
know, twist all the winds
of the world together in a knot. If the seaman
loosens one knot, then he has a
good wind; if a second, then it blows pretty
stiffly; if he undoes the third
and fourth, then it rages so that the forests are
upturned. Will you give the
little maiden a potion, that she may possess the
strength of twelve men, and
vanquish the Snow Queen?"
"The strength of twelve men!" said the Finland
woman. "Much good that would
be!" Then she went to a cupboard, and drew out a
large skin rolled up. When
she had unrolled it, strange characters were to be
seen written thereon; and
the Finland woman read at such a rate that the
perspiration trickled down her
forehead.
But the Reindeer begged so hard for little Gerda,
and Gerda looked so
imploringly with tearful eyes at the Finland woman,
that she winked, and drew
the Reindeer aside into a corner, where they
whispered together, while the
animal got some fresh ice put on his head.
"'Tis true little Kay is at the Snow Queen's, and
finds everything there quite
to his taste; and he thinks it the very best place
in the world; but the
reason of that is, he has a splinter of glass in his
eye, and in his heart.
These must be got out first; otherwise he will never
go back to mankind, and
the Snow Queen will retain her power over him."
"But can you give little Gerda nothing to take which
will endue her with power
over the whole?"
"I can give her no more power than what she has
already. Don't you see how
great it is? Don't you see how men and animals are
forced to serve her; how
well she gets through the world barefooted? She must
not hear of her power
from us; that power lies in her heart, because she
is a sweet and innocent
child! If she cannot get to the Snow Queen by
herself, and rid little Kay of
the glass, we cannot help her. Two miles hence the
garden of the Snow Queen
begins; thither you may carry the little girl. Set
her down by the large bush
with red berries, standing in the snow; don't stay
talking, but hasten back as
fast as possible." And now the Finland woman placed
little Gerda on the
Reindeer's back, and off he ran with all imaginable
speed.
"Oh! I have not got my boots! I have not brought my
gloves!" cried little
Gerda. She remarked she was without them from the
cutting frost; but the
Reindeer dared not stand still; on he ran till he
came to the great bush with
the red berries, and there he set Gerda down, kissed
her mouth, while large
bright tears flowed from the animal's eyes, and then
back he went as fast as
possible. There stood poor Gerda now, without shoes
or gloves, in the very
middle of dreadful icy Finland.
She ran on as fast as she could. There then came a
whole regiment of
snow-flakes, but they did not fall from above, and
they were quite bright and
shining from the Aurora Borealis. The flakes ran
along the ground, and the
nearer they came the larger they grew. Gerda well
remembered how large and
strange the snow-flakes appeared when she once saw
them through a
magnifying-glass; but now they were large and
terrific in another
manner--they were all alive. They were the outposts
of the Snow Queen. They
had the most wondrous shapes; some looked like large
ugly porcupines; others
like snakes knotted together, with their heads
sticking out; and others,
again, like small fat bears, with the hair standing
on end: all were of
dazzling whiteness--all were living snow-flakes.
Little Gerda repeated the Lord's Prayer. The cold
was so intense that she
could see her own breath, which came like smoke out
of her mouth. It grew
thicker and thicker, and took the form of little
angels, that grew more and
more when they touched the earth. All had helms on
their heads, and lances
and shields in their hands; they increased in
numbers; and when Gerda had
finished the Lord's Prayer, she was surrounded by a
whole legion. They thrust
at the horrid snow-flakes with their spears, so that
they flew into a thousand
pieces; and little Gerda walked on bravely and in
security. The angels patted
her hands and feet; and then she felt the cold less,
and went on quickly
towards the palace of the Snow Queen.
But now we shall see how Kay fared. He never thought
of Gerda, and least of
all that she was standing before the palace.
SEVENTH STORY. What Took Place in the Palace of the
Snow Queen, and what
Happened Afterward
The walls of the palace were of driving snow, and
the windows and doors of
cutting winds. There were more than a hundred halls
there, according as the
snow was driven by the winds. The largest was many
miles in extent; all were
lighted up by the powerful Aurora Borealis, and all
were so large, so empty,
so icy cold, and so resplendent! Mirth never reigned
there; there was never
even a little bear-ball, with the storm for music,
while the polar bears went
on their hind legs and showed off their steps. Never
a little tea-party of
white young lady foxes; vast, cold, and empty were
the halls of the Snow
Queen. The northern-lights shone with such precision
that one could tell
exactly when they were at their highest or lowest
degree of brightness. In the
middle of the empty, endless hall of snow, was a
frozen lake; it was cracked
in a thousand pieces, but each piece was so like the
other, that it seemed the
work of a cunning artificer. In the middle of this
lake sat the Snow Queen
when she was at home; and then she said she was
sitting in the Mirror of
Understanding, and that this was the only one and
the best thing in the world.
Little Kay was quite blue, yes nearly black with
cold; but he did not observe
it, for she had kissed away all feeling of cold from
his body, and his heart
was a lump of ice. He was dragging along some
pointed flat pieces of ice,
which he laid together in all possible ways, for he
wanted to make something
with them; just as we have little flat pieces of
wood to make geometrical
figures with, called the Chinese Puzzle. Kay made
all sorts of figures, the
most complicated, for it was an ice-puzzle for the
understanding. In his eyes
the figures were extraordinarily beautiful, and of
the utmost importance; for
the bit of glass which was in his eye caused this.
He found whole figures
which represented a written word; but he never could
manage to represent just
the word he wanted--that word was "eternity"; and
the Snow Queen had said, "If
you can discover that figure, you shall be your own
master, and I will make
you a present of the whole world and a pair of new
skates." But he could not
find it out.
"I am going now to warm lands," said the Snow Queen.
"I must have a look down
into the black caldrons." It was the volcanoes
Vesuvius and Etna that she
meant. "I will just give them a coating of white,
for that is as it ought to
be; besides, it is good for the oranges and the
grapes." And then away she
flew, and Kay sat quite alone in the empty halls of
ice that were miles long,
and looked at the blocks of ice, and thought and
thought till his skull was
almost cracked. There he sat quite benumbed and
motionless; one would have
imagined he was frozen to death.
Suddenly little Gerda stepped through the great
portal into the palace. The
gate was formed of cutting winds; but Gerda repeated
her evening prayer, and
the winds were laid as though they slept; and the
little maiden entered the
vast, empty, cold halls. There she beheld Kay: she
recognised him, flew to
embrace him, and cried out, her arms firmly holding
him the while, "Kay, sweet
little Kay! Have I then found you at last?"
But he sat quite still, benumbed and cold. Then
little Gerda shed burning
tears; and they fell on his bosom, they penetrated
to his heart, they thawed
the lumps of ice, and consumed the splinters of the
looking-glass; he looked
at her, and she sang the hymn:
"The rose in the valley is blooming so sweet,
And angels descend there the children to greet."
Hereupon Kay burst into tears; he wept so much that
the splinter rolled out of
his eye, and he recognised her, and shouted, "Gerda,
sweet little Gerda! Where
have you been so long? And where have I been?" He
looked round him. "How cold
it is here!" said he. "How empty and cold!" And he
held fast by Gerda, who
laughed and wept for joy. It was so beautiful, that
even the blocks of ice
danced about for joy; and when they were tired and
laid themselves down, they
formed exactly the letters which the Snow Queen had
told him to find out; so
now he was his own master, and he would have the
whole world and a pair of new
skates into the bargain.
Gerda kissed his cheeks, and they grew quite
blooming; she kissed his eyes,
and they shone like her own; she kissed his hands
and feet, and he was again
well and merry. The Snow Queen might come back as
soon as she liked; there
stood his discharge written in resplendent masses of
ice.
They took each other by the hand, and wandered forth
out of the large hall;
they talked of their old grandmother, and of the
roses upon the roof; and
wherever they went, the winds ceased raging, and the
sun burst forth. And when
they reached the bush with the red berries, they
found the Reindeer waiting
for them. He had brought another, a young one, with
him, whose udder was
filled with milk, which he gave to the little ones,
and kissed their lips.
They then carried Kay and Gerda--first to the
Finland woman, where they
warmed themselves in the warm room, and learned what
they were to do on their
journey home; and they went to the Lapland woman,
who made some new
clothes for them and repaired their sledges.
The Reindeer and the young hind leaped along beside
them, and accompanied them
to the boundary of the country. Here the first
vegetation peeped forth; here
Kay and Gerda took leave of the Lapland woman.
"Farewell! Farewell!" they all
said. And the first green buds appeared, the first
little birds began to
chirrup; and out of the wood came, riding on a
magnificent horse, which Gerda
knew (it was one of the leaders in the golden
carriage), a young damsel with a
bright-red cap on her head, and armed with pistols.
It was the little robber
maiden, who, tired of being at home, had determined
to make a journey to the
north; and afterwards in another direction, if that
did not please her. She
recognised Gerda immediately, and Gerda knew her
too. It was a joyful meeting.
"You are a fine fellow for tramping about," said she
to little Kay; "I should
like to know, faith, if you deserve that one should
run from one end of the
world to the other for your sake?"
But Gerda patted her cheeks, and inquired for the
Prince and Princess.
"They are gone abroad," said the other.
"But the Raven?" asked little Gerda.
"Oh! The Raven is dead," she answered. "His tame
sweetheart is a widow, and
wears a bit of black worsted round her leg; she
laments most piteously, but
it's all mere talk and stuff! Now tell me what
you've been doing and how you
managed to catch him."
And Gerda and Kay both told their story.
And "Schnipp-schnapp-schnurre-basselurre," said the
robber maiden; and she
took the hands of each, and promised that if she
should some day pass through
the town where they lived, she would come and visit
them; and then away she
rode. Kay and Gerda took each other's hand: it was
lovely spring weather, with
abundance of flowers and of verdure. The
church-bells rang, and the children
recognised the high towers, and the large town; it
was that in which they
dwelt. They entered and hastened up to their
grandmother's room, where
everything was standing as formerly. The clock said
"tick! tack!" and the
finger moved round; but as they entered, they
remarked that they were now
grown up. The roses on the leads hung blooming in at
the open window; there
stood the little children's chairs, and Kay and
Gerda sat down on them,
holding each other by the hand; they both had
forgotten the cold empty
splendor of the Snow Queen, as though it had been a
dream. The grandmother sat
in the bright sunshine, and read aloud from the
Bible: "Unless ye become as
little children, ye cannot enter the kingdom of
heaven."
And Kay and Gerda looked in each other's eyes, and
all at once they understood
the old hymn:
"The rose in the valley is blooming so sweet,
And angels descend there the children to greet."
There sat the two grown-up persons; grown-up, and
yet children; children at
least in heart; and it was summer-time; summer,
glorious summer!
THE LEAP-FROG
A Flea, a Grasshopper, and a Leap-frog once wanted
to see which could jump
highest; and they invited the whole world, and
everybody else besides who
chose to come to see the festival. Three famous
jumpers were they, as
everyone would say, when they all met together in
the room.
"I will give my daughter to him who jumps highest,"
exclaimed the King; "for
it is not so amusing where there is no prize to jump
for."
The Flea was the first to step forward. He had
exquisite manners, and bowed to
the company on all sides; for he had noble blood,
and was, moreover,
accustomed to the society of man alone; and that
makes a great difference.
Then came the Grasshopper. He was considerably
heavier, but he was
well-mannered, and wore a green uniform, which he
had by right of birth; he
said, moreover, that he belonged to a very ancient
Egyptian family, and that
in the house where he then was, he was thought much
of. The fact was, he had
been just brought out of the fields, and put in a
pasteboard house, three
stories high, all made of court-cards, with the
colored side inwards; and
doors and windows cut out of the body of the Queen
of Hearts. "I sing so
well," said he, "that sixteen native grasshoppers
who have chirped from
infancy, and yet got no house built of cards to live
in, grew thinner than
they were before for sheer vexation when they heard
me."
It was thus that the Flea and the Grasshopper gave
an account of themselves,
and thought they were quite good enough to marry a
Princess.
The Leap-frog said nothing; but people gave it as
their opinion, that he
therefore thought the more; and when the housedog
snuffed at him with his
nose, he confessed the Leap-frog was of good family.
The old councillor, who
had had three orders given him to make him hold his
tongue, asserted that the
Leap-frog was a prophet; for that one could see on
his back, if there would be
a severe or mild winter, and that was what one could
not see even on the back
of the man who writes the almanac.
"I say nothing, it is true," exclaimed the King;
"but I have my own opinion,
notwithstanding."
Now the trial was to take place. The Flea jumped so
high that nobody could see
where he went to; so they all asserted he had not
jumped at all; and that was
dishonorable.
The Grasshopper jumped only half as high; but he
leaped into the King's face,
who said that was ill-mannered.
The Leap-frog stood still for a long time lost in
thought; it was believed at
last he would not jump at all.
"I only hope he is not unwell," said the house-dog;
when, pop! he made a jump
all on one side into the lap of the Princess, who
was sitting on a little
golden stool close by.
Hereupon the King said, "There is nothing above my
daughter; therefore to
bound up to her is the highest jump that can be
made; but for this, one must
possess understanding, and the Leap-frog has shown
that he has understanding.
He is brave and intellectual."
And so he won the Princess.
"It's all the same to me," said the Flea. "She may
have the old Leap-frog, for
all I care. I jumped the highest; but in this world
merit seldom meets its
reward. A fine exterior is what people look at
now-a-days."
The Flea then went into foreign service, where, it
is said, he was killed.
The Grasshopper sat without on a green bank, and
reflected on worldly things;
and he said too, "Yes, a fine exterior is
everything--a fine exterior is what
people care about." And then he began chirping his
peculiar melancholy song,
from which we have taken this history; and which
may, very possibly, be all
untrue, although it does stand here printed in black
and white.
THE ELDERBUSH
Once upon a time there was a little boy who had
taken cold. He had gone
out and got his feet wet; though nobody could
imagine how it had happened, for
it was quite dry weather. So his mother undressed
him, put him to bed, and
had the tea-pot brought in, to make him a good cup
of Elderflower tea.
Just at that moment the merry old man came in who
lived up a-top of the house
all alone; for he had neither wife nor children--but
he liked children very
much, and knew so many fairy tales, that it was
quite delightful.
"Now drink your tea," said the boy's mother; "then,
perhaps, you may hear a
fairy tale."
"If I had but something new to tell," said the old
man. "But how did the child
get his feet wet?"
"That is the very thing that nobody can make out,"
said his mother.
"Am I to hear a fairy tale?" asked the little boy.
"Yes, if you can tell me exactly--for I must know
that first--how deep the
gutter is in the little street opposite, that you
pass through in going to
school."
"Just up to the middle of my boot," said the child;
"but then I must go into
the deep hole."
"Ah, ah! That's where the wet feet came from," said
the old man. "I ought now
to tell you a story; but I don't know any more."
"You can make one in a moment," said the little boy.
"My mother says that all
you look at can be turned into a fairy tale: and
that you can find a story in
everything."
"Yes, but such tales and stories are good for
nothing. The right sort come of
themselves; they tap at my forehead and say, 'Here
we are.'"
"Won't there be a tap soon?" asked the little boy.
And his mother laughed, put
some Elder-flowers in the tea-pot, and poured
boiling water upon them.
"Do tell me something! Pray do!"
"Yes, if a fairy tale would come of its own accord;
but they are proud and
haughty, and come only when they choose. Stop!" said
he, all on a sudden. "I
have it! Pay attention! There is one in the
tea-pot!"
And the little boy looked at the tea-pot. The cover
rose more and more; and
the Elder-flowers came forth so fresh and white, and
shot up long branches.
Out of the spout even did they spread themselves on
all sides, and grew larger
and larger; it was a splendid Elderbush, a whole
tree; and it reached into the
very bed, and pushed the curtains aside. How it
bloomed! And what an odour! In
the middle of the bush sat a friendly-looking old
woman in a most strange
dress. It was quite green, like the leaves of the
elder, and was trimmed with
large white Elder-flowers; so that at first one
could not tell whether it was
a stuff, or a natural green and real flowers.
"What's that woman's name?" asked the little boy.
"The Greeks and Romans," said the old man, "called
her a Dryad; but that we do
not understand. The people who live in the New
Booths* have a much better name
for her; they call her 'old Granny'--and she it is
to whom you are to pay
attention. Now listen, and look at the beautiful
Elderbush.
* A row of buildings for seamen in Copenhagen.
"Just such another large blooming Elder Tree stands
near the New Booths. It
grew there in the corner of a little miserable
court-yard; and under it sat,
of an afternoon, in the most splendid sunshine, two
old people; an old, old
seaman, and his old, old wife. They had
great-grand-children, and were soon to
celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of their
marriage; but they could not
exactly recollect the date: and old Granny sat in
the tree, and looked as
pleased as now. 'I know the date,' said she; but
those below did not hear her,
for they were talking about old times.
"'Yes, can't you remember when we were very little,'
said the old seaman, 'and
ran and played about? It was the very same
court-yard where we now are, and we
stuck slips in the ground, and made a garden.'
"'I remember it well,' said the old woman; 'I
remember it quite well. We
watered the slips, and one of them was an Elderbush.
It took root, put forth
green shoots, and grew up to be the large tree under
which we old folks are
now sitting.'
"'To be sure,' said he. 'And there in the corner
stood a waterpail, where I
used to swim my boats.'
"'True; but first we went to school to learn
somewhat,' said she; 'and then we
were confirmed. We both cried; but in the afternoon
we went up the Round
Tower, and looked down on Copenhagen, and far, far
away over the water; then
we went to Friedericksberg, where the King and the
Queen were sailing about in
their splendid barges.'
"'But I had a different sort of sailing to that,
later; and that, too, for
many a year; a long way off, on great voyages.'
"'Yes, many a time have I wept for your sake,' said
she. 'I thought you
were dead and gone, and lying down in the deep
waters. Many a night have I got
up to see if the wind had not changed: and changed
it had, sure enough; but
you never came. I remember so well one day, when the
rain was pouring down in
torrents, the scavengers were before the house where
I was in service, and I
had come up with the dust, and remained standing at
the door--it was dreadful
weather--when just as I was there, the postman came
and gave me a letter. It
was from you! What a tour that letter had made! I
opened it instantly and
read: I laughed and wept. I was so happy. In it I
read that you were in warm
lands where the coffee-tree grows. What a blessed
land that must be! You
related so much, and I saw it all the while the rain
was pouring down, and I
standing there with the dust-box. At the same moment
came someone who embraced
me.'
"'Yes; but you gave him a good box on his ear that
made it tingle!'
"'But I did not know it was you. You arrived as soon
as your letter, and you
were so handsome--that you still are--and had a long
yellow silk handkerchief
round your neck, and a bran new hat on; oh, you were
so dashing! Good heavens!
What weather it was, and what a state the street was
in!'
"'And then we married,' said he. 'Don't you
remember? And then we had our
first little boy, and then Mary, and Nicholas, and
Peter, and Christian.'
"'Yes, and how they all grew up to be honest people,
and were beloved by
everybody.'
"'And their children also have children,' said the
old sailor; 'yes, those
are our grand-children, full of strength and vigor.
It was, methinks about
this season that we had our wedding.'
"'Yes, this very day is the fiftieth anniversary of
the marriage,' said old
Granny, sticking her head between the two old
people; who thought it was their
neighbor who nodded to them. They looked at each
other and held one another by
the hand. Soon after came their children, and their
grand-children; for they
knew well enough that it was the day of the fiftieth
anniversary, and had come
with their gratulations that very morning; but the
old people had forgotten
it, although they were able to remember all that had
happened many years ago.
And the Elderbush sent forth a strong odour in the
sun, that was just about to
set, and shone right in the old people's faces. They
both looked so
rosy-cheeked; and the youngest of the grandchildren
danced around them, and
called out quite delighted, that there was to be
something very splendid that
evening--they were all to have hot potatoes. And old
Nanny nodded in the bush,
and shouted 'hurrah!' with the rest."
"But that is no fairy tale," said the little boy,
who was listening to the
story.
"The thing is, you must understand it," said the
narrator; "let us ask old
Nanny."
"That was no fairy tale, 'tis true," said old Nanny;
"but now it's coming. The
most wonderful fairy tales grow out of that which is
reality; were that not
the case, you know, my magnificent Elderbush could
not have grown out of the
tea-pot." And then she took the little boy out of
bed, laid him on her bosom,
and the branches of the Elder Tree, full of flowers,
closed around her. They
sat in an aerial dwelling, and it flew with them
through the air. Oh, it was
wondrous beautiful! Old Nanny had grown all of a
sudden a young and pretty
maiden; but her robe was still the same green stuff
with white flowers, which
she had worn before. On her bosom she had a real
Elderflower, and in her
yellow waving hair a wreath of the flowers; her eyes
were so large and blue
that it was a pleasure to look at them; she kissed
the boy, and now they were
of the same age and felt alike.
Hand in hand they went out of the bower, and they
were standing in the
beautiful garden of their home. Near the green lawn
papa's walking-stick was
tied, and for the little ones it seemed to be
endowed with life; for as soon
as they got astride it, the round polished knob was
turned into a magnificent
neighing head, a long black mane fluttered in the
breeze, and four slender yet
strong legs shot out. The animal was strong and
handsome, and away they went
at full gallop round the lawn.
"Huzza! Now we are riding miles off," said the boy.
"We are riding away to
the castle where we were last year!"
And on they rode round the grass-plot; and the
little maiden, who, we know,
was no one else but old Nanny, kept on crying out,
"Now we are in the country!
Don't you see the farm-house yonder? And there is an
Elder Tree standing
beside it; and the cock is scraping away the earth
for the hens, look, how he
struts! And now we are close to the church. It lies
high upon the hill,
between the large oak-trees, one of which is half
decayed. And now we are by
the smithy, where the fire is blazing, and where the
half-naked men are
banging with their hammers till the sparks fly
about. Away! away! To the
beautiful country-seat!"
And all that the little maiden, who sat behind on
the stick, spoke of, flew by
in reality. The boy saw it all, and yet they were
only going round the
grass-plot. Then they played in a side avenue, and
marked out a little garden
on the earth; and they took Elder-blossoms from
their hair, planted them, and
they grew just like those the old people planted
when they were children, as
related before. They went hand in hand, as the old
people had done when they
were children; but not to the Round Tower, or to
Friedericksberg; no, the
little damsel wound her arms round the boy, and then
they flew far away
through all Denmark. And spring came, and summer;
and then it was autumn, and
then winter; and a thousand pictures were reflected
in the eye and in the
heart of the boy; and the little girl always sang to
him, "This you will never
forget." And during their whole flight the Elder
Tree smelt so sweet and
odorous; he remarked the roses and the fresh
beeches, but the Elder Tree had a
more wondrous fragrance, for its flowers hung on the
breast of the little
maiden; and there, too, did he often lay his head
during the flight.
"It is lovely here in spring!" said the young
maiden. And they stood in a
beech-wood that had just put on its first green,
where the woodroof* at their
feet sent forth its fragrance, and the pale-red
anemony looked so pretty among
the verdure. "Oh, would it were always spring in the
sweetly-smelling Danish
beech-forests!"
* Asperula odorata.
"It is lovely here in summer!" said she. And she
flew past old castles of
by-gone days of chivalry, where the red walls and
the embattled gables were
mirrored in the canal, where the swans were
swimming, and peered up into the
old cool avenues. In the fields the corn was waving
like the sea; in the
ditches red and yellow flowers were growing; while
wild-drone flowers, and
blooming convolvuluses were creeping in the hedges;
and towards evening the
moon rose round and large, and the haycocks in the
meadows smelt so sweetly.
"This one never forgets!"
"It is lovely here in autumn!" said the little
maiden. And suddenly the
atmosphere grew as blue again as before; the forest
grew red, and green, and
yellow-colored. The dogs came leaping along, and
whole flocks of wild-fowl
flew over the cairn, where blackberry-bushes were
hanging round the old
stones. The sea was dark blue, covered with ships
full of white sails; and in
the barn old women, maidens, and children were
sitting picking hops into a
large cask; the young sang songs, but the old told
fairy tales of
mountain-sprites and soothsayers. Nothing could be
more charming.
"It is delightful here in winter!" said the little
maiden. And all the trees
were covered with hoar-frost; they looked like white
corals; the snow crackled
under foot, as if one had new boots on; and one
falling star after the other
was seen in the sky. The Christmas-tree was lighted
in the room; presents were
there, and good-humor reigned. In the country the
violin sounded in the room
of the peasant; the newly-baked cakes were attacked;
even the poorest child
said, "It is really delightful here in winter!"
Yes, it was delightful; and the little maiden showed
the boy everything; and
the Elder Tree still was fragrant, and the red flag,
with the white cross, was
still waving: the flag under which the old seaman in
the New Booths had
sailed. And the boy grew up to be a lad, and was to
go forth in the wide
world-far, far away to warm lands, where the
coffee-tree grows; but at his
departure the little maiden took an Elder-blossom
from her bosom, and
gave it him to keep; and it was placed between the
leaves of his Prayer-Book;
and when in foreign lands he opened the book, it was
always at the place where
the keepsake-flower lay; and the more he looked at
it, the fresher it became;
he felt as it were, the fragrance of the Danish
groves; and from among the
leaves of the flowers he could distinctly see the
little maiden, peeping forth
with her bright blue eyes--and then she whispered,
"It is delightful here in
Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter"; and a hundred
visions glided before his
mind.
Thus passed many years, and he was now an old man,
and sat with his old wife
under the blooming tree. They held each other by the
hand, as the old
grand-father and grand-mother yonder in the New
Booths did, and they talked
exactly like them of old times, and of the fiftieth
anniversary of their
wedding. The little maiden, with the blue eyes, and
with Elder-blossoms in her
hair, sat in the tree, nodded to both of them, and
said, "To-day is the
fiftieth anniversary!" And then she took two flowers
out of her hair, and
kissed them. First, they shone like silver, then
like gold; and when they laid
them on the heads of the old people, each flower
became a golden crown. So
there they both sat, like a king and a queen, under
the fragrant tree, that
looked exactly like an elder: the old man told his
wife the story of "Old
Nanny," as it had been told him when a boy. And it
seemed to both of them it
contained much that resembled their own history; and
those parts that were
like it pleased them best.
"Thus it is," said the little maiden in the tree,
"some call me 'Old Nanny,'
others a 'Dryad,' but, in reality, my name is
'Remembrance'; 'tis I who sit in
the tree that grows and grows! I can remember; I can
tell things! Let me see
if you have my flower still?"
And the old man opened his Prayer-Book. There lay
the Elder-blossom, as fresh
as if it had been placed there but a short time
before; and Remembrance
nodded, and the old people, decked with crowns of
gold, sat in the flush of
the evening sun. They closed their eyes, and--and--!
Yes, that's the end of
the story!
The little boy lay in his bed; he did not know if he
had dreamed or not, or if
he had been listening while someone told him the
story. The tea-pot was
standing on the table, but no Elder Tree was growing
out of it! And the old
man, who had been talking, was just on the point of
going out at the door, and
he did go.
"How splendid that was!" said the little boy.
"Mother, I have been to warm
countries."
"So I should think," said his mother. "When one has
drunk two good cupfuls of
Elder-flower tea, 'tis likely enough one goes into
warm climates"; and she
tucked him up nicely, least he should take cold.
"You have had a good sleep
while I have been sitting here, and arguing with him
whether it was a story or
a fairy tale."
"And where is old Nanny?" asked the little boy.
"In the tea-pot," said his mother; "and there she
may remain."
THE BELL
People said "The Evening Bell is sounding, the sun
is setting." For a strange
wondrous tone was heard in the narrow streets of a
large town. It was like the
sound of a church-bell: but it was only heard for a
moment, for the rolling of
the carriages and the voices of the multitude made
too great a noise.
Those persons who were walking outside the town,
where the houses were farther
apart, with gardens or little fields between them,
could see the evening sky
still better, and heard the sound of the bell much
more distinctly. It was as
if the tones came from a church in the still forest;
people looked
thitherward, and felt their minds attuned most
solemnly.
A long time passed, and people said to each
other--"I wonder if there is a
church out in the wood? The bell has a tone that is
wondrous sweet; let us
stroll thither, and examine the matter nearer." And
the rich people drove out,
and the poor walked, but the way seemed strangely
long to them; and when they
came to a clump of willows which grew on the skirts
of the forest, they sat
down, and looked up at the long branches, and
fancied they were now in the
depth of the green wood. The confectioner of the
town came out, and set up his
booth there; and soon after came another
confectioner, who hung a bell over
his stand, as a sign or ornament, but it had no
clapper, and it was tarred
over to preserve it from the rain. When all the
people returned home, they
said it had been very romantic, and that it was
quite a different sort of
thing to a pic-nic or tea-party. There were three
persons who asserted they
had penetrated to the end of the forest, and that
they had always heard the
wonderful sounds of the bell, but it had seemed to
them as if it had come from
the town. One wrote a whole poem about it, and said
the bell sounded like the
voice of a mother to a good dear child, and that no
melody was sweeter than
the tones of the bell. The king of the country was
also observant of it, and
vowed that he who could discover whence the sounds
proceeded, should have the
title of "Universal Bell-ringer," even if it were
not really a bell.
Many persons now went to the wood, for the sake of
getting the place, but one
only returned with a sort of explanation; for nobody
went far enough, that one
not further than the others. However, he said that
the sound proceeded from a
very large owl, in a hollow tree; a sort of learned
owl, that continually
knocked its head against the branches. But whether
the sound came from
his head or from the hollow tree, that no one could
say with certainty. So now
he got the place of "Universal Bell-ringer," and
wrote yearly a short treatise
"On the Owl"; but everybody was just as wise as
before.
It was the day of confirmation. The clergyman had
spoken so touchingly, the
children who were confirmed had been greatly moved;
it was an eventful day for
them; from children they become all at once
grown-up-persons; it was as if
their infant souls were now to fly all at once into
persons with more
understanding. The sun was shining gloriously; the
children that had been
confirmed went out of the town; and from the wood
was borne towards them the
sounds of the unknown bell with wonderful
distinctness. They all immediately
felt a wish to go thither; all except three. One of
them had to go home to try
on a ball-dress; for it was just the dress and the
ball which had caused her
to be confirmed this time, for otherwise she would
not have come; the other
was a poor boy, who had borrowed his coat and boots
to be confirmed in from
the innkeeper's son, and he was to give them back by
a certain hour; the third
said that he never went to a strange place if his
parents were not with
him--that he had always been a good boy hitherto,
and would still be so now
that he was confirmed, and that one ought not to
laugh at him for it: the
others, however, did make fun of him, after all.
There were three, therefore, that did not go; the
others hastened on. The sun
shone, the birds sang, and the children sang too,
and each held the other by
the hand; for as yet they had none of them any high
office, and were all of
equal rank in the eye of God.
But two of the youngest soon grew tired, and both
returned to town; two little
girls sat down, and twined garlands, so they did not
go either; and when the
others reached the willow-tree, where the
confectioner was, they said, "Now we
are there! In reality the bell does not exist; it is
only a fancy that people
have taken into their heads!"
At the same moment the bell sounded deep in the
wood, so clear and solemnly
that five or six determined to penetrate somewhat
further. It was so thick,
and the foliage so dense, that it was quite
fatiguing to proceed. Woodroof and
anemonies grew almost too high; blooming
convolvuluses and blackberry-bushes
hung in long garlands from tree to tree, where the
nightingale sang and the
sunbeams were playing: it was very beautiful, but it
was no place for girls to
go; their clothes would get so torn. Large blocks of
stone lay there,
overgrown with moss of every color; the fresh spring
bubbled forth, and made a
strange gurgling sound.
"That surely cannot be the bell," said one of the
children, lying down and
listening. "This must be looked to." So he remained,
and let the others go on
without him.
They afterwards came to a little house, made of
branches and the bark of
trees; a large wild apple-tree bent over it, as if
it would shower down all
its blessings on the roof, where roses were
blooming. The long stems twined
round the gable, on which there hung a small bell.
Was it that which people had heard? Yes, everybody
was unanimous on the
subject, except one, who said that the bell was too
small and too fine to be
heard at so great a distance, and besides it was
very different tones to those
that could move a human heart in such a manner. It
was a king's son who spoke;
whereon the others said, "Such people always want to
be wiser than everybody
else."
They now let him go on alone; and as he went, his
breast was filled more and
more with the forest solitude; but he still heard
the little bell with which
the others were so satisfied, and now and then, when
the wind blew, he could
also hear the people singing who were sitting at tea
where the confectioner
had his tent; but the deep sound of the bell rose
louder; it was almost as if
an organ were accompanying it, and the tones came
from the left hand, the side
where the heart is placed. A rustling was heard in
the bushes, and a little
boy stood before the King's Son, a boy in wooden
shoes, and with so short a
jacket that one could see what long wrists he had.
Both knew each other: the
boy was that one among the children who could not
come because he had to go
home and return his jacket and boots to the
innkeeper's son. This he had done,
and was now going on in wooden shoes and in his
humble dress, for the bell
sounded with so deep a tone, and with such strange
power, that proceed he
must.
"Why, then, we can go together," said the King's
Son. But the poor child that
had been confirmed was quite ashamed; he looked at
his wooden shoes, pulled at
the short sleeves of his jacket, and said that he
was afraid he could not walk
so fast; besides, he thought that the bell must be
looked for to the right;
for that was the place where all sorts of beautiful
things were to be found.
"But there we shall not meet," said the King's Son,
nodding at the same time
to the poor boy, who went into the darkest, thickest
part of the wood, where
thorns tore his humble dress, and scratched his face
and hands and feet till
they bled. The King's Son got some scratches too;
but the sun shone on his
path, and it is him that we will follow, for he was
an excellent and resolute
youth.
"I must and will find the bell," said he, "even if I
am obliged to go to the
end of the world."
The ugly apes sat upon the trees, and grinned.
"Shall we thrash him?" said
they. "Shall we thrash him? He is the son of a
king!"
But on he went, without being disheartened, deeper
and deeper into the wood,
where the most wonderful flowers were growing. There
stood white lilies with
blood-red stamina, skyblue tulips, which shone as
they waved in the winds, and
apple-trees, the apples of which looked exactly like
large soapbubbles: so
only think how the trees must have sparkled in the
sunshine! Around the nicest
green meads, where the deer were playing in the
grass, grew magnificent oaks
and beeches; and if the bark of one of the trees was
cracked, there grass and
long creeping plants grew in the crevices. And there
were large calm lakes
there too, in which white swans were swimming, and
beat the air with their
wings. The King's Son often stood still and
listened. He thought the bell
sounded from the depths of these still lakes; but
then he remarked again that
the tone proceeded not from there, but farther off,
from out the depths of the
forest.
The sun now set: the atmosphere glowed like fire. It
was still in the woods,
so very still; and he fell on his knees, sung his
evening hymn, and said: "I
cannot find what I seek; the sun is going down, and
night is coming--the dark,
dark night. Yet perhaps I may be able once more to
see the round red sun
before he entirely disappears. I will climb up
yonder rock."
And he seized hold of the creeping-plants, and the
roots of trees--climbed up
the moist stones where the water-snakes were
writhing and the toads were
croaking--and he gained the summit before the sun
had quite gone down. How
magnificent was the sight from this height! The
sea--the great, the glorious
sea, that dashed its long waves against the
coast--was stretched out before
him. And yonder, where sea and sky meet, stood the
sun, like a large shining
altar, all melted together in the most glowing
colors. And the wood and the
sea sang a song of rejoicing, and his heart sang
with the rest: all nature was
a vast holy church, in which the trees and the
buoyant clouds were the
pillars, flowers and grass the velvet carpeting, and
heaven itself the large
cupola. The red colors above faded away as the sun
vanished, but a million
stars were lighted, a million lamps shone; and the
King's Son spread out his
arms towards heaven, and wood, and sea; when at the
same moment, coming by a
path to the right, appeared, in his wooden shoes and
jacket, the poor boy who
had been confirmed with him. He had followed his own
path, and had reached the
spot just as soon as the son of the king had done.
They ran towards each
other, and stood together hand in hand in the vast
church of nature and of
poetry, while over them sounded the invisible holy
bell: blessed spirits
floated around them, and lifted up their voices in a
rejoicing hallelujah!
THE OLD HOUSE
In the street, up there, was an old, a very old
house--it was almost three
hundred years old, for that might be known by
reading the great beam on which
the date of the year was carved: together with
tulips and hop-binds there were
whole verses spelled as in former times, and over
every window was a distorted
face cut out in the beam. The one story stood
forward a great way over the
other; and directly under the eaves was a leaden
spout with a dragon's head;
the rain-water should have run out of the mouth, but
it ran out of the belly,
for there was a hole in the spout.
All the other houses in the street were so new and
so neat, with large window
panes and smooth walls, one could easily see that
they would have nothing to
do with the old house: they certainly thought, "How
long is that old decayed
thing to stand here as a spectacle in the street?
And then the projecting
windows stand so far out, that no one can see from
our windows what happens in
that direction! The steps are as broad as those of a
palace, and as high as to
a church tower. The iron railings look just like the
door to an old family
vault, and then they have brass tops--that's so
stupid!"
On the other side of the street were also new and
neat houses, and they
thought just as the others did; but at the window
opposite the old house there
sat a little boy with fresh rosy cheeks and bright
beaming eyes: he certainly
liked the old house best, and that both in sunshine
and moonshine. And when he
looked across at the wall where the mortar had
fallen out, he could sit and
find out there the strangest figures imaginable;
exactly as the street had
appeared before, with steps, projecting windows, and
pointed gables; he could
see soldiers with halberds, and spouts where the
water ran, like dragons and
serpents. That was a house to look at; and there
lived an old man, who wore
plush breeches; and he had a coat with large brass
buttons, and a wig that one
could see was a real wig. Every morning there came
an old fellow to him who
put his rooms in order, and went on errands;
otherwise, the old man in the
plush breeches was quite alone in the old house. Now
and then he came to the
window and looked out, and the little boy nodded to
him, and the old man
nodded again, and so they became acquaintances, and
then they were friends,
although they had never spoken to each other--but
that made no difference. The
little boy heard his parents say, "The old man
opposite is very well off, but
he is so very, very lonely!"
The Sunday following, the little boy took something,
and wrapped it up in a
piece of paper, went downstairs, and stood in the
doorway; and when the man
who went on errands came past, he said to him--
"I say, master! will you give this to the old man
over the way from me? I have
two pewter soldiers--this is one of them, and he
shall have it, for I know he
is so very, very lonely."
And the old errand man looked quite pleased, nodded,
and took the pewter
soldier over to the old house. Afterwards there came
a message; it was to ask
if the little boy himself had not a wish to come
over and pay a visit; and so
he got permission of his parents, and then went over
to the old house.
And the brass balls on the iron railings shone much
brighter than ever; one
would have thought they were polished on account of
the visit; and it was as
if the carved-out trumpeters--for there were
trumpeters, who stood in tulips,
carved out on the door--blew with all their might,
their cheeks appeared so
much rounder than before. Yes, they blew--"Trateratra!
The little boy comes!
Trateratra!"--and then the door opened.
The whole passage was hung with portraits of knights
in armor, and ladies in
silken gowns; and the armor rattled, and the silken
gowns rustled! And then
there was a flight of stairs which went a good way
upwards, and a little way
downwards, and then
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