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
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 be 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 SPECIAL_IMAGE-colon.gif-REPLACE_ME 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.
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!” [1]
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!”
“Ah! dear Augustine!
All is gone, gone, gone!”
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 SPECIAL_IMAGE-colon.gif-REPLACE_ME 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?
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 SPECIAL_IMAGE-colon.gif-REPLACE_ME “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 SPECIAL_IMAGE-colon.gif-REPLACE_ME
“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
SPECIAL_IMAGE-colon.gif-REPLACE_ME
“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 SPECIAL_IMAGE-colon.gif-REPLACE_ME 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. [2]
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.
[2] A.D. 1482–1513
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 bead. 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 SPECIAL_IMAGE-colon.gif-REPLACE_ME 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 hackneycoaches? 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 SPECIAL_IMAGE-colon.gif-REPLACE_ME 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. Ohl 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?” be 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 beard 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 SPECIAL_IMAGE-colon.gif-REPLACE_ME 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 a
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 SPECIAL_IMAGE-colon.gif-REPLACE_ME “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 [3] 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.
“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
SPECIAL_IMAGE-colon.gif-REPLACE_ME 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 SPECIAL_IMAGE-colon.gif-REPLACE_ME 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.
[3] 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.
“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 [4] 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.
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 [5] 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!”
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 [6] 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!
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, [7] 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.
“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 bead 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 be 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.
[4]A Danish mile is
nearly 4 3/4 English. [5]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. [6]Dwellers in the moon. [7]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.
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. [8] 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.
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” [9]
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.
[8]temple [9]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.
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. [10]
“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!”
[10] 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.
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.
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.
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.
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 delight
fully. 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 eves; 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 i 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 beard 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.
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 I 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!
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.
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! Cool 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.
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 repeat~d
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.
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 hindlegs 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.
“ 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!
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.
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.”
“Ali, 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 [11] 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.”
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 [12] 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!”
“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 Elderblossoms 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.”
[11] A row of buildings
for seamen in Copenhagen. [12] Asperula odorata.
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
Bellringer,” 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!
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 one
came on a balcony which was in a very dilapidated state, sure enough, with
large holes and long crevices, but grass grew there and leaves out of them
altogether, for the whole balcony outside, the yard, and the walls, were
overgrown with so much green stuff, that it looked like a garden; only a
balcony. Here stood old flower–pots with faces and asses’ ears, and the flowers
grew just as they liked. One of the pots was quite overrun on all sides with
pinks, that is to say, with the green part; shoot stood by shoot, and it said
quite distinctly, “The air has cherished me, the sun has kissed me, and
promised me a little flower on Sunday! a little flower on Sunday!”
And then they entered a
chamber where the walls were covered with hog’s leather, and printed with gold
flowers.
“The gilding decays,
But hog’s leather
stays!”
said the walls.
And there stood easy–chairs,
with such high backs, and so carved out, and with arms on both sides. “Sit
down! sit down!” said they. “Ugh! how I creak; now I shall certainly get the
gout, like the old clothespress, ugh!”
And then the little boy
came into the room where the projecting windows were, and where the old man
sat.
“I thank you for the
pewter soldier, my little friend!” said the old man. “And I thank you because
you come over to me.”
“Thankee! thankee!” or “cranky!
cranky!” sounded from all the furniture; there was so much of it, that each
article stood in the other’s way, to get a look at the little boy.
In the middle of the
wall hung a picture representing a beautiful lady, so young, so glad, but
dressed quite as in former times, with clothes that stood quite stiff, and with
powder in her hair; she neither said “thankee, thankee!” nor “cranky, cranky!”
but looked with her mild eyes at the little boy, who directly asked the old
man, “Where did you get her?”
“Yonder, at the broker’s,”
said the old man, “where there are so many pictures hanging. No one knows or
cares about them, for they are all of them buried; but I knew her in by–gone
days, and now she has been dead and gone these fifty years!”
Under the picture, in a
glazed frame, there hung a bouquet of withered flowers; they were almost fifty
years old; they looked so very old!
The pendulum of the
great clock went to and fro, and the hands turned, and everything in the room
became still older; but they did not observe it.
“They say at home,” said
the little boy, “that you are so very, very lonely!”
“Oh!” said he. “The old
thoughts, with what they may bring with them, come and visit me, and now you
also come! I am very well off!”
Then he took a book
with pictures in it down from the shelf; there were whole long processions and
pageants, with the strangest characters, which one never sees now–a–days;
soldiers like the knave of clubs, and citizens with waving flags: the tailors
had theirs, with a pair of shears held by two lions––and the shoemakers theirs,
without boots, but with an eagle that had two heads, for the shoemakers must
have everything so that they can say, it is a pair! Yes, that was a picture
book!
The old man now went
into the other room to fetch preserves, apples, and nuts––yes, it was
delightful over there in the old house.
“I cannot bear it any
longer!” said the pewter soldier, who sat on the drawers. “It is so lonely and
melancholy here! But when one has been in a family circle one cannot accustom
oneself to this life! I cannot bear it any longer! The whole day is so long,
and the evenings are still longer! Here it is not at all as it is over the way
at your home, where your father and mother spoke so pleasantly, and where you
and all your sweet children made such a delightful noise. Nay, how lonely the
old man is––do you think that he gets kisses? Do you think he gets mild eyes,
or a Christmas tree? He will get nothing but a grave! I can bear it no longer!”
“You must not let it
grieve you so much,” said the little boy. “I find it so very delightful here,
and then all the old thoughts, with what they may bring with them, they come
and visit here.”
“Yes, it’s all very
well, but I see nothing of them, and I don’t know them!” said the pewter
soldier. “I cannot bear it!”
“But you must!” said
the little boy.
Then in came the old
man with the most pleased and happy face, the most delicious preserves, apples,
and nuts, and so the little boy thought no more about the pewter soldier.
The little boy returned
home happy and pleased, and weeks and days passed away, and nods were made to
the old house, and from the old house, and then the little boy went over there
again.
The carved trumpeters
blew, “Trateratra! There is the little boy! Trateratra!” and the swords and
armor on the knights’ portraits rattled, and the silk gowns rustled; the hog’s
leather spoke, and the old chairs had the gout in their legs and rheumatism in
their backs: Ugh! it was exactly like the first time, for over there one day
and hour was just like another.
“I cannot bear it!”
said the pewter soldier. “I have shed pewter tears! It is too melancholy!
Rather let me go to the wars and lose arms and legs! It would at least be a
change. I cannot bear it longer! Now, I know what it is to have a visit from
one’s old thoughts, with what they may bring with them! I have had a visit from
mine, and you may be sure it is no pleasant thing in the end; I was at last
about to jump down from the drawers.”
“I saw you all over
there at home so distinctly, as if you really were here; it was again that
Sunday morning; all you children stood before the table and sung your Psalms,
as you do every morning. You stood devoutly with folded hands; and father and
mother were just as pious; and then the door was opened, and little sister
Mary, who is not two years old yet, and who always dances when she hears music
or singing, of whatever kind it may be, was put into the room––though she ought
not to have been there––and then she began to dance, but could not keep time,
because the tones were so long; and then she stood, first on the one leg, and
bent her head forwards, and then on the other leg, and bent her head forwards––but
all would not do. You stood very seriously all together, although it was
difficult enough; but I laughed to myself, and then I fell off the table, and
got a bump, which I have still––for it was not right of me to laugh. But the
whole now passes before me again in thought, and everything that I have lived
to see; and these are the old thoughts, with what they may bring with them.”
“Tell me if you still
sing on Sundays? Tell me something about little Mary! And how my comrade, the
other pewter soldier, lives! Yes, he is happy enough, that’s sure! I cannot
bear it any longer!”
“You are given away as
a present!” said the little boy. “You must remain. Can you not understand that?”
The old man now came
with a drawer, in which there was much to be seen, both “tin boxes” and “balsam
boxes,” old cards, so large and so gilded, such as one never sees them now. And
several drawers were opened, and the piano was opened; it had landscapes on the
inside of the lid, and it was so hoarse when the old man played on it! and then
he hummed a song.
“Yes, she could sing
that!” said he, and nodded to the portrait, which he had bought at the broker’s,
and the old man’s eyes shone so bright!
“I will go to the wars!
I will go to the wars!” shouted the pewter soldier as loud as he could, and
threw himself off the drawers right down on the floor. What became of him? The
old man sought, and the little boy sought; he was away, and he stayed away.
“I shall find him!”
said the old man; but he never found him. The floor was too open––the pewter
soldier had fallen through a crevice, and there he lay as in an open tomb.
That day passed, and
the little boy went home, and that week passed, and several weeks too. The
windows were quite frozen, the little boy was obliged to sit and breathe on
them to get a peep–hole over to the old house, and there the snow had been
blown into all the carved work and inscriptions; it lay quite up over the
steps, just as if there was no one at home––nor was there any one at home––the
old man was dead!
In the evening there
was a hearse seen before the door, and he was borne into it in his coffin: he
was now to go out into the country, to lie in his grave. He was driven out
there, but no one followed; all his friends were dead, and the little boy
kissed his hand to the coffin as it was driven away.
Some days afterwards
there was an auction at the old house, and the little boy saw from his window
how they carried the old knights and the old ladies away, the flower–pots with
the long ears, the old chairs, and the old clothes–presses. Something came
here, and something came there; the portrait of her who had been found at the
broker’s came to the broker’s again; and there it hung, for no one knew her
more––no one cared about the old picture.
In the spring they
pulled the house down, for, as people said, it was a ruin. One could see from
the street right into the room with the hog’s–leather hanging, which was
slashed and torn; and the green grass and leaves about the balcony hung quite
wild about the falling beams. And then it was put to rights.
“That was a relief,”
said the neighboring houses.
A fine house was built
there, with large windows, and smooth white walls; but before it, where the old
house had in fact stood, was a little garden laid out, and a wild grapevine ran
up the wall of the neighboring house. Before the garden there was a large iron
railing with an iron door, it looked quite splendid, and people stood still and
peeped in, and the sparrows hung by scores in the vine, and chattered away at
each other as well as they could, but it was not about the old house, for they
could not remember it, so many years had passed––so many that the little boy
had grown up to a whole man, yes, a clever man, and a pleasure to his parents;
and he had just been married, and, together with his little wife, had come to
live in the house here, where the garden was; and he stood by her there whilst
she planted a field–flower that she found so pretty; she planted it with her
little hand, and pressed the earth around it with her fingers. Oh! what was
that? She had stuck herself. There sat something pointed, straight out of the
soft mould.
It was––yes, guess! It
was the pewter soldier, he that was lost up at the old man’s, and had tumbled
and turned about amongst the timber and the rubbish, and had at last laid for
many years in the ground.
The young wife wiped
the dirt off the soldier, first with a green leaf, and then with her fine
handkerchief––it had such a delightful smell, that it was to the pewter soldier
just as if he had awaked from a trance.
“Let me see him,” said
the young man. He laughed, and then shook his head. “Nay, it cannot be he; but
he reminds me of a story about a pewter soldier which I had when I was a little
boy!” And then he told his wife about the old house, and the old man, and about
the pewter soldier that he sent over to him because he was so very, very
lonely; and he told it as correctly as it had really been, so that the tears
came into the eyes of his young wife, on account of the old house and the old
man.
“It may possibly be,
however, that it is the same pewter soldier!” said she. “I will take care of
it, and remember all that you have told me; but you must show me the old man’s
grave!”
“But I do not know it,”
said he, “and no one knows it! All his friends were dead, no one took care of
it, and I was then a little boy!”
“How very, very lonely
he must have been!” said she.
“Very, very lonely!”
said the pewter soldier. “But it is delightful not to be forgotten!”
“Delightful!” shouted
something close by; but no one, except the pewter soldier, saw that it was a
piece of the hog’s–leather hangings; it had lost all its gilding, it looked
like a piece of wet clay, but it had an opinion, and it gave it:
“The gilding decays,
But hog’s leather
stays!”
This the pewter soldier
did not believe.
Really, the largest
green leaf in this country is a dockleaf; if one holds it before one, it is
like a whole apron, and if one holds it over one’s head in rainy weather, it is
almost as good as an umbrella, for it is so immensely large. The burdock never
grows alone, but where there grows one there always grow several: it is a great
delight, and all this delightfulness is snails’ food. The great white snails
which persons of quality in former times made fricassees of, ate, and said, “Hem,
hem! how delicious!” for they thought it tasted so delicate––lived on
dockleaves, and therefore burdock seeds were sown.
Now, there was an old
manor–house, where they no longer ate snails, they were quite extinct; but the
burdocks were not extinct, they grew and grew all over the walks and all the
beds; they could not get the mastery over them––it was a whole forest of burdocks.
Here and there stood an apple and a plum–tree, or else one never would have
thought that it was a garden; all was burdocks, and there lived the two last
venerable old snails.
They themselves knew
not how old they were, but they could remember very well that there had been
many more; that they were of a family from foreign lands, and that for them and
theirs the whole forest was planted. They had never been outside it, but they
knew that there was still something more in the world, which was called the
manor–house, and that there they were boiled, and then they became black, and
were then placed on a silver dish; but what happened further they knew not; or,
in fact, what it was to be boiled, and to lie on a silver dish, they could not
possibly imagine; but it was said to be delightful, and particularly genteel.
Neither the chafers, the toads, nor the earth–worms, whom they asked about it
could give them any information––none of them had been boiled or laid on a
silver dish.
The old white snails
were the first persons of distinction in the world, that they knew; the forest
was planted for their sake, and the manor–house was there that they might be
boiled and laid on a silver dish.
Now they lived a very
lonely and happy life; and as they had no children themselves, they had adopted
a little common snail, which they brought up as their own; but the little one
would not grow, for he was of a common family; but the old ones, especially
Dame Mother Snail, thought they could observe how he increased in size, and she
begged father, if he could not see it, that he would at least feel the little
snail’s shell; and then he felt it, and found the good dame was right.
One day there was a
heavy storm of rain.
“Hear how it beats like
a drum on the dock–leaves!” said Father Snail.
“There are also rain–drops!”
said Mother Snail. “And now the rain pours right down the stalk! You will see
that it will be wet here! I am very happy to think that we have our good house,
and the little one has his also! There is more done for us than for all other
creatures, sure enough; but can you not see that we are folks of quality in the
world? We are provided with a house from our birth, and the burdock forest is
planted for our sakes! I should like to know how far it extends, and what there
is outside!”
“There is nothing at
all,” said Father Snail. “No place can be better than ours, and I have nothing
to wish for!”
“Yes,” said the dame. “I
would willingly go to the manorhouse, be boiled, and laid on a silver dish; all
our forefathers have been treated so; there is something extraordinary in it,
you may be sure!”
“The manor–house has
most likely fallen to ruin!” said Father Snail. “Or the burdocks have grown up
over it, so that they cannot come out. There need not, however, be any haste
about that; but you are always in such a tremendous hurry, and the little one
is beginning to be the same. Has he not been creeping up that stalk these three
days? It gives me a headache when I look up to him!”
“You must not scold
him,” said Mother Snail. “He creeps so carefully; he will afford us much
pleasure––and we have nothing but him to live for! But have you not thought of
it? Where shall we get a wife for him? Do you not think that there are some of
our species at a great distance in the interior of the burdock forest?”
“Black snails, I dare
say, there are enough of,” said the old one. “Black snails without a house––but
they are so common, and so conceited. But we might give the ants a commission
to look out for us; they run to and fro as if they had something to do, and
they certainly know of a wife for our little snail!”
“I know one, sure
enough––the most charming one!” said one of the ants. “But I am afraid we shall
hardly succeed, for she is a queen!”
“That is nothing!” said
the old folks. “Has she a house?”
“She has a palace!”
said the ant. “The finest ant’s palace, with seven hundred passages!”
“I thank you!” said
Mother Snail. “Our son shall not go into an ant–hill; if you know nothing better
than that, we shall give the commission to the white gnats. They fly far and
wide, in rain and sunshine; they know the whole forest here, both within and
without.”
“We have a wife for
him,” said the gnats. “At a hundred human paces from here there sits a little
snail in her house, on a gooseberry bush; she is quite lonely, and old enough
to be married. It is only a hundred human paces!”
“Well, then, let her
come to him!” said the old ones. “He has a whole forest of burdocks, she has
only a bush!”
And so they went and
fetched little Miss Snail. It was a whole week before she arrived; but therein
was just the very best of it, for one could thus see that she was of the same
species.
And then the marriage
was celebrated. Six earth–worms shone as well as they could. In other respects
the whole went off very quietly, for the old folks could not bear noise and
merriment; but old Dame Snail made a brilliant speech. Father Snail could not
speak, he was too much affected; and so they gave them as a dowry and inheritance,
the whole forest of burdocks, and said––what they had always said––that it was
the best in the world; and if they lived honestly and decently, and increased
and multiplied, they and their children would once in the course of time come
to the manor–house, be boiled black, and laid on silver dishes. After this
speech was made, the old ones crept into their shells, and never more came out.
They slept; the young couple governed in the forest, and had a numerous
progeny, but they were never boiled, and never came on the silver dishes; so
from this they concluded that the manor–house had fallen to ruins, and that all
the men in the world were extinct; and as no one contradicted them, so, of
course it was so. And the rain beat on the dock–leaves to make drum–music for
their sake, and the sun shone in order to give the burdock forest a color for
their sakes; and they were very happy, and the whole family was happy; for
they, indeed were so.
A mother sat there with
her little child. She was so downcast, so afraid that it should die! It was so
pale, the small eyes had closed themselves, and it drew its breath so softly,
now and then, with a deep respiration, as if it sighed; and the mother looked
still more sorrowfully on the little creature.
Then a knocking was
heard at the door, and in came a poor old man wrapped up as in a large horse–cloth,
for it warms one, and he needed it, as it was the cold winter season!
Everything out–of doors was covered with ice and snow, and the wind blew so
that it cut the face.
As the old man trembled
with cold, and the little child slept a moment, the mother went and poured some
ale into a pot and set it on the stove, that it might be warm for him; the old
man sat and rocked the cradle, and the mother sat down on a chair close by him,
and looked at her little sick child that drew its breath so deep, and raised
its little hand.
“Do you not think that
I shall save him?” said she. “Our Lord will not take him from me!”
And the old man––it was
Death himself––he nodded so strangely, it could just as well signify yes as no.
And the mother looked down in her lap, and the tears ran down over her cheeks;
her head became so heavy––she had not closed her eyes for three days and
nights; and now she slept, but only for a minute, when she started up and
trembled with cold.
“What is that?” said
she, and looked on all sides; but the old man was gone, and her little child
was gone––he had taken it with him; and the old clock in the corner burred, and
burred, the great leaden weight ran down to the floor, bump! and then the clock
also stood still.
But the poor mother ran
out of the house and cried aloud for her child.
Out there, in the midst
of the snow, there sat a woman in long, black clothes; and she said, “Death has
been in thy chamber, and I saw him hasten away with thy little child; he goes
faster than the wind, and he never brings back what he takes!”
“Oh, only tell me which
way he went!” said the mother. “Tell me the way, and I shall find him!”
“I know it!” said the
woman in the black clothes. “But before I tell it, thou must first sing for me
all the songs thou hast sung for thy child! I am fond of them. I have heard
them before; I am Night; I saw thy tears whilst thou sang’st them!”
“I will sing them all,
all!” said the mother. “But do not stop me now––I may overtake him––I may find
my child!”
But Night stood still
and mute. Then the mother wrung her hands, sang and wept, and there were many
songs, but yet many more tears; and then Night said, “Go to the right, into the
dark pine forest; thither I saw Death take his way with thy little child!”
The roads crossed each
other in the depths of the forest, and she no longer knew whither she should
go! then there stood a thorn–bush; there was neither leaf nor flower on it, it
was also in the cold winter season, and ice–flakes hung on the branches.
“Hast thou not seen
Death go past with my little child?” said the mother.
“Yes,” said the thorn–bush;
“but I will not tell thee which way he took, unless thou wilt first warm me up
at thy heart. I am freezing to death; I shall become a lump of ice!”
And she pressed the
thorn–bush to her breast, so firmly, that it might be thoroughly warmed, and
the thorns went right into her flesh, and her blood flowed in large drops, but
the thornbush shot forth fresh green leaves, and there came flowers on it in
the cold winter night, the heart of the afflicted mother was so warm; and the
thorn–bush told her the way she should go.
She then came to a
large lake, where there was neither ship nor boat. The lake was not frozen
sufficiently to bear her; neither was it open, nor low enough that she could
wade through it; and across it she must go if she would find her child! Then
she lay down to drink up the lake, and that was an impossibility for a human
being, but the afflicted mother thought that a miracle might happen
nevertheless.
“Oh, what would I not
give to come to my child!” said the weeping mother; and she wept still more,
and her eyes sunk down in the depths of the waters, and became two precious
pearls; but the water bore her up, as if she sat in a swing, and she flew in
the rocking waves to the shore on the opposite side, where there stood a mile–broad,
strange house, one knew not if it were a mountain with forests and caverns, or
if it were built up; but the poor mother could not see it; she had wept her
eyes out.
“Where shall I find
Death, who took away my little child?” said she.
“He has not come here
yet!” said the old grave woman, who was appointed to look after Death’s great
greenhouse! “How have you been able to find the way hither? And who has helped
you?”
“OUR LORD has helped
me,” said she. “He is merciful, and you will also be so! Where shall I find my
little child?”
“Nay, I know not,” said
the woman, “and you cannot see! Many flowers and trees have withered this
night; Death will soon come and plant them over again! You certainly know that
every person has his or her life’s tree or flower, just as everyone happens to
be settled; they look like other plants, but they have pulsations of the heart.
Children’s hearts can also beat; go after yours, perhaps you may know your
child’s; but what will you give me if I tell you what you shall do more?”
“I have nothing to
give,” said the afflicted mother, “but I will go to the world’s end for you!”
“Nay, I have nothing to
do there!” said the woman. “But you can give me your long black hair; you know
yourself that it is fine, and that I like! You shall have my white hair
instead, and that’s always something!”
“Do you demand nothing
else?” said she. “That I will gladly give you!” And she gave her her fine black
hair, and got the old woman’s snow–white hair instead.
So they went into Death’s
great greenhouse, where flowers and trees grew strangely into one another.
There stood fine hyacinths under glass bells, and there stood strong–stemmed
peonies; there grew water plants, some so fresh, others half sick, the water–snakes
lay down on them, and black crabs pinched their stalks. There stood beautiful
palm–trees, oaks, and plantains; there stood parsley and flowering thyme: every
tree and every flower had its name; each of them was a human life, the human
frame still lived––one in China, and another in Greenland––round about in the
world. There were large trees in small pots, so that they stood so stunted in
growth, and ready to burst the pots; in other places, there was a little dull
flower in rich mould, with moss round about it, and it was so petted and nursed.
But the distressed mother bent down over all the smallest plants, and heard
within them how the human heart beat; and amongst millions she knew her child’s.
“There it is!” cried
she, and stretched her hands out over a little blue crocus, that hung quite
sickly on one side.
“Don’t touch the
flower!” said the old woman. “But place yourself here, and when Death comes––I
expect him every moment––do not let him pluck the flower up, but threaten him
that you will do the same with the others. Then he will be afraid! He is
responsible for them to OUR LORD, and no one dares to pluck them up before HE
gives leave.”
All at once an icy cold
rushed through the great hall, and the blind mother could feel that it was
Death that came.
“How hast thou been
able to find thy way hither?” he asked. “How couldst thou come quicker than I?”
“I am a mother,” said
she.
And Death stretched out
his long hand towards the fine little flower, but she held her hands fast
around his, so tight, and yet afraid that she should touch one of the leaves.
Then Death blew on her hands, and she felt that it was colder than the cold
wind, and her hands fell down powerless.
“Thou canst not do
anything against me!” said Death.
“But OUR LORD can!”
said she.
“I only do His bidding!”
said Death. “I am His gardener, I take all His flowers and trees, and plant
them out in the great garden of Paradise, in the unknown land; but how they
grow there, and how it is there I dare not tell thee.”
“Give me back my child!”
said the mother, and she wept and prayed. At once she seized hold of two
beautiful flowers close by, with each hand, and cried out to Death, “I will
tear all thy flowers off, for I am in despair.”
“Touch them not!” said
Death. “Thou say’st that thou art so unhappy, and now thou wilt make another
mother equally unhappy.”
“Another mother!” said
the poor woman, and directly let go her hold of both the flowers.
“There, thou hast thine
eyes,” said Death; “I fished them up from the lake, they shone so bright; I
knew not they were thine. Take them again, they are now brighter than before;
now look down into the deep well close by; I shall tell thee the names of the
two flowers thou wouldst have torn up, and thou wilt see their whole future
life––their whole human existence: and see what thou wast about to disturb and
destroy.”
And she looked down
into the well; and it was a happiness to see how the one became a blessing to
the world, to see how much happiness and joy were felt everywhere. And she saw
the other’s life, and it was sorrow and distress, horror, and wretchedness.
“Both of them are God’s
will!” said Death.
“Which of them is
Misfortune’s flower and which is that of Happiness?” asked she.
“That I will not tell
thee,” said Death; “but this thou shalt know from me, that the one flower was
thy own child! it was thy child’s fate thou saw’st––thy own child’s future
life!”
Then the mother
screamed with terror, “Which of them was my child? Tell it me! Save the
innocent! Save my child from all that misery! Rather take it away! Take it into
God’s kingdom! Forget my tears, forget my prayers, and all that I have done!”
“I do not understand
thee!” said Death. “Wilt thou have thy child again, or shall I go with it
there, where thou dost not know!”
Then the mother wrung
her hands, fell on her knees, and prayed to our Lord: “Oh, hear me not when I
pray against Thy will, which is the best! hear me not! hear me not!”
And she bowed her head
down in her lap, and Death took her child and went with it into the unknown
land.
There was once a fine
gentleman, all of whose moveables were a boot–jack and a hair–comb: but he had
the finest false collars in the world; and it is about one of these collars
that we are now to hear a story.
It was so old, that it
began to think of marriage; and it happened that it came to be washed in
company with a garter.
“Nay!” said the collar.
“I never did see anything so slender and so fine, so soft and so neat. May I
not ask your name?”
“That I shall not tell
you!” said the garter.
“Where do you live?”
asked the collar.
But the garter was so
bashful, so modest, and thought it was a strange question to answer.
“You are certainly a
girdle,” said the collar; “that is to say an inside girdle. I see well that you
are both for use and ornament, my dear young lady.”
“I will thank you not
to speak to me,” said the garter. “I think I have not given the least occasion
for it.”
“Yes! When one is as
handsome as you,” said the collar, “that is occasion enough.”
“Don’t come so near me,
I beg of you!” said the garter. “You look so much like those men–folks.”
“I am also a fine
gentleman,” said the collar. “I have a bootjack and a hair–comb.”
But that was not true,
for it was his master who had them: but he boasted.
“Don’t come so near me,”
said the garter: “I am not accustomed to it.”
“Prude!” exclaimed the
collar; and then it was taken out of the washing–tub. It was starched, hung
over the back of a chair in the sunshine, and was then laid on the ironing–blanket;
then came the warm box–iron. “Dear lady!” said the collar. “Dear widow–lady! I
feel quite hot. I am quite changed. I begin to unfold myself. You will burn a
hole in me. Oh! I offer you my hand.”
“Rag!” said the box–iron;
and went proudly over the collar: for she fancied she was a steam–engine, that
would go on the railroad and draw the waggons. “Rag!” said the box–iron.
The collar was a little
jagged at the edge, and so came the long scissors to cut off the jagged part. “Oh!”
said the collar. “You are certainly the first opera dancer. How well you can
stretch your legs out! It is the most graceful performance I have ever seen. No
one can imitate you.”
“I know it,” said the
scissors.
“You deserve to be a
baroness,” said the collar. “All that I have, is, a fine gentleman, a boot–jack,
and a hair–comb. If I only had the barony!”
“Do you seek my hand?”
said the scissors; for she was angry; and without more ado, she CUT HIM, and
then he was condemned.
“I shall now be obliged
to ask the hair–comb. It is surprising how well you preserve your teeth, Miss,”
said the collar. “Have you never thought of being betrothed?”
“Yes, of course! you
may be sure of that,” said the hair–comb. “I AM betrothed––to the boot–jack!”
“Betrothed!” exclaimed
the collar. Now there was no other to court, and so he despised it.
A long time passed
away, then the collar came into the rag chest at the paper mill; there was a
large company of rags, the fine by themselves, and the coarse by themselves,
just as it should be. They all had much to say, but the collar the most; for he
was a real boaster.
“I have had such an
immense number of sweethearts!” said the collar. “I could not be in peace! It
is true, I was always a fine starched–up gentleman! I had both a boot–jack and
a hair–comb, which I never used! You should have seen me then, you should have
seen me when I lay down! I shall never forget MY FIRST LOVE––she was a girdle,
so fine, so soft, and so charming, she threw herself into a tub of water for my
sake! There was also a widow, who became glowing hot, but I left her standing
till she got black again; there was also the first opera dancer, she gave me
that cut which I now go with, she was so ferocious! My own hair–comb was in
love with me, she lost all her teeth from the heart–ache; yes, I have lived to
see much of that sort of thing; but I am extremely sorry for the garter––I mean
the girdle––that went into the water–tub. I have much on my conscience, I want
to become white paper!”
And it became so, all
the rags were turned into white paper; but the collar came to be just this very
piece of white paper we here see, and on which the story is printed; and that
was because it boasted so terribly afterwards of what had never happened to it.
It would be well for us to beware, that we may not act in a similar manner, for
we can never know if we may not, in the course of time, also come into the rag
chest, and be made into white paper, and then have our whole life’s history
printed on it, even the most secret, and be obliged to run about and tell it
ourselves, just like this collar.
It is in the hot lands
that the sun burns, sure enough! there the people become quite a mahogany
brown, ay, and in the HOTTEST lands they are burnt to Negroes. But now it was
only to the HOT lands that a learned man had come from the cold; there he thought
that he could run about just as when at home, but he soon found out his
mistake.
He, and all sensible
folks, were obliged to stay within doors––the window–shutters and doors were
closed the whole day; it looked as if the whole house slept, or there was no
one at home.
The narrow street with
the high houses, was built so that the sunshine must fall there from morning
till evening––it was really not to be borne.
The learned man from
the cold lands––he was a young man, and seemed to be a clever man––sat in a
glowing oven; it took effect on him, he became quite meagre––even his shadow
shrunk in, for the sun had also an effect on it. It was first towards evening
when the sun was down, that they began to freshen up again.
In the warm lands every
window has a balcony, and the people came out on all the balconies in the
street––for one must have air, even if one be accustomed to be mahogany! [13]
It was lively both up and down the street. Tailors, and shoemakers, and all the
folks, moved out into the street––chairs and tables were brought forth––and
candles burnt––yes, above a thousand lights were burning––and the one talked
and the other sung; and people walked and church–bells rang, and asses went
along with a dingle–dingle–dong! for they too had bells on. The street boys
were screaming and hooting, and shouting and shooting, with devils and
detonating balls––and there came corpse bearers and hood wearers––for there
were funerals with psalm and hymn––and then the din of carriages driving and
company arriving: yes, it was, in truth, lively enough down in the street. Only
in that single house, which stood opposite that in which the learned foreigner
lived, it was quite still; and yet some one lived there, for there stood
flowers in the balcony––they grew so well in the sun’s heat! and that they
could not do unless they were watered––and some one must water them––there must
be somebody there. The door opposite was also opened late in the evening, but
it was dark within, at least in the front room; further in there was heard the
sound of music. The learned foreigner thought it quite marvellous, but now––it
might be that he only imagined it––for he found everything marvellous out
there, in the warm lands, if there had only been no sun. The stranger’s
landlord said that he didn’t know who had taken the house opposite, one saw no
person about, and as to the music, it appeared to him to be extremely tiresome.
“It is as if some one sat there, and practised a piece that he could not master––always
the same piece. ’I shall master it!’ says he; but yet he cannot master it,
however long he plays.”
One night the stranger
awoke––he slept with the doors of the balcony open––the curtain before it was
raised by the wind, and he thought that a strange lustre came from the opposite
neighbor’s house; all the flowers shone like flames, in the most beautiful
colors, and in the midst of the flowers stood a slender, graceful maiden––it
was as if she also shone; the light really hurt his eyes. He now opened them
quite wide––yes, he was quite awake; with one spring he was on the floor; he
crept gently behind the curtain, but the maiden was gone; the flowers shone no
longer, but there they stood, fresh and blooming as ever; the door was ajar,
and, far within, the music sounded so soft and delightful, one could really
melt away in sweet thoughts from it. Yet it was like a piece of enchantment.
And who lived there? Where was the actual entrance? The whole of the ground–floor
was a row of shops, and there people could not always be running through.
One evening the
stranger sat out on the balcony. The light burnt in the room behind him; and
thus it was quite natural that his shadow should fall on his opposite neighbor’s
wall. Yes! there it sat, directly opposite, between the flowers on the balcony;
and when the stranger moved, the shadow also moved: for that it always does.
“I think my shadow is
the only living thing one sees over there,” said the learned man. “See, how
nicely it sits between the flowers. The door stands half–open: now the shadow
should be cunning, and go into the room, look about, and then come and tell me
what it had seen. Come, now! Be useful, and do me a service,” said he, in jest.
“Have the kindness to step in. Now! Art thou going?” and then he nodded to the
shadow, and the shadow nodded again. “Well then, go! But don’t stay away.”
The stranger rose, and
his shadow on the opposite neighbor’s balcony rose also; the stranger turned
round and the shadow also turned round. Yes! if anyone had paid particular
attention to it, they would have seen, quite distinctly, that the shadow went
in through the half–open balcony–door of their opposite neighbor, just as the
stranger went into his own room, and let the long curtain fall down after him.
Next morning, the
learned man went out to drink coffee and read the newspapers.
“What is that?” said
he, as he came out into the sunshine. “I have no shadow! So then, it has
actually gone last night, and not come again. It is really tiresome!”
This annoyed him: not
so much because the shadow was gone, but because he knew there was a story
about a man without a shadow. [14] It was known to everybody at home, in the
cold lands; and if the learned man now came there and told his story, they
would say that he was imitating it, and that he had no need to do. He would,
therefore, not talk about it at all; and that was wisely thought.
In the evening he went
out again on the balcony. He had placed the light directly behind him, for he
knew that the shadow would always have its master for a screen, but he could
not entice it. He made himself little; he made himself great: but no shadow
came again. He said, “Hem! hem!” but it was of no use.
It was vexatious; but
in the warm lands everything grows so quickly; and after the lapse of eight
days he observed, to his great joy, that a new shadow came in the sunshine. In
the course of three weeks he had a very fair shadow, which, when he set out for
his home in the northern lands, grew more and more in the journey, so that at
last it was so long and so large, that it was more than sufficient.
The learned man then
came home, and he wrote books about what was true in the world, and about what
was good and what was beautiful; and there passed days and years––yes! many
years passed away.
One evening, as he was
sitting in his room, there was a gentle knocking at the door.
“Come in!” said he; but
no one came in; so he opened the door, and there stood before him such an
extremely lean man, that he felt quite strange. As to the rest, the man was
very finely dressed––he must be a gentleman.
“Whom have I the honor
of speaking?” asked the learned man.
“Yes! I thought as
much,” said the fine man. “I thought you would not know me. I have got so much
body. I have even got flesh and clothes. You certainly never thought of seeing
me so well off. Do you not know your old shadow? You certainly thought I should
never more return. Things have gone on well with me since I was last with you.
I have, in all respects, become very well off. Shall I purchase my freedom from
service? If so, I can do it”; and then he rattled a whole bunch of valuable
seals that hung to his watch, and he stuck his hand in the thick gold chain he
wore around his neck––nay! how all his fingers glittered with diamond rings;
and then all were pure gems.
“Nay; I cannot recover
from my surprise!” said the learned man. “What is the meaning of all this?”
“Something common, is
it not,” said the shadow. “But you yourself do not belong to the common order;
and I, as you know well, have from a child followed in your footsteps. As soon
as you found I was capable to go out alone in the world, I went my own way. I
am in the most brilliant circumstances, but there came a sort of desire over me
to see you once more before you die; you will die, I suppose? I also wished to
see this land again––for you know we always love our native land. I know you
have got another shadow again; have I anything to pay to it or you? If so, you
will oblige me by saying what it is.”
“Nay, is it really
thou?” said the learned man. “It is most remarkable: I never imagined that one’s
old shadow could come again as a man.”
“Tell me what I have to
pay,” said the shadow; “for I don’t like to be in any sort of debt.”
“How canst thou talk
so?” said the learned man. “What debt is there to talk about? Make thyself as
free as anyone else. I am extremely glad to hear of thy good fortune: sit down,
old friend, and tell me a little how it has gone with thee, and what thou hast
seen at our opposite neighbor’s there––in the warm lands.”
“Yes, I will tell you
all about it,” said the shadow, and sat down: “but then you must also promise
me, that, wherever you may meet me, you will never say to anyone here in the
town that I have been your shadow. I intend to get betrothed, for I can provide
for more than one family.”
“Be quite at thy ease
about that,” said the learned man; “I shall not say to anyone who thou actually
art: here is my hand––I promise it, and a man’s bond is his word.”
“A word is a shadow,”
said the shadow, “and as such it must speak.”
It was really quite
astonishing how much of a man it was. It was dressed entirely in black, and of
the very finest cloth; it had patent leather boots, and a hat that could be
folded together, so that it was bare crown and brim; not to speak of what we
already know it had––seals, gold neck–chain, and diamond rings; yes, the shadow
was well–dressed, and it was just that which made it quite a man.
“Now I shall tell you
my adventures,” said the shadow; and then he sat, with the polished boots, as
heavily as he could, on the arm of the learned man’s new shadow, which lay like
a poodle–dog at his feet. Now this was perhaps from arrogance; and the shadow
on the ground kept itself so still and quiet, that it might hear all that
passed: it wished to know how it could get free, and work its way up, so as to
become its own master.
“Do you know who lived
in our opposite neighbor’s house?” said the shadow. “It was the most charming
of all beings, it was Poesy! I was there for three weeks, and that has as much
effect as if one had lived three thousand years, and read all that was composed
and written; that is what I say, and it is right. I have seen everything and I
know everything!”
“Poesy!” cried the
learned man. “Yes, yes, she often dwells a recluse in large cities! Poesy! Yes,
I have seen her––a single short moment, but sleep came into my eyes! She stood
on the balcony and shone as the Aurora Borealis shines. Go on, go on––thou wert
on the balcony, and went through the doorway, and then––”
“Then I was in the
antechamber,” said the shadow. “You always sat and looked over to the
antechamber. There was no light; there was a sort of twilight, but the one door
stood open directly opposite the other through a long row of rooms and saloons,
and there it was lighted up. I should have been completely killed if I had gone
over to the maiden; but I was circumspect, I took time to think, and that one
must always do.”
“And what didst thou
then see?” asked the learned man.
“I saw everything, and
I shall tell all to you: but––it is no pride on my part––as a free man, and
with the knowledge I have, not to speak of my position in life, my excellent
circumstances––I certainly wish that you would say YOU* to me!”
* It is the custom in
Denmark for intimate acquaintances to use the second person singular, “Du,” (thou)
when speaking to each other. When a friendship is formed between men, they
generally affirm it, when occasion offers, either in public or private, by
drinking to each other and exclaiming, “thy health,” at the same time striking
their glasses together. This is called drinking “Duus”: they are then, “Duus
Brodre,” (thou brothers) and ever afterwards use the pronoun “thou,” to each
other, it being regarded as more familiar than “De,” (you). Father and mother,
sister and brother say thou to one another––without regard to age or rank.
Master and mistress say thou to their servants the superior to the inferior.
But servants and inferiors do not use the same term to their masters, or
superiors––nor is it ever used when speaking to a stranger, or anyone with whom
they are but slightly acquainted ––they then say as in English––you.
“I beg your pardon,”
said the learned man; “it is an old habit with me. YOU are perfectly right, and
I shall remember it; but now you must tell me all YOU saw!”
“Everything!” said the
shadow. “For I saw everything, and I know everything!”
“How did it look in the
furthest saloon?” asked the learned man. “Was it there as in the fresh woods?
Was it there as in a holy church? Were the saloons like the starlit firmament
when we stand on the high mountains?”
“Everything was there!”
said the shadow. “I did not go quite in, I remained in the foremost room, in
the twilight, but I stood there quite well; I saw everything, and I know
everything! I have been in the antechamber at the court of Poesy.”
“But WHAT DID you see?
Did all the gods of the olden times pass through the large saloons? Did the old
heroes combat there? Did sweet children play there, and relate their dreams?”
“I tell you I was
there, and you can conceive that I saw everything there was to be seen. Had you
come over there, you would not have been a man; but I became so! And besides, I
learned to know my inward nature, my innate qualities, the relationship I had
with Poesy. At the time I was with you, I thought not of that, but always––you
know it well––when the sun rose, and when the sun went down, I became so
strangely great; in the moonlight I was very near being more distinct than
yourself; at that time I did not understand my nature; it was revealed to me in
the antechamber! I became a man! I came out matured; but you were no longer in
the warm lands; as a man I was ashamed to go as I did. I was in want of boots,
of clothes, of the whole human varnish that makes a man perceptible. I took my
way––I tell it to you, but you will not put it in any book––I took my way to
the cake woman––I hid myself behind her; the woman didn’t think how much she
concealed. I went out first in the evening; I ran about the streets in the
moonlight; I made myself long up the walls––it tickles the back so
delightfully! I ran up, and ran down, peeped into the highest windows, into the
saloons, and on the roofs, I peeped in where no one could peep, and I saw what
no one else saw, what no one else should see! This is, in fact, a base world! I
would not be a man if it were not now once accepted and regarded as something
to be so! I saw the most unimaginable things with the women, with the men, with
parents, and with the sweet, matchless children; I saw,” said the shadow, “what
no human being must know, but what they would all so willingly know––what is
bad in their neighbor. Had I written a newspaper, it would have been read! But
I wrote direct to the persons themselves, and there was consternation in all
the towns where I came. They were so afraid of me, and yet they were so
excessively fond of me. The professors made a professor of me; the tailors gave
me new clothes––I am well furnished; the master of the mint struck new coin for
me, and the women said I was so handsome! And so I became the man I am. And I
now bid you farewell. Here is my card––I live on the sunny side of the street,
and am always at home in rainy weather!” And so away went the shadow. “That was
most extraordinary!” said the learned man. Years and days passed away, then the
shadow came again. “How goes it?” said the shadow.
“Alas!” said the
learned man. “I write about the true, and the good, and the beautiful, but no
one cares to hear such things; I am quite desperate, for I take it so much to
heart!”
“But I don’t!” said the
shadow. “I become fat, and it is that one wants to become! You do not
understand the world. You will become ill by it. You must travel! I shall make
a tour this summer; will you go with me? I should like to have a travelling
companion! Will you go with me, as shadow? It will be a great pleasure for me
to have you with me; I shall pay the travelling expenses!”
“Nay, this is too much!”
said the learned man.
“It is just as one
takes it!” said the shadow. “It will do you much good to travel! Will you be my
shadow? You shall have everything free on the journey!”
“Nay, that is too bad!”
said the learned man.
“But it is just so with
the world!” said the shadow, “and so it will be!” and away it went again.
The learned man was not
at all in the most enviable state; grief and torment followed him, and what he
said about the true, and the good, and the beautiful, was, to most persons,
like roses for a cow! He was quite ill at last.
“You really look like a
shadow!” said his friends to him; and the learned man trembled, for he thought
of it.
“You must go to a
watering–place!” said the shadow, who came and visited him. “There is nothing
else for it! I will take you with me for old acquaintance’ sake; I will pay the
travelling expenses, and you write the descriptions––and if they are a little
amusing for me on the way! I will go to a watering–place––my beard does not
grow out as it ought––that is also a sickness–and one must have a beard! Now
you be wise and accept the offer; we shall travel as comrades!”
And so they travelled;
the shadow was master, and the master was the shadow; they drove with each
other, they rode and walked together, side by side, before and behind, just as
the sun was; the shadow always took care to keep itself in the master’s place.
Now the learned man didn’t think much about that; he was a very kind–hearted
man, and particularly mild and friendly, and so he said one day to the shadow: “As
we have now become companions, and in this way have grown up together from
childhood, shall we not drink ’thou’ together, it is more familiar?”
“You are right,” said
the shadow, who was now the proper master. “It is said in a very straight–forward
and well–meant manner. You, as a learned man, certainly know how strange nature
is. Some persons cannot bear to touch grey paper, or they become ill; others
shiver in every limb if one rub a pane of glass with a nail: I have just such a
feeling on hearing you say thou to me; I feel myself as if pressed to the earth
in my first situation with you. You see that it is a feeling; that it is not
pride: I cannot allow you to say THOU to me, but I will willingly say THOU to
you, so it is half done!”
So the shadow said THOU
to its former master.
“This is rather too
bad,” thought he, “that I must say YOU and he say THOU,” but he was now obliged
to put up with it.
So they came to a
watering–place where there were many strangers, and amongst them was a
princess, who was troubled with seeing too well; and that was so alarming!
She directly observed
that the stranger who had just come was quite a different sort of person to all
the others; “He has come here in order to get his beard to grow, they say, but
I see the real cause, he cannot cast a shadow.”
She had become
inquisitive; and so she entered into conversation directly with the strange
gentleman, on their promenades. As the daughter of a king, she needed not to
stand upon trifles, so she said, “Your complaint is, that you cannot cast a
shadow?”
“Your Royal Highness
must be improving considerably,” said the shadow, “I know your complaint is,
that you see too clearly, but it has decreased, you are cured. I just happen to
have a very unusual shadow! Do you not see that person who always goes with me?
Other persons have a common shadow, but I do not like what is common to all. We
give our servants finer cloth for their livery than we ourselves use, and so I
had my shadow trimmed up into a man: yes, you see I have even given him a
shadow. It is somewhat expensive, but I like to have something for myself!”
“What!” thought the
princess. “Should I really be cured! These baths are the first in the world! In
our time water has wonderful powers. But I shall not leave the place, for it
now begins to be amusing here. I am extremely fond of that stranger: would that
his beard should not grow, for in that case he will leave us!”
In the evening, the
princess and the shadow danced together in the large ball–room. She was light,
but he was still lighter; she had never had such a partner in the dance. She
told him from what land she came, and he knew that land; he had been there, but
then she was not at home; he had peeped in at the window, above and below––he
had seen both the one and the other, and so he could answer the princess, and
make insinuations, so that she was quite astonished; he must be the wisest man
in the whole world! She felt such respect for what he knew! So that when they
again danced together she fell in love with him; and that the shadow could remark,
for she almost pierced him through with her eyes. So they danced once more
together; and she was about to declare herself, but she was discreet; she
thought of her country and kingdom, and of the many persons she would have to
reign over.
“He is a wise man,”
said she to herself––“It is well; and he dances delightfully––that is also
good; but has he solid knowledge? That is just as important! He must be
examined.”
So she began, by
degrees, to question him about the most difficult things she could think of,
and which she herself could not have answered; so that the shadow made a
strange face.
“You cannot answer
these questions?” said the princess.
“They belong to my
childhood’s learning,” said the shadow. “I really believe my shadow, by the
door there, can answer them!”
“Your shadow!” said the
princess. “That would indeed be marvellous!”
“I will not say for a
certainty that he can,” said the shadow, “but I think so; he has now followed
me for so many years, and listened to my conversation–I should think it
possible. But your royal highness will permit me to observe, that he is so
proud of passing himself off for a man, that when he is to be in a proper humor––and
he must be so to answer well––he must be treated quite like a man.”
“Oh! I like that!” said
the princess.
So she went to the
learned man by the door, and she spoke to him about the sun and the moon, and
about persons out of and in the world, and he answered with wisdom and
prudence.
“What a man that must
be who has so wise a shadow!” thought she. “It will be a real blessing to my
people and kingdom if I choose him for my consort––I will do it!”
They were soon agreed,
both the princess and the shadow; but no one was to know about it before she
arrived in her own kingdom.
“No one––not even my
shadow!” said the shadow, and he had his own thoughts about it!
Now they were in the
country where the princess reigned when she was at home.
“Listen, my good
friend,” said the shadow to the learned man. “I have now become as happy and mighty
as anyone can be; I will, therefore, do something particular for thee! Thou
shalt always live with me in the palace, drive with me in my royal carriage,
and have ten thousand pounds a year; but then thou must submit to be called
SHADOW by all and everyone; thou must not say that thou hast ever been a man;
and once a year, when I sit on the balcony in the sunshine, thou must lie at my
feet, as a shadow shall do! I must tell thee: I am going to marry the king’s
daughter, and the nuptials are to take place this evening!”
“Nay, this is going too
far!” said the learned man. “I will not have it; I will not do it! It is to
deceive the whole country and the princess too! I will tell everything! That I
am a man, and that thou art a shadow––thou art only dressed up!”
“There is no one who
will believe it!” said the shadow. “Be reasonable, or I will call the guard!”
“I will go directly to
the princess!” said the learned man.
“But I will go first!”
said the shadow. “And thou wilt go to prison!” and that he was obliged to do––for
the sentinels obeyed him whom they knew the king’s daughter was to marry.
“You tremble!” said the
princess, as the shadow came into her chamber. “Has anything happened? You must
not be unwell this evening, now that we are to have our nuptials celebrated.”
“I have lived to see
the most cruel thing that anyone can live to see!” said the shadow. “Only
imagine––yes, it is true, such a poor shadow–skull cannot bear much––only
think, my shadow has become mad; he thinks that he is a man, and that I––now
only think––that I am his shadow!”
“It is terrible!” said
the princess; “but he is confined, is he not?”
“That he is. I am
afraid that he will never recover.”
“Poor shadow!” said the
princess. “He is very unfortunate; it would be a real work of charity to
deliver him from the little life he has, and, when I think properly over the
matter, I am of opinion that it will be necessary to do away with him in all
stillness!”
“It is certainly hard,”
said the shadow, “for he was a faithful servant!” and then he gave a sort of
sigh.
“You are a noble
character!” said the princess.
The whole city was
illuminated in the evening, and the cannons went off with a bum! bum! and the
soldiers presented arms. That was a marriage! The princess and the shadow went
out on the balcony to show themselves, and get another hurrah!
The learned man heard
nothing of all this––for they had deprived him of life.
[13] The word mahogany
can be understood, in Danish, as having two meanings. In general, it means the
reddish–brown wood itself; but in jest, it signifies “excessively fine,” which
arose from an anecdote of Nyboder, in Copenhagen, (the seamen’s quarter.) A
sailor’s wife, who was always proud and fine, in her way, came to her neighbor,
and complained that she had got a splinter in her finger. “What of?” asked the
neighbor’s wife. “It is a mahogany splinter,” said the other. “Mahogany! It
cannot be less with you!” exclaimed the woman–and thence the proverb, “It is so
mahogany!”–(that is, so excessively fine)––is derived. [14]Peter Schlemihl, the
shadowless man.
Most terribly cold it
was; it snowed, and was nearly quite dark, and evening–– the last evening of
the year. In this cold and darkness there went along the street a poor little
girl, bareheaded, and with naked feet. When she left home she had slippers on,
it is true; but what was the good of that? They were very large slippers, which
her mother had hitherto worn; so large were they; and the poor little thing
lost them as she scuffled away across the street, because of two carriages that
rolled by dreadfully fast.
One slipper was nowhere
to be found; the other had been laid hold of by an urchin, and off he ran with
it; he thought it would do capitally for a cradle when he some day or other
should have children himself. So the little maiden walked on with her tiny
naked feet, that were quite red and blue from cold. She carried a quantity of
matches in an old apron, and she held a bundle of them in her hand. Nobody had
bought anything of her the whole livelong day; no one had given her a single
farthing.
She crept along
trembling with cold and hunger––a very picture of sorrow, the poor little
thing!
The flakes of snow
covered her long fair hair, which fell in beautiful curls around her neck; but
of that, of course, she never once now thought. From all the windows the
candles were gleaming, and it smelt so deliciously of roast goose, for you know
it was New Year’s Eve; yes, of that she thought.
In a corner formed by
two houses, of which one advanced more than the other, she seated herself down
and cowered together. Her little feet she had drawn close up to her, but she
grew colder and colder, and to go home she did not venture, for she had not
sold any matches and could not bring a farthing of money: from her father she
would certainly get blows, and at home it was cold too, for above her she had
only the roof, through which the wind whistled, even though the largest cracks
were stopped up with straw and rags.
Her little hands were
almost numbed with cold. Oh! a match might afford her a world of comfort, if
she only dared take a single one out of the bundle, draw it against the wall,
and warm her fingers by it. She drew one out. “Rischt!” how it blazed, how it
burnt! It was a warm, bright flame, like a candle, as she held her hands over
it: it was a wonderful light. It seemed really to the little maiden as though
she were sitting before a large iron stove, with burnished brass feet and a
brass ornament at top. The fire burned with such blessed influence; it warmed
so delightfully. The little girl had already stretched out her feet to warm
them too; but––the small flame went out, the stove vanished: she had only the
remains of the burnt–out match in her hand.
She rubbed another
against the wall: it burned brightly, and where the light fell on the wall,
there the wall became transparent like a veil, so that she could see into the room.
On the table was spread a snow–white tablecloth; upon it was a splendid
porcelain service, and the roast goose was steaming famously with its stuffing
of apple and dried plums. And what was still more capital to behold was, the
goose hopped down from the dish, reeled about on the floor with knife and fork
in its breast, till it came up to the poor little girl; when––the match went
out and nothing but the thick, cold, damp wall was left behind. She lighted
another match. Now there she was sitting under the most magnificent Christmas
tree: it was still larger, and more decorated than the one which she had seen
through the glass door in the rich merchant’s house.
Thousands of lights
were burning on the green branches, and gaily–colored pictures, such as she had
seen in the shop–windows, looked down upon her. The little maiden stretched out
her hands towards them when––the match went out. The lights of the Christmas
tree rose higher and higher, she saw them now as stars in heaven; one fell down
and formed a long trail of fire.
“Someone is just dead!”
said the little girl; for her old grandmother, the only person who had loved
her, and who was now no more, had told her, that when a star falls, a soul
ascends to God.
She drew another match
against the wall: it was again light, and in the lustre there stood the old
grandmother, so bright and radiant, so mild, and with such an expression of
love.
“Grandmother!” cried
the little one. “Oh, take me with you! You go away when the match burns out;
you vanish like the warm stove, like the delicious roast goose, and like the
magnificent Christmas tree!” And she rubbed the whole bundle of matches quickly
against the wall, for she wanted to be quite sure of keeping her grandmother
near her. And the matches gave such a brilliant light that it was brighter than
at noon–day: never formerly had the grandmother been so beautiful and so tall.
She took the little maiden, on her arm, and both flew in brightness and in joy
so high, so very high, and then above was neither cold, nor hunger, nor anxiety––they
were with God.
But in the corner, at
the cold hour of dawn, sat the poor girl, with rosy cheeks and with a smiling
mouth, leaning against the wall––frozen to death on the last evening of the old
year. Stiff and stark sat the child there with her matches, of which one bundle
had been burnt. “She wanted to warm herself,” people said. No one had the
slightest suspicion of what beautiful things she had seen; no one even dreamed
of the splendor in which, with her grandmother she had entered on the joys of a
new year.
Ah! yes, that was
little Tuk: in reality his name was not Tuk, but that was what he called
himself before he could speak plain: he meant it for Charles, and it is all
well enough if one does but know it. He had now to take care of his little
sister Augusta, who was much younger than himself, and he was, besides, to
learn his lesson at the same time; but these two things would not do together
at all. There sat the poor little fellow, with his sister on his lap, and he
sang to her all the songs he knew; and he glanced the while from time to time
into the geography–book that lay open before him. By the next morning he was to
have learnt all the towns in Zealand by heart, and to know about them all that
is possible to be known.
His mother now came
home, for she had been out, and took little Augusta on her arm. Tuk ran quickly
to the window, and read so eagerly that he pretty nearly read his eyes out; for
it got darker and darker, but his mother had no money to buy a candle.
“There goes the old
washerwoman over the way,” said his mother, as she looked out of the window. “The
poor woman can hardly drag herself along, and she must now drag the pail home
from the fountain. Be a good boy, Tukey, and run across and help the old woman,
won’t you?”
So Tuk ran over quickly
and helped her; but when he came back again into the room it was quite dark,
and as to a light, there was no thought of such a thing. He was now to go to
bed; that was an old turn–up bedstead; in it he lay and thought about his
geography lesson, and of Zealand, and of all that his master had told him. He
ought, to be sure, to have read over his lesson again, but that, you know, he
could not do. He therefore put his geography–book under his pillow, because he
had heard that was a very good thing to do when one wants to learn one’s
lesson; but one cannot, however, rely upon it entirely. Well, there he lay, and
thought and thought, and all at once it was just as if someone kissed his eyes
and mouth: he slept, and yet he did not sleep; it was as though the old
washerwoman gazed on him with her mild eyes and said, “It were a great sin if
you were not to know your lesson tomorrow morning. You have aided me, I
therefore will now help you; and the loving God will do so at all times.” And
all of a sudden the book under Tuk’s pillow began scraping and scratching.
“Kickery–ki! kluk!
kluk! kluk!”––that was an old hen who came creeping along, and she was from
Kjoge. “I am a Kjoger hen,” [15] said she, and then she related how many
inhabitants there were there, and about the battle that had taken place, and
which, after all, was hardly worth talking about.
“Kribledy, krabledy––plump!”
down fell somebody: it was a wooden bird, the popinjay used at the shooting–matches
at Prastoe. Now he said that there were just as many inhabitants as he had
nails in his body; and he was very proud. “Thorwaldsen lived almost next door
to me. [16] Plump! Here I lie capitally.”
But little Tuk was no
longer lying down: all at once he was on horseback. On he went at full gallop,
still galloping on and on. A knight with a gleaming plume, and most
magnificently dressed, held him before him on the horse, and thus they rode
through the wood to the old town of Bordingborg, and that was a large and very
lively town. High towers rose from the castle of the king, and the brightness
of many candles streamed from all the windows; within was dance and song, and
King Waldemar and the young, richly–attired maids of honor danced together. The
morn now came; and as soon as the sun appeared, the whole town and the king’s
palace crumbled together, and one tower after the other; and at last only a
single one remained standing where the castle had been before, [17] and the
town was so small and poor, and the school boys came along with their books
under their arms, and said, “2000 inhabitants!” but that was not true, for
there were not so many.
And little Tukey lay in
his bed: it seemed to him as if he dreamed, and yet as if he were not dreaming;
however, somebody was close beside him.
“Little Tukey! Little
Tukey!” cried someone near. It was a seaman, quite a little personage, so
little as if he were a midshipman; but a midshipman it was not.
“Many remembrances from
Corsor. [18] That is a town that is just rising into importance; a lively town
that has steam–boats and stagecoaches: formerly people called it ugly, but that
is no longer true. I lie on the sea,” said Corsor; “I have high roads and gardens,
and I have given birth to a poet who was witty and amusing, which all poets are
not. I once intended to equip a ship that was to sail all round the earth; but
I did not do it, although I could have done so: and then, too, I smell so
deliciously, for close before the gate bloom the most beautiful roses.”
Little Tuk looked, and
all was red and green before his eyes; but as soon as the confusion of colors
was somewhat over, all of a sudden there appeared a wooded slope close to the
bay, and high up above stood a magnificent old church, with two high pointed
towers. From out the hill–side spouted fountains in thick streams of water, so
that there was a continual splashing; and close beside them sat an old king
with a golden crown upon his white head: that was King Hroar, near the
fountains, close to the town of Roeskilde, as it is now called. And up the
slope into the old church went all the kings and queens of Denmark, hand in
hand, all with their golden crowns; and the organ played and the fountains rustled.
Little Tuk saw all, heard all. “Do not forget the diet,” said King Hroar. [19]
Again all suddenly
disappeared. Yes, and whither? It seemed to him just as if one turned over a
leaf in a book. And now stood there an old peasant–woman, who came from Soroe,
[20] where grass grows in the market–place. She had an old grey linen apron
hanging over her head and back: it was so wet, it certainly must have been
raining. “Yes, that it has,” said she; and she now related many pretty things
out of Holberg’s comedies, and about Waldemar and Absalon; but all at once she
cowered together, and her head began shaking backwards and forwards, and she
looked as she were going to make a spring. “Croak! croak!” said she. “It is
wet, it is wet; there is such a pleasant deathlike stillness in Sorbe!” She was
now suddenly a frog, “Croak”; and now she was an old woman. “One must dress
according to the weather,” said she. “It is wet; it is wet. My town is just
like a bottle; and one gets in by the neck, and by the neck one must get out
again! In former times I had the finest fish, and now I have fresh rosy–cheeked
boys at the bottom of the bottle, who learn wisdom, Hebrew, Greek––Croak!”
When she spoke it
sounded just like the noise of frogs, or as if one walked with great boots over
a moor; always the same tone, so uniform and so tiring that little Tuk fell
into a good sound sleep, which, by the bye, could not do him any harm.
But even in this sleep
there came a dream, or whatever else it was: his little sister Augusta, she
with the blue eyes and the fair curling hair, was suddenly a tall, beautiful
girl, and without having wings was yet able to fly; and she now flew over
Zealand––over the green woods and the blue lakes.
“Do you hear the cock
crow, Tukey? Cock–a–doodle–doo! The cocks are flying up fro m Kjoge! You will
have a farm–yard, so large, oh! so very large! You will suffer neither hunger
nor thirst! You will get on in the world! You will be a rich and happy man!
Your house will exalt itself like King Waldemar’s tower, and will be richly
decorated with marble statues, like that at Prastoe. You understand what I
mean. Your name shall circulate with renown all round the earth, like unto the
ship that was to have sailed from Corsor; and in Roeskilde––”
“Do not forget the
diet!” said King Hroar.
“Then you will speak
well and wisely, little Tukey; and when at last you sink into your grave, you
shall sleep as quietly––––”
“As if I lay in Soroe,”
said Tuk, awaking. It was bright day, and he was now quite unable to call to
mind his dream; that, however, was not at all necessary, for one may not know
what the future will bring.
And out of bed he
jumped, and read in his book, and now all at once he knew his whole lesson. And
the old washerwoman popped her head in at the door, nodded to him friendly, and
said, “Thanks, many thanks, my good child, for your help! May the good ever–loving
God fulfil your loveliest dream!”
Little Tukey did not at
all know what he had dreamed, but the loving God knew it.
[15] Kjoge, a town in
the bay of Kjoge. “To see the Kjoge hens,” is an expression similar to “showing
a child London,” which is said to be done by taking his head in both bands, and
so lifting him off the ground. At the invasion of the English in 1807, an
encounter of a no very glorious nature took place between the British troops
and the undisciplined Danish militia. [16] Prastoe, a still smaller town than
Kjoge. Some hundred paces from it lies the manor–house Ny Soe, where
Thorwaldsen, the famed sculptor, generally sojourned during his stay in
Denmark, and where he called many of his immortal works into existence. [17]
Bordingborg, in the reign of King Waldemar, a considerable place, now an
unimportant little town. One solitary tower only, and some remains of a wall,
show where the castle once stood. [18] Corsor, on the Great Belt, called,
formerly, before the introduction of steam–vessels, when travellers were often
obliged to wait a long time for a favorable wind, “the most tiresome of towns.”
The poet Baggesen was born here. [19] Roeskilde, once the capital of Denmark.
The town takes its name from King Hroar, and the many fountains in the
neighborhood. In the beautiful cathedral the greater number of the kings and
queens of Denmark are interred. In Roeskilde, too, the members of the Danish
Diet assemble. [20] Sorbe, a very quiet little town, beautifully situated,
surrounded by woods and lakes. Holberg, Denmark’s Moliere, founded here an
academy for the sons of the nobles. The poets Hauch and Ingemann were appointed
professors here. The latter lives there still.
Along time ago, there
lived an old poet, a thoroughly kind old poet. As he was sitting one evening in
his room, a dreadful storm arose without, and the rain streamed down from
heaven; but the old poet sat warm and comfortable in his chimney–comer, where
the fire blazed and the roasting apple hissed.
“Those who have not a
roof over their heads will be wetted to the skin,” said the good old poet.
“Oh let me in! Let me
in! I am cold, and I’m so wet!” exclaimed suddenly a child that stood crying at
the door and knocking for admittance, while the rain poured down, and the wind
made all the windows rattle.
“Poor thing!” said the
old poet, as he went to open the door. There stood a little boy, quite naked,
and the water ran down from his long golden hair; he trembled with cold, and
had he not come into a warm room he would most certainly have perished in the
frightful tempest.
“Poor child!” said the
old poet, as he took the boy by the hand. “Come in, come in, and I will soon
restore thee! Thou shalt have wine and roasted apples, for thou art verily a
charming child!” And the boy was so really. His eyes were like two bright
stars; and although the water trickled down his hair, it waved in beautiful
curls. He looked exactly like a little angel, but he was so pale, and his whole
body trembled with cold. He had a nice little bow in his hand, but it was quite
spoiled by the rain, and the tints of his many–colored arrows ran one into the
other.
The old poet seated
himself beside his hearth, and took the little fellow on his lap; he squeezed
the water out of his dripping hair, warmed his hands between his own, and
boiled for him some sweet wine. Then the boy recovered, his cheeks again grew
rosy, he jumped down from the lap where he was sitting, and danced round the
kind old poet.
“You are a merry
fellow,” said the old man. “What’s your name?”
“My name is Cupid,”
answered the boy. “Don’t you know me? There lies my bow; it shoots well, I can
assure you! Look, the weather is now clearing up, and the moon is shining clear
again through the window.”
“Why, your bow is quite
spoiled,” said the old poet.
“That were sad indeed,”
said the boy, and he took the bow in his hand –and examined it on every side. “Oh,
it is dry again, and is not hurt at all; the string is quite tight. I will try
it directly.” And he bent his bow, took aim, and shot an arrow at the old poet,
right into his heart. “You see now that my bow was not spoiled,” said he
laughing; and away he ran.
The naughty boy, to
shoot the old poet in that way; he who had taken him into his warm room, who
had treated him so kindly, and who had given him warm wine and the very best
apples!
The poor poet lay on
the earth and wept, for the arrow had really flown into his heart.
“Fie!” said he. “How
naughty a boy Cupid is! I will tell all children about him, that they may take
care and not play with him, for he will only cause them sorrow and many a
heartache.”
And all good children
to whom he related this story, took great heed of this naughty Cupid; but he
made fools of them still, for he is astonishingly cunning. When the university
students come from the lectures, he runs beside them in a black coat, and with
a book under his arm. It is quite impossible for them to know him, and they
walk along with him arm in arm, as if he, too, were a student like themselves;
and then, unperceived, he thrusts an arrow to their bosom. When the young
maidens come from being examined by the clergyman, or go to church to be
confirmed, there he is again close behind them. Yes, he is forever following
people. At the play, he sits in the great chandelier and burns in bright
flames, so that people think it is really a flame, but they soon discover it is
something else. He roves about in the garden of the palace and upon the
ramparts: yes, once he even shot your father and mother right in the heart. Ask
them only and you will hear what they’ll tell you. Oh, he is a naughty boy,
that Cupid; you must never have anything to do with him. He is forever running
after everybody. Only think, he shot an arrow once at your old grandmother! But
that is a long time ago, and it is all past now; however, a thing of that sort
she never forgets. Fie, naughty Cupid! But now you know him, and you know, too,
how ill–behaved he is!
There was once a little
girl who was very pretty and delicate, but in summer she was forced to run
about with bare feet, she was so poor, and in winter wear very large wooden
shoes, which made her little insteps quite red, and that looked so dangerous!
In the middle of the
village lived old Dame Shoemaker; she sat and sewed together, as well as she
could, a little pair of shoes out of old red strips of cloth; they were very
clumsy, but it was a kind thought. They were meant for the little girl. The
little girl was called Karen.
On the very day her
mother was buried, Karen received the red shoes, and wore them for the first
time. They were certainly not intended for mourning, but she had no others, and
with stockingless feet she followed the poor straw coffin in them.
Suddenly a large old
carriage drove up, and a large old lady sat in it: she looked at the little
girl, felt compassion for her, and then said to the clergyman:
“Here, give me the
little girl. I will adopt her!”
And Karen believed all
this happened on account of the red shoes, but the old lady thought they were
horrible, and they were burnt. But Karen herself was cleanly and nicely
dressed; she must learn to read and sew; and people said she was a nice little
thing, but the looking–glass said: “Thou art more than nice, thou art
beautiful!”
Now the queen once
travelled through the land, and she had her little daughter with her. And this
little daughter was a princess, and people streamed to the castle, and Karen
was there also, and the little princess stood in her fine white dress, in a
window, and let herself be stared at; she had neither a train nor a golden
crown, but splendid red morocco shoes. They were certainly far handsomer than
those Dame Shoemaker had made for little Karen. Nothing in the world can be
compared with red shoes.
Now Karen was old
enough to be confirmed; she had new clothes and was to have new shoes also. The
rich shoemaker in the city took the measure of her little foot. This took place
at his house, in his room; where stood large glass–cases, filled with elegant
shoes and brilliant boots. All this looked charming, but the old lady could not
see well, and so had no pleasure in them. In the midst of the shoes stood a
pair of red ones, just like those the princess had worn. How beautiful they
were! The shoemaker said also they had been made for the child of a count, but
had not fitted.
“That must be patent
leather!” said the old lady. “They shine so!”
“Yes, they shine!” said
Karen, and they fitted, and were bought, but the old lady knew nothing about
their being red, else she would never have allowed Karen to have gone in red
shoes to be confirmed. Yet such was the case.
Everybody looked at her
feet; and when she stepped through the chancel door on the church pavement, it
seemed to her as if the old figures on the tombs, those portraits of old
preachers and preachers’ wives, with stiff ruffs, and long black dresses, fixed
their eyes on her red shoes. And she thought only of them as the clergyman laid
his hand upon her head, and spoke of the holy baptism, of the covenant with
God, and how she should be now a matured Christian; and the organ pealed so
solemnly; the sweet children’s voices sang, and the old music–directors sang,
but Karen only thought of her red shoes.
In the afternoon, the
old lady heard from everyone that the shoes had been red, and she said that it
was very wrong of Karen, that it was not at all becoming, and that in future
Karen should only go in black shoes to church, even when she should be older.
The next Sunday there
was the sacrament, and Karen looked at the black shoes, looked at the red ones––looked
at them again, and put on the red shoes.
The sun shone
gloriously; Karen and the old lady walked along the path through the corn; it
was rather dusty there.
At the church door
stood an old soldier with a crutch, and with a wonderfully long beard, which
was more red than white, and he bowed to the ground, and asked the old lady
whether he might dust her shoes. And Karen stretched out her little foot.
“See, what beautiful
dancing shoes!” said the soldier. “Sit firm when you dance”; and he put his
hand out towards the soles.
And the old lady gave
the old soldier alms, and went into the church with Karen.
And all the people in
the church looked at Karen’s red shoes, and all the pictures, and as Karen
knelt before the altar, and raised the cup to her lips, she only thought of the
red shoes, and they seemed to swim in it; and she forgot to sing her psalm, and
she forgot to pray, “Our Father in Heaven!”
Now all the people went
out of church, and the old lady got into her carriage. Karen raised her foot to
get in after her, when the old soldier said,
“Look, what beautiful
dancing shoes!”
And Karen could not
help dancing a step or two, and when she began her feet continued to dance; it
was just as though the shoes had power over them. She danced round the church
corner, she could not leave off; the coachman was obliged to run after and
catch hold of her, and he lifted her in the carriage, but her feet continued to
dance so that she trod on the old lady dreadfully. At length she took the shoes
off, and then her legs had peace.
The shoes were placed
in a closet at home, but Karen could not avoid looking at them.
Now the old lady was
sick, and it was said she could not recover. She must be nursed and waited
upon, and there was no one whose duty it was so much as Karen’s. But there was
a great ball in the city, to which Karen was invited. She looked at the old
lady, who could not recover, she looked at the red shoes, and she thought there
could be no sin in it; she put on the red shoes, she might do that also, she
thought. But then she went to the ball and began to dance.
When she wanted to
dance to the right, the shoes would dance to the left, and when she wanted to
dance up the room, the shoes danced back again, down the steps, into the
street, and out of the city gate. She danced, and was forced to dance straight
out into the gloomy wood.
Then it was suddenly
light up among the trees, and she fancied it must be the moon, for there was a
face; but it was the old soldier with the red beard; he sat there, nodded his
head, and said, “Look, what beautiful dancing shoes!”
Then she was terrified,
and wanted to fling off the red shoes, but they clung fast; and she pulled down
her stockings, but the shoes seemed to have grown to her feet. And she danced,
and must dance, over fields and meadows, in rain and sunshine, by night and
day; but at night it was the most fearful.
She danced over the
churchyard, but the dead did not dance––they had something better to do than to
dance. She wished to seat herself on a poor man’s grave, where the bitter tansy
grew; but for her there was neither peace nor rest; and when she danced towards
the open church door, she saw an angel standing there. He wore long, white
garments; he had wings which reached from his shoulders to the earth; his
countenance was severe and grave; and in his hand he held a sword, broad and
glittering.
“Dance shalt thou!”
said he. “Dance in thy red shoes till thou art pale and cold! Till thy skin
shrivels up and thou art a skeleton! Dance shalt thou from door to door, and
where proud, vain children dwell, thou shalt knock, that they may hear thee and
tremble! Dance shalt thou––!”
“Mercy!” cried Karen.
But she did not hear the angel’s reply, for the shoes carried her through the
gate into the fields, across roads and bridges, and she must keep ever dancing.
One morning she danced
past a door which she well knew. Within sounded a psalm; a coffin, decked with
flowers, was borne forth. Then she knew that the old lady was dead, and felt
that she was abandoned by all, and condemned by the angel of God.
She danced, and she was
forced to dance through the gloomy night. The shoes carried her over stack and
stone; she was torn till she bled; she danced over the heath till she came to a
little house. Here, she knew, dwelt the executioner; and she tapped with her
fingers at the window, and said, “Come out! Come out! I cannot come in, for I
am forced to dance!”
And the executioner
said, “Thou dost not know who I am, I fancy? I strike bad people’s heads off;
and I hear that my axe rings!”
“Don’t strike my head
off!” said Karen. “Then I can’t repent of my sins! But strike off my feet in
the red shoes!”
And then she confessed
her entire sin, and the executioner struck off her feet with the red shoes, but
the shoes danced away with the little feet across the field into the deep wood.
And he carved out
little wooden feet for her, and crutches, taught her the psalm criminals always
sing; and she kissed the hand which had wielded the axe, and went over the
heath.
“Now I have suffered
enough for the red shoes!” said she. “Now I will go into the church that people
may see me!” And she hastened towards the church door: but when she was near
it, the red shoes danced before her, and she was terrified, and turned round.
The whole week she was unhappy, and wept many bitter tears; but when Sunday
returned, she said, “Well, now I have suffered and struggled enough! I really
believe I am as good as many a one who sits in the church, and holds her head
so high!”
And away she went boldly;
but she had not got farther than the churchyard gate before she saw the red
shoes dancing before her; and she was frightened, and turned back, and repented
of her sin from her heart.
And she went to the
parsonage, and begged that they would take her into service; she would be very
industrious, she said, and would do everything she could; she did not care
about the wages, only she wished to have a home, and be with good people. And
the clergyman’s wife was sorry for her and took her into service; and she was
industrious and thoughtful. She sat still and listened when the clergyman read
the Bible in the evenings. All the children thought a great deal of her; but
when they spoke of dress, and grandeur, and beauty, she shook her head.
The following Sunday,
when the family was going to church, they asked her whether she would not go
with them; but she glanced sorrowfully, with tears in her eyes, at her
crutches. The family went to hear the word of God; but she went alone into her
little chamber; there was only room for a bed and chair to stand in it; and
here she sat down with her Prayer–Book; and whilst she read with a pious mind,
the wind bore the strains of the organ towards her, and she raised her tearful
countenance, and said, “O God, help me!”
And the sun shone so
clearly, and straight before her stood the angel of God in white garments, the
same she had seen that night at the church door; but he no longer carried the
sharp sword, but in its stead a splendid green spray, full of roses. And he touched
the ceiling with the spray, and the ceiling rose so high, and where he had
touched it there gleamed a golden star. And he touched the walls, and they
widened out, and she saw the organ which was playing; she saw the old pictures
of the preachers and the preachers’ wives. The congregation sat in cushioned
seats, and sang out of their Prayer–Books. For the church itself had come to
the poor girl in her narrow chamber, or else she had come into the church. She
sat in the pew with the clergyman’s family, and when they had ended the psalm
and looked up, they nodded and said, “It is right that thou art come!”
“It was through mercy!”
she said.
And the organ pealed,
and the children’s voices in the choir sounded so sweet and soft! The clear
sunshine streamed so warmly through the window into the pew where Karen sat!
Her heart was so full of sunshine, peace, and joy, that it broke. Her soul flew
on the sunshine to God, and there no one asked after the RED SHOES.