A STORY by Hans Christian Andersen(每日更新)

燕鸥and小蟹UID: 199804

非常不好意思，前几天电脑有问题，没办法打开下载的电子图书，因此才今天开始继续发文

ANNE LISBETH

by Hans Christian Andersen



ANNE LISBETH was a beautiful young woman, with a red and white
complexion, glittering white teeth, and clear soft eyes; and her
footstep was light in the dance, but her mind was lighter still. She
had a little child, not at all pretty; so he was put out to be
nursed by a laborer's wife, and his mother went to the count's castle.
She sat in splendid rooms, richly decorated with silk and velvet;
not a breath of air was allowed to blow upon her, and no one was
allowed to speak to her harshly, for she was nurse to the count's
child. He was fair and delicate as a prince, and beautiful as an
angel; and how she loved this child! Her own boy was provided for by being at the laborer's where the mouth watered more frequently than the pot boiled, and where in general no one was at home to take care of the child. Then he would cry, but what nobody knows nobody cares for; so he would cry till he was tired, and then fall asleep; and while we are asleep we can feel neither hunger nor thirst. Ah, yes; sleep is a capital invention.

As years went on, Anne Lisbeth's child grew apace like weeds,
although they said his growth had been stunted. He had become quite
a member of the family in which he dwelt; they received money to
keep him, so that his mother got rid of him altogether. She had become quite a lady; she had a comfortable home of her own in the town; and out of doors, when she went for a walk, she wore a bonnet; but she never walked out to see the laborer: that was too far from the town, and, indeed, she had nothing to go for, the boy now belonged to these laboring people. He had food, and he could also do something towards earning his living; he took care of Mary's red cow, for he knew how to tend cattle and make himself useful.

The great dog by the yard gate of a nobleman's mansion sits
proudly on the top of his kennel when the sun shines, and barks at
every one that passes; but if it rains, he creeps into his house,
and there he is warm and dry. Anne Lisbeth's boy also sat in the
sunshine on the top of the fence, cutting out a little toy. If it
was spring-time, he knew of three strawberry-plants in blossom,
which would certainly bear fruit. This was his most hopeful thought,
though it often came to nothing. And he had to sit out in the rain
in the worst weather, and get wet to the skin, and let the cold wind
dry the clothes on his back afterwards. If he went near the farmyard
belonging to the count, he was pushed and knocked about, for the men and the maids said he was so horrible ugly; but he was used to all this, for nobody loved him. This was how the world treated Anne
Lisbeth's boy, and how could it be otherwise. It was his fate to be
beloved by no one. Hitherto he had been a land crab; the land at
last cast him adrift. He went to sea in a wretched vessel, and sat
at the helm, while the skipper sat over the grog-can. He was dirty and
ugly, half-frozen and half-starved; he always looked as if he never
had enough to eat, which was really the case.


Late in the autumn, when the weather was rough, windy, and wet,
and the cold penetrated through the thickest clothing, especially at
sea, a wretched boat went out to sea with only two men on board, or,
more correctly, a man and a half, for it was the skipper and his
boy. There had only been a kind of twilight all day, and it soon
grew quite dark, and so bitterly cold, that the skipper took a dram to
warm him. The bottle was old, and the glass too. It was perfect in the
upper part, but the foot was broken off, and it had therefore been
fixed upon a little carved block of wood, painted blue. A dram is a
great comfort, and two are better still, thought the skipper, while
the boy sat at the helm, which he held fast in his hard seamed
hands. He was ugly, and his hair was matted, and he looked crippled
and stunted; they called him the field-laborer's boy, though in the
church register he was entered as Anne Lisbeth's son. The wind cut
through the rigging, and the boat cut through the sea. The sails,
filled by the wind, swelled out and carried them along in wild career.
It was wet and rough above and below, and might still be worse.
Hold! what is that? What has struck the boat? Was it a waterspout,
or a heavy sea rolling suddenly upon them?


"Heaven help us!" cried the boy at the helm, as the boat heeled
over and lay on its beam ends. It had struck on a rock, which rose
from the depths of the sea, and sank at once, like an old shoe in a
puddle. "It sank at once with mouse and man," as the saying is.
There might have been mice on board, but only one man and a half,
the skipper and the laborer's boy. No one saw it but the skimming
sea-gulls and the fishes beneath the water; and even they did not
see it properly, for they darted back with terror as the boat filled
with water and sank. There it lay, scarcely a fathom below the
surface, and those two were provided for, buried, and forgotten. The
glass with the foot of blue wood was the only thing that did not sink,
for the wood floated and the glass drifted away to be cast upon the
shore and broken; where and when, is indeed of no consequence. It
had served its purpose, and it had been loved, which Anne Lisbeth's
boy had not been. But in heaven no soul will be able to say, "Never
loved."


Anne Lisbeth had now lived in the town many years; she was
called "Madame," and felt dignified in consequence; she remembered the old, noble days, in which she had driven in the carriage, and had
associated with countess and baroness. Her beautiful, noble child
had been a dear angel, and possessed the kindest heart; he had loved
her so much, and she had loved him in return; they had kissed and
loved each other, and the boy had been her joy, her second life. Now
he was fourteen years of age, tall, handsome, and clever. She had
not seen him since she carried him in her arms; neither had she been
for years to the count's palace; it was quite a journey thither from
the town.


"I must make one effort to go," said Anne Lisbeth, "to see my
darling, the count's sweet child, and press him to my heart. Certainly
he must long to see me, too, the young count; no doubt he thinks of me and loves me, as in those days when he would fling his angel-arms
round my neck, and lisp 'Anne Liz.' It was music to my ears. Yes, I
must make an effort to see him again." She drove across the country in a grazier's cart, and then got out, and continued her journey on foot, and thus reached the count's castle. It was as great and magnificent as it had always been, and the garden looked the same as ever; all the servants were strangers to her, not one of them knew Anne Lisbeth, nor of what consequence she had once been there; but she felt sure the countess would soon let them know it, and her darling boy, too: how she longed to see him!


Now that Anne Lisbeth was at her journey's end, she was kept
waiting a long time; and for those who wait, time passes slowly. But
before the great people went in to dinner, she was called in and
spoken to very graciously. She was to go in again after dinner, and
then she would see her sweet boy once more. How tall, and slender, and thin he had grown; but the eyes and the sweet angel mouth were still beautiful. He looked at her, but he did not speak, he certainly did
not know who she was. He turned round and was going away, but she seized his hand and pressed it to her lips.


"Well, well," he said; and with that he walked out of the room. He
who filled her every thought! he whom she loved best, and who was
her whole earthly pride!


Anne Lisbeth went forth from the castle into the public road,
feeling mournful and sad; he whom she had nursed day and night, and
even now carried about in her dreams, had been cold and strange, and had not a word or thought respecting her. A great black raven darted down in front of her on the high road, and croaked dismally.
"Ah," said she, "what bird of ill omen art thou?" Presently she
passed the laborer's hut; his wife stood at the door, and the two
women spoke to each other.


"You look well," said the woman; "you're fat and plump; you are
well off."


"Oh yes," answered Anne Lisbeth.


"The boat went down with them," continued the woman; "Hans the
skipper and the boy were both drowned; so there's an end of them. I
always thought the boy would be able to help me with a few dollars.
He'll never cost you anything more, Anne Lisbeth."


"So they were drowned," repeated Anne Lisbeth; but she said no
more, and the subject was dropped. She felt very low-spirited, because her count-child had shown no inclination to speak to her who loved him so well, and who had travelled so far to see him. The journey had cost money too, and she had derived no great pleasure from it. Still she said not a word of all this; she could not relieve her heart by telling the laborer's wife, lest the latter should think she did not enjoy her former position at the castle. Then the raven flew over her, screaming again as he flew.


"The black wretch!" said Anne Lisbeth, "he will end by frightening
me today." She had brought coffee and chicory with her, for she
thought it would be a charity to the poor woman to give them to her to boil a cup of coffee, and then she would take a cup herself.


The woman prepared the coffee, and in the meantime Anne Lisbeth
seated her in a chair and fell asleep. Then she dreamed of something
which she had never dreamed before; singularly enough she dreamed of her own child, who had wept and hungered in the laborer's hut, and had been knocked about in heat and in cold, and who was now lying in the depths of the sea, in a spot only known by God. She fancied she was still sitting in the hut, where the woman was busy preparing the coffee, for she could smell the coffee-berries roasting. But suddenly it seemed to her that there stood on the threshold a
beautiful young form, as beautiful as the count's child, and this
apparition said to her, "The world is passing away; hold fast to me,
for you are my mother after all; you have an angel in heaven, hold
me fast;" and the child-angel stretched out his hand and seized her.
Then there was a terrible crash, as of a world crumbling to pieces,
and the angel-child was rising from the earth, and holding her by
the sleeve so tightly that she felt herself lifted from the ground;
but, on the other hand, something heavy hung to her feet and dragged
her down, and it seemed as if hundreds of women were clinging to
her, and crying, "If thou art to be saved, we must be saved too.
Hold fast, hold fast." And then they all hung on her, but there were
too many; and as they clung the sleeve was torn, and Anne Lisbeth fell down in horror, and awoke. Indeed she was on the point of falling over in reality with the chair on which she sat; but she was so startled
and alarmed that she could not remember what she had dreamed, only
that it was something very dreadful.

燕鸥and小蟹UID: 199804

They drank their coffee and had a chat together, and then Anne
Lisbeth went away towards the little town where she was to meet the
carrier, who was to drive her back to her own home. But when she
came to him she found that he would not be ready to start till the
evening of the next day. Then she began to think of the expense, and
what the distance would be to walk. She remembered that the route by the sea-shore was two miles shorter than by the high road; and as
the weather was clear, and there would be moonlight, she determined to make her way on foot, and to start at once, that she might reach
home the next day.


The sun had set, and the evening bells sounded through the air
from the tower of the village church, but to her it was not the bells,
but the cry of the frogs in the marshes. Then they ceased, and all
around became still; not a bird could be heard, they were all at rest,
even the owl had not left her hiding place; deep silence reigned on
the margin of the wood by the sea-shore. As Anne Lisbeth walked on she could hear her own footsteps in the sands; even the waves of the sea were at rest, and all in the deep waters had sunk into silence.


There was quiet among the dead and the living in the deep sea. Anne
Lisbeth walked on, thinking of nothing at all, as people say, or
rather her thoughts wandered, but not away from her, for thought is
never absent from us, it only slumbers. Many thoughts that have lain
dormant are roused at the proper time, and begin to stir in the mind
and the heart, and seem even to come upon us from above. It is
written, that a good deed bears a blessing for its fruit; and it is
also written, that the wages of sin is death. Much has been said and
much written which we pass over or know nothing of. A light arises
within us, and then forgotten things make themselves remembered; and thus it was with Anne Lisbeth. The germ of every vice and every virtue lies in our heart, in yours and in mine; they lie like little grains
of seed, till a ray of sunshine, or the touch of an evil hand, or
you turn the corner to the right or to the left, and the decision is
made. The little seed is stirred, it swells and shoots up, and pours
its sap into your blood, directing your course either for good or
evil. Troublesome thoughts often exist in the mind, fermenting
there, which are not realized by us while the senses are as it were
slumbering; but still they are there. Anne Lisbeth walked on thus with
her senses half asleep, but the thoughts were fermenting within her.
From one Shrove Tuesday to another, much may occur to weigh down the heart; it is the reckoning of a whole year; much may be forgotten, sins against heaven in word and thought, sins against our neighbor, and against our own conscience. We are scarcely aware of their existence; and Anne Lisbeth did not think of any of her errors.

She had committed no crime against the law of the land; she was an
honorable person, in a good position- that she knew.


She continued her walk along by the margin of the sea. What was it
she saw lying there? An old hat; a man's hat. Now when might that have been washed overboard? She drew nearer, she stopped to look at the hat; "Ha! what was lying yonder?" She shuddered; yet it was nothing save a heap of grass and tangled seaweed flung across a long stone, but it looked like a corpse. Only tangled grass, and yet she was
frightened at it. As she turned to walk away, much came into her
mind that she had heard in her childhood: old superstitions of
spectres by the sea-shore; of the ghosts of drowned but unburied
people, whose corpses had been washed up on the desolate beach.

The body, she knew, could do no harm to any one, but the spirit could pursue the lonely wanderer, attach itself to him, and demand to be carried to the churchyard, that it might rest in consecrated ground.
"Hold fast! hold fast!" the spectre would cry; and as Anne Lisbeth
murmured these words to herself, the whole of her dream was suddenly recalled to her memory, when the mother had clung to her, and uttered these words, when, amid the crashing of worlds, her sleeve had been torn, and she had slipped from the grasp of her child, who wanted to hold her up in that terrible hour. Her child, her own child, which she had never loved, lay now buried in the sea, and might rise up, like a spectre, from the waters, and cry, "Hold fast; carry me
to consecrated ground!"


As these thoughts passed through her mind, fear gave speed to
her feet, so that she walked faster and faster. Fear came upon her
as if a cold, clammy hand had been laid upon her heart, so that she
almost fainted. As she looked across the sea, all there grew darker; a
heavy mist came rolling onwards, and clung to bush and tree,
distorting them into fantastic shapes. She turned and glanced at the
moon, which had risen behind her. It looked like a pale, rayless
surface, and a deadly weight seemed to hang upon her limbs. "Hold,"
thought she; and then she turned round a second time to look at the
moon. A white face appeared quite close to her, with a mist, hanging
like a garment from its shoulders. "Stop! carry me to consecrated
earth," sounded in her ears, in strange, hollow tones. The sound did
not come from frogs or ravens; she saw no sign of such creatures.

"A grave! dig me a grave!" was repeated quite loud. Yes, it was indeed the spectre of her child. The child that lay beneath the ocean, and whose spirit could have no rest until it was carried to the
churchyard, and until a grave had been dug for it in consecrated
ground. She would go there at once, and there she would dig. She
turned in the direction of the church, and the weight on her heart
seemed to grow lighter, and even to vanish altogether; but when she
turned to go home by the shortest way, it returned. "Stop! stop!"
and the words came quite clear, though they were like the croak of a
frog, or the wail of a bird. "A grave! dig me a grave!"


The mist was cold and damp, her hands and face were moist and
clammy with horror, a heavy weight again seized her and clung to
her, her mind became clear for thoughts that had never before been
there.


In these northern regions, a beech-wood often buds in a single
night and appears in the morning sunlight in its full glory of
youthful green. So, in a single instant, can the consciousness of
the sin that has been committed in thoughts, words, and actions of our past life, be unfolded to us. When once the conscience is awakened, it springs up in the heart spontaneously, and God awakens the conscience when we least expect it. Then we can find no excuse for ourselves; the deed is there and bears witness against us. The
thoughts seem to become words, and to sound far out into the world.

We are horrified at the thought of what we have carried within us, and at the consciousness that we have not overcome the evil which has its
origin in thoughtlessness and pride. The heart conceals within
itself the vices as well as the virtues, and they grow in the shallowest ground. Anne Lisbeth now experienced in thought what we have clothed in words. She was overpowered by them, and sank down
and crept along for some distance on the ground. "A grave! dig me a
grave!" sounded again in her ears, and she would have gladly buried
herself, if in the grave she could have found forgetfulness of her
actions.


It was the first hour of her awakening, full of anguish and
horror. Superstition made her alternately shudder with cold or burn
with the heat of fever. Many things, of which she had feared even to
speak, came into her mind. Silently, as the cloud-shadows in the
moonshine, a spectral apparition flitted by her; she had heard of it
before. Close by her galloped four snorting steeds, with fire flashing
from their eyes and nostrils. They dragged a burning coach, and within it sat the wicked lord of the manor, who had ruled there a hundred years before. The legend says that every night, at twelve o'clock, he drove into his castleyard and out again. He was not as pale as dead men are, but black as a coal. He nodded, and pointed to

Anne Lisbeth, crying out, "Hold fast! hold fast! and then you may ride again in a nobleman's carriage, and forget your child."


She gathered herself up, and hastened to the churchyard; but black
crosses and black ravens danced before her eyes, and she could not
distinguish one from the other. The ravens croaked as the raven had
done which she saw in the daytime, but now she understood what they said. "I am the raven-mother; I am the raven-mother," each raven
croaked, and Anne Lisbeth felt that the name also applied to her;
and she fancied she should be transformed into a black bird, and
have to cry as they cried, if she did not dig the grave. And she threw
herself upon the earth, and with her hands dug a grave in the hard
ground, so that the blood ran from her fingers. "A grave! dig me a
grave!" still sounded in her ears; she was fearful that the cock might
crow, and the first red streak appear in the east, before she had
finished her work; and then she would be lost. And the cock crowed,
and the day dawned in the east, and the grave was only half dug. An
icy hand passed over her head and face, and down towards her heart.
"Only half a grave," a voice wailed, and fled away. Yes, it fled
away over the sea; it was the ocean spectre; and, exhausted and
overpowered, Anne Lisbeth sunk to the ground, and her senses left her.


It was a bright day when she came to herself, and two men were
raising her up; but she was not lying in the churchyard, but on the
sea-shore, where she had dug a deep hole in the sand, and cut her hand with a piece of broken glass, whose sharp stern was stuck in a
little block of painted wood. Anne Lisbeth was in a fever.


Conscience had roused the memories of superstitions, and had so
acted upon her mind, that she fancied she had only half a soul, and
that her child had taken the other half down into the sea. Never would
she be able to cling to the mercy of Heaven till she had recovered
this other half which was now held fast in the deep water.


Anne Lisbeth returned to her home, but she was no longer the woman
she had been. Her thoughts were like a confused, tangled skein; only
one thread, only one thought was clear to her, namely that she must
carry the spectre of the sea-shore to the churchyard, and dig a
grave for him there; that by so doing she might win back her soul.


Many a night she was missed from her home, and was always found on the sea-shore waiting for the spectre.


In this way a whole year passed; and then one night she vanished
again, and was not to be found. The whole of the next day was spent in a useless search after her.


Towards evening, when the clerk entered the church to toll the
vesper bell, he saw by the altar Anne Lisbeth, who had spent the whole day there. Her powers of body were almost exhausted, but her eyes flashed brightly, and on her cheeks was a rosy flush. The last rays of the setting sun shone upon her, and gleamed over the altar upon the shining clasps of the Bible, which lay open at the words of the prophet Joel, "Rend your hearts and not your garments, and turn unto the Lord."


"That was just a chance," people said; but do things happen by
chance? In the face of Anne Lisbeth, lighted up by the evening sun,
could be seen peace and rest. She said she was happy now, for she
had conquered. The spectre of the shore, her own child, had come to
her the night before, and had said to her, "Thou hast dug me only half
a grave: but thou hast now, for a year and a day, buried me altogether
in thy heart, and it is there a mother can best hide her child!" And
then he gave her back her lost soul, and brought her into the church. "Now I am in the house of God," she said, "and in that house
we are happy."


When the sun set, Anne Lisbeth's soul had risen to that region
where there is no more pain; and Anne Lisbeth's troubles were at an
end.


THE END

燕鸥and小蟹UID: 199804

BEAUTY OF FORM AND BEAUTY OF MIND

by Hans Christian Andersen



THERE was once a sculptor, named Alfred, who having won the
large gold medal and obtained a travelling scholarship, went to Italy,
and then came back to his native land. He was young at that time-
indeed, he is young still, although he is ten years older than he
was then. On his return, he went to visit one of the little towns in
the island of Zealand. The whole town knew who the stranger was; and one of the richest men in the place gave a party in his honor, and all who were of any consequence, or who possessed some property, were invited. It was quite an event, and all the town knew of it, so that
it was not necessary to announce it by beat of drum.


Apprentice-boys, children of the poor, and even the poor people
themselves, stood before the house, watching the lighted windows;
and the watchman might easily fancy he was giving a party also,
there were so many people in the streets. There was quite an air of
festivity about it, and the house was full of it; for Mr. Alfred,
the sculptor, was there. He talked and told anecdotes, and every one
listened to him with pleasure, not unmingled with awe; but none felt
so much respect for him as did the elderly widow of a naval officer.
She seemed, so far as Mr. Alfred was concerned, to be like a piece
of fresh blotting-paper that absorbed all he said and asked for
more. She was very appreciative, and incredibly ignorant- a kind of
female Gaspar Hauser.


"I should like to see Rome," she said; "it must be a lovely
city, or so many foreigners would not be constantly arriving there.
Now, do give me a description of Rome. How does the city look when you enter in at the gate?"


"I cannot very well describe it," said the sculptor; "but you
enter on a large open space, in the centre of which stands an obelisk,
which is a thousand years old."


"An organist!" exclaimed the lady, who had never heard the word
'obelisk.' Several of the guests could scarcely forbear laughing,
and the sculptor would have had some difficulty in keeping his
countenance, but the smile on his lips faded away; for he caught sight
of a pair of dark-blue eyes close by the side of the inquisitive lady.


They belonged to her daughter; and surely no one who had such a
daughter could be silly. The mother was like a fountain of
questions; and the daughter, who listened but never spoke, might
have passed for the beautiful maid of the fountain. How charming she
was! She was a study for the sculptor to contemplate, but not to
converse with; for she did not speak, or, at least, very seldom.
"Has the pope a great family?" inquired the lady.


The young man answered considerately, as if the question had
been a different one, "No; he does not come from a great family."


"That is not what I asked," persisted the widow; "I mean, has he a
wife and children?"


"The pope is not allowed to marry," replied the gentleman.
"I don't like that," was the lady's remark.


She certainly might have asked more sensible questions; but if she
had not been allowed to say just what she liked, would her daughter
have been there, leaning so gracefully on her shoulder, and looking
straight before her, with a smile that was almost mournful on her
face?


Mr. Alfred again spoke of Italy, and of the glorious colors in
Italian scenery; the purple hills, the deep blue of the Mediterranean,
the azure of southern skies, whose brightness and glory could only
be surpassed in the north by the deep-blue eyes of a maiden; and he
said this with a peculiar intonation; but she who should have
understood his meaning looked quite unconscious of it, which also
was charming.


"Beautiful Italy!" sighed some of the guests.
"Oh, to travel there!" exclaimed others.
"Charming! Charming!" echoed from every voice.
"I may perhaps win a hundred thousand dollars in the lottery,"
said the naval officer's widow; "and if I do, we will travel- I and my
daughter; and you, Mr. Alfred, must be our guide. We can all three
travel together, with one or two more of our good friends." And she
nodded in such a friendly way at the company, that each imagined
himself to be the favored person who was to accompany them to Italy.


"Yes, we must go," she continued; "but not to those parts where
there are robbers. We will keep to Rome. In the public roads one is
always safe."


The daughter sighed very gently; and how much there may be in a
sigh, or attributed to it! The young man attributed a great deal of
meaning to this sigh. Those deep-blue eyes, which had been lit up this
evening in honor of him, must conceal treasures, treasures of heart
and mind, richer than all the glories of Rome; and so when he left the
party that night, he had lost it completely to the young lady. The
house of the naval officer's widow was the one most constantly visited by Mr. Alfred, the sculptor. It was soon understood that his visits were not intended for that lady, though they were the persons who kept up the conversation. He came for the sake of the daughter. They called her Kaela. Her name was really Karen Malena, and these two names had been contracted into the one name Kaela. She was really beautiful; but some said she was rather dull, and slept late of a morning. "She has been accustomed to that," her mother said. "She is a beauty, and they are always easily tired. She does sleep rather
late; but that makes her eyes so clear."


What power seemed to lie in the depths of those dark eyes! The
young man felt the truth of the proverb, "Still waters run deep:"
and his heart had sunk into their depths. He often talked of his
adventures, and the mamma was as simple and eager in her questions
as on the first evening they met. It was a pleasure to hear Alfred
describe anything. He showed them colored plates of Naples, and
spoke of excursions to Mount Vesuvius, and the eruptions of fire
from it. The naval officer's widow had never heard of them before.
"Good heavens!" she exclaimed. "So that is a burning mountain; but
is it not very dangerous to the people who live near it?"


"Whole cities have been destroyed," he replied; "for instance,
Herculaneum and Pompeii."


"Oh, the poor people! And you saw all that with your own eyes?"


"No; I did not see any of the eruptions which are represented in
those pictures; but I will show you a sketch of my own, which
represents an eruption I once saw."


He placed a pencil sketch on the table; and mamma, who had been
over-powered with the appearance of the colored plates, threw a glance at the pale drawing and cried in astonishment, "What, did you see it throw up white fire?"


For a moment, Alfred's respect for Kaela's mamma underwent a
sudden shock, and lessened considerably; but, dazzled by the light
which surrounded Kaela, he soon found it quite natural that the old
lady should have no eye for color. After all, it was of very little
consequence; for Kaela's mamma had the best of all possessions;
namely, Kaela herself.


Alfred and Kaela were betrothed, which was a very natural
result; and the betrothal was announced in the newspaper of the little
town. Mama purchased thirty copies of the paper, that she might cut
out the paragraph and send it to friends and acquaintances. The
betrothed pair were very happy, and the mother was happy too. She said it seemed like connecting herself with Thorwalsden.


"You are a true successor of Thorwalsden," she said to Alfred; and
it seemed to him as if, in this instance, mamma had said a clever
thing. Kaela was silent; but her eyes shone, her lips smiled, every
movement was graceful,- in fact, she was beautiful; that cannot be
repeated too often. Alfred decided to take a bust of Kaela as well
as of her mother. They sat to him accordingly, and saw how he
moulded and formed the soft clay with his fingers.


"I suppose it is only on our account that you perform this
common-place work yourself, instead of leaving it to your servant to
do all that sticking together."


"It is really necessary that I should mould the clay myself," he
replied.


"Ah, yes, you are always so polite," said mamma, with a smile; and
Kaela silently pressed his hand, all soiled as it was with the clay.
Then he unfolded to them both the beauties of Nature, in all her
works; he pointed out to them how, in the scale of creation, inanimate
matter was inferior to animate nature; the plant above the mineral,
the animal above the plant, and man above them all. He strove to
show them how the beauty of the mind could be displayed in the outward form, and that it was the sculptor's task to seize upon that beauty of expression, and produce it in his works. Kaela stood silent, but nodded in approbation of what he said, while mamma-in-law made the following confession:-


"It is difficult to follow you; but I go hobbling along after
you with my thoughts, though what you say makes my head whirl round and round. Still I contrive to lay hold on some of it."


Kaela's beauty had a firm hold on Alfred; it filled his soul,
and held a mastery over him. Beauty beamed from Kaela's every feature, glittered in her eyes, lurked in the corners of her mouth, and
pervaded every movement of her agile fingers. Alfred, the sculptor,
saw this. He spoke only to her, thought only of her, and the two
became one; and so it may be said she spoke much, for he was always talking to her; and he and she were one. Such was the betrothal, and then came the wedding, with bride's-maids and wedding presents, all duly mentioned in the wedding speech. Mamma-in-law had set up Thorwalsden's bust at the end of the table, attired in a dressing-gown; it was her fancy that he should be a guest. Songs were sung, and cheers given; for it was a gay wedding, and they were a handsome pair. "Pygmalion loved his Galatea," said one of the songs.


"Ah, that is some of your mythologies," said mamma-in-law.
Next day the youthful pair started for Copenhagen, where they were
to live; mamma-in-law accompanied them, to attend to the "coarse
work," as she always called the domestic arrangements. Kaela looked
like a doll in a doll's house, for everything was bright and new,
and so fine. There they sat, all three; and as for Alfred, a proverb
may describe his position- he looked like a swan amongst the geese.
The magic of form had enchanted him; he had looked at the casket
without caring to inquire what it contained, and that omission often
brings the greatest unhappiness into married life. The casket may be
injured, the gilding may fall off, and then the purchaser regrets
his bargain.


In a large party it is very disagreeable to find a button giving
way, with no studs at hand to fall back upon; but it is worse still in
a large company to be conscious that your wife and mother-in-law are
talking nonsense, and that you cannot depend upon yourself to
produce a little ready wit to carry off the stupidity of the whole
affair.


The young married pair often sat together hand in hand; he would
talk, but she could only now and then let fall a word in the same
melodious voice, the same bell-like tones. It was a mental relief when
Sophy, one of her friends, came to pay them a visit. Sophy was not,
pretty. She was, however, quite free from any physical deformity,
although Kaela used to say she was a little crooked; but no eye,
save an intimate acquaintance, would have noticed it. She was a very
sensible girl, yet it never occurred to her that she might be a
dangerous person in such a house. Her appearance created a new
atmosphere in the doll's house, and air was really required, they
all owned that. They felt the want of a change of air, and
consequently the young couple and their mother travelled to Italy.


"Thank heaven we are at home again within our own four walls,"
said mamma-in-law and daughter both, on their return after a year's
absence.


"There is no real pleasure in travelling," said mamma; "to tell
the truth, it's very wearisome; I beg pardon for saying so. I was soon
very tired of it, although I had my children with me; and, besides,
it's very expensive work travelling, very expensive. And all those
galleries one is expected to see, and the quantity of things you are
obliged to run after! It must be done, for very shame; you are sure to
be asked when you come back if you have seen everything, and will most likely be told that you've omitted to see what was best worth seeing of all. I got tired at last of those endless Madonnas; I began to
think I was turning into a Madonna myself."


"And then the living, mamma," said Kaela.


"Yes, indeed," she replied, "no such a thing as a respectable meat
soup- their cookery is miserable stuff."


The journey had also tired Kaela; but she was always fatigued,
that was the worst of it. So they sent for Sophy, and she was taken
into the house to reside with them, and her presence there was a great
advantage. Mamma-in-law acknowledged that Sophy was not only a
clever housewife, but well-informed and accomplished, though that
could hardly be expected in a person of her limited means. She was
also a generous-hearted, faithful girl; she showed that thoroughly
while Kaela lay sick, fading away. When the casket is everything,
the casket should be strong, or else all is over. And all was over
with the casket, for Kaela died.


"She was beautiful," said her mother; "she was quite different
from the beauties they call 'antiques,' for they are so damaged. A
beauty ought to be perfect, and Kaela was a perfect beauty."
Alfred wept, and mamma wept, and they both wore mourning. The
black dress suited mamma very well, and she wore mourning the longest.


She had also to experience another grief in seeing Alfred marry again,
marry Sophy, who was nothing at all to look at. "He's gone to the very extreme," said mamma-in-law; "he has gone from the most beautiful to the ugliest, and he has forgotten his first wife. Men have no constancy. My husband was a very different man,- but then he died before me."


"'Pygmalion loved his Galatea,' was in the song they sung at my
first wedding," said Alfred; "I once fell in love with a beautiful
statue, which awoke to life in my arms; but the kindred soul, which is
a gift from heaven, the angel who can feel and sympathize with and
elevate us, I have not found and won till now. You came, Sophy, not in the glory of outward beauty, though you are even fairer than is
necessary. The chief thing still remains. You came to teach the
sculptor that his work is but dust and clay only, an outward form made of a material that decays, and that what we should seek to obtain is the ethereal essence of mind and spirit. Poor Kaela! our life was but as a meeting by the way-side; in yonder world, where we shall know each other from a union of mind, we shall be but mere acquaintances."


"That was not a loving speech," said Sophy, "nor spoken like a
Christian. In a future state, where there is neither marrying nor
giving in marriage, but where, as you say, souls are attracted to each
other by sympathy; there everything beautiful develops itself, and
is raised to a higher state of existence: her soul will acquire such
completeness that it may harmonize with yours, even more than mine,
and you will then once more utter your first rapturous exclamation
of your love, 'Beautiful, most beautiful!'"

燕鸥and小蟹UID: 199804

BY THE ALMSHOUSE WINDOW

by Hans Christian Andersen



NEAR the grass-covered rampart which encircles Copenhagen lies a
great red house. Balsams and other flowers greet us from the long rows of windows in the house, whose interior is sufficiently
poverty-stricken; and poor and old are the people who inhabit it.
The building is the Warton Almshouse.


Look! at the window there leans an old maid. She plucks the
withered leaf from the balsam, and looks at the grass-covered rampart, on which many children are playing. What is the old maid thinking of? A whole life drama is unfolding itself before her inward gaze. "The poor little children, how happy they are- how merrily they
play and romp together! What red cheeks and what angels' eyes! but
they have no shoes nor stockings. They dance on the green rampart,
just on the place where, according to the old story, the ground always
sank in, and where a sportive, frolicsome child had been lured by
means of flowers, toys and sweetmeats into an open grave ready dug for it, and which was afterwards closed over the child; and from that
moment, the old story says, the ground gave way no longer, the mound remained firm and fast, and was quickly covered with the green turf. The little people who now play on that spot know nothing of the old tale, else would they fancy they heard a child crying deep below the earth, and the dewdrops on each blade of grass would be to them tears of woe. Nor do they know anything of the Danish King who here, in the face of the coming foe, took an oath before all his trembling courtiers that he would hold out with the citizens of his capital, and die here in his nest; they know nothing of the men who have fought here, or of the women who from here have drenched with boiling water the enemy, clad in white, and 'biding in the snow to surprise the city.


"No! the poor little ones are playing with light, childish
spirits. Play on, play on, thou little maiden! Soon the years will
come- yes, those glorious years. The priestly hands have been laid
on the candidates for confirmation; hand in hand they walk on the
green rampart. Thou hast a white frock on; it has cost thy mother much labor, and yet it is only cut down for thee out of an old larger
dress! You will also wear a red shawl; and what if it hang too far
down? People will only see how large, how very large it is. You are
thinking of your dress, and of the Giver of all good- so glorious is
it to wander on the green rampart!


"And the years roll by; they have no lack of dark days, but you
have your cheerful young spirit, and you have gained a friend- you
know not how. You met, oh, how often! You walk together on the rampart in the fresh spring, on the high days and holidays, when all the world come out to walk upon the ramparts, and all the bells of the church steeples seem to be singing a song of praise for the coming spring.


"Scarcely have the violets come forth, but there on the rampart,
just opposite the beautiful Castle of Rosenberg, there is a tree
bright with the first green buds. Every year this tree sends forth
fresh green shoots. Alas! It is not so with the human heart! Dark
mists, more in number than those that cover the northern skies,
cloud the human heart. Poor child! thy friend's bridal chamber is a
black coffin, and thou becomest an old maid. From the almshouse
window, behind the balsams, thou shalt look on the merry children at
play, and shalt see thine own history renewed."


And that is the life drama that passes before the old maid while
she looks out upon the rampart, the green, sunny rampart, where the
children, with their red cheeks and bare shoeless feet, are
rejoicing merrily, like the other free little birds.


THE END

燕鸥and小蟹UID: 199804

CHILDREN'S PRATTLE

by Hans Christian Andersen



AT a rich merchant's house there was a children's party, and the
children of rich and great people were there. The merchant was a
learned man, for his father had sent him to college, and he had passed
his examination. His father had been at first only a cattle dealer,
but always honest and industrious, so that he had made money, and
his son, the merchant, had managed to increase his store. Clever as he
was, he had also a heart; but there was less said of his heart than of
his money. All descriptions of people visited at the merchant's house,
well born, as well as intellectual, and some who possessed neither
of these recommendations.


Now it was a children's party, and there was children's prattle,
which always is spoken freely from the heart. Among them was a
beautiful little girl, who was terribly proud; but this had been
taught her by the servants, and not by her parents, who were far too
sensible people.


Her father was groom of the Chambers, which is a high office at
court, and she knew it. "I am a child of the court," she said; now she
might just as well have been a child of the cellar, for no one can
help his birth; and then she told the other children that she was
well-born, and said that no one who was not well-born could rise in
the world. It was no use to read and be industrious, for if a person
was not well-born, he could never achieve anything. "And those whose names end with 'sen,'" said she, "can never be anything at all. We must put our arms akimbo, and make the elbow quite pointed, so as to keep these 'sen' people at a great distance." And then she stuck out her pretty little arms, and made the elbows quite pointed, to show how it was to be done; and her little arms were very pretty, for she was a sweet-looking child.


But the little daughter of the merchant became very angry at
this speech, for her father's name was Petersen, and she knew that the
name ended in "sen," and therefore she said as proudly as she could,
"But my papa can buy a hundred dollars' worth of bonbons, and give
them away to children. Can your papa do that?"


"Yes; and my papa," said the little daughter of the editor of a
paper, "my papa can put your papa and everybody's papa into the
newspaper. All sorts of people are afraid of him, my mamma says, for he can do as he likes with the paper." And the little maiden looked
exceedingly proud, as if she had been a real princess, who may be
expected to look proud.


But outside the door, which stood ajar, was a poor boy, peeping
through the crack of the door. He was of such a lowly station that
he had not been allowed even to enter the room. He had been turning
the spit for the cook, and she had given him permission to stand
behind the door and peep in at the well-dressed children, who were
having such a merry time within; and for him that was a great deal.


"Oh, if I could be one of them," thought he, and then he heard what
was said about names, which was quite enough to make him more unhappy.


His parents at home had not even a penny to spare to buy a
newspaper, much less could they write in one; and worse than all,
his father's name, and of course his own, ended in "sen," and
therefore he could never turn out well, which was a very sad
thought. But after all, he had been born into the world, and the
station of life had been chosen for him, therefore he must be content.


And this is what happened on that evening.

Many years passed, and most of the children became grown-up
persons.


There stood a splendid house in the town, filled with all kinds of
beautiful and valuable objects. Everybody wished to see it, and people even came in from the country round to be permitted to view the treasures it contained.


Which of the children whose prattle we have described, could
call this house his own? One would suppose it very easy to guess.
No, no; it is not so very easy. The house belonged to the poor
little boy who had stood on that night behind the door. He had
really become something great, although his name ended in "sen,"-
for it was Thorwaldsen.


And the three other children- the children of good birth, of
money, and of intellectual pride,- well, they were respected and
honored in the world, for they had been well provided for by birth and position, and they had no cause to reproach themselves with what they had thought and spoken on that evening long ago, for, after
all, it was mere "children's prattle."

THE END

燕鸥and小蟹UID: 199804

DELAYING IS NOT FORGETTING

by Hans Christian Andersen



THERE was an old mansion surrounded by a marshy ditch with a
drawbridge which was but seldom let down:- not all guests are good
people. Under the roof were loopholes to shoot through, and to pour
down boiling water or even molten lead on the enemy, should he
approach. Inside the house the rooms were very high and had ceilings
of beams, and that was very useful considering the great deal of smoke which rose up from the chimney fire where the large, damp logs of wood smouldered. On the walls hung pictures of knights in armour and proud ladies in gorgeous dresses; the most stately of all walked about alive. She was called Meta Mogen; she was the mistress of the house, to her belonged the castle.


Towards the evening robbers came; they killed three of her
people and also the yard-dog, and attached Mrs. Meta to the kennel
by the chain, while they themselves made good cheer in the hall and
drank the wine and the good ale out of her cellar. Mrs. Meta was now
on the chain, she could not even bark.


But lo! the servant of one of the robbers secretly approached her;
they must not see it, otherwise they would have killed him.
"Mrs. Meta Mogen," said the fellow, "do you still remember how
my father, when your husband was still alive, had to ride on the
wooden horse? You prayed for him, but it was no good, he was to ride until his limbs were paralysed; but you stole down to him, as I
steal now to you, you yourself put little stones under each of his
feet that he might have support, nobody saw it, or they pretended
not to see it, for you were then the young gracious mistress. My
father has told me this, and I have not forgotten it! Now I will
free you, Mrs. Meta Mogen!"


Then they pulled the horses out of the stable and rode off in rain
and wind to obtain the assistance of friends.


"Thus the small service done to the old man was richly rewarded!" said Meta Mogen.


"Delaying is not forgetting," said the fellow.
The robbers were hanged.

There was an old mansion, it is still there; it did not belong
to Mrs. Meta Mogen, it belonged to another old noble family.
We are now in the present time. The sun is shining on the gilt
knob of the tower, little wooded islands lie like bouquets on the
water, and wild swans are swimming round them. In the garden grow
roses; the mistress of the house is herself the finest rose petal, she
beams with joy, the joy of good deeds: however, not done in the wide
world, but in her heart, and what is preserved there is not forgotten.
Delaying is not forgetting!


Now she goes from the mansion to a little peasant hut in the
field. Therein lives a poor paralysed girl; the window of her little
room looks northward, the sun does not enter here. The girl can only
see a small piece of field which is surrounded by a high fence. But
to-day the sun shines here- the warm, beautiful sun of God is within
the little room; it comes from the south through the new window, where formerly the wall was.


The paralysed girl sits in the warm sunshine and can see the
wood and the lake; the world had become so large, so beautiful, and
only through a single word from the kind mistress of the mansion.
"The word was so easy, the deed so small," she said, "the joy it
afforded me was infinitely great and sweet!"
And therefore she does many a good deed, thinks of all in the
humble cottages and in the rich mansions, where there are also
afflicted ones. It is concealed and hidden, but God does not forget
it. Delayed is not forgotten!

An old house stood there; it was in the large town with its busy
traffic. There are rooms and halls in it, but we do not enter them, we
remain in the kitchen, where it is warm and light, clean and tidy; the
copper utensils are shining, the table as if polished with beeswax;
the sink looks like a freshly scoured meatboard. All this a single
servant has done, and yet she has time to spare as if she wished to go
to church; she wears a bow on her cap, a black bow, that signifies
mourning. But she has no one to mourn, neither father nor mother,
neither relations nor sweetheart. She is a poor girl. One day she
was engaged to a poor fellow; they loved each other dearly.
One day he came to her and said:


"We both have nothing! The rich widow over the way in the basement
has made advances to me; she will make me rich, but you are in my
heart; what do you advise me to do?"


"I advise you to do what you think will turn out to your
happiness," said the girl. "Be kind and good to her, but remember
this; from the hour we part we shall never see each other again."
Years passed; then one day she met the old friend and sweetheart
in the street; he looked ill and miserable, and she could not help
asking him, "How are you?"


"Rich and prospering in every respect," he said; "the woman is
brave and good, but you are in my heart. I have fought the battle,
it will soon be ended; we shall not see each other again now until
we meet before God!"


A week has passed; this morning his death was in the newspaper,
that is the reason of the girl's mourning! Her old sweetheart is
dead and has left a wife and three step-children, as the paper says;
it sounds as if there is a crack, but the metal is pure.
The black bow signifies mourning, the girl's face points to the
same in a still higher degree; it is preserved in the heart and will
never be forgotten. Delaying is not forgetting!

These are three stories you see, three leaves on the same stalk.
Do you wish for some more trefoil leaves? In the little heartbook
are many more of them. Delaying is not forgetting!


THE END

燕鸥and小蟹UID: 199804

EVERYTHING IN THE RIGHT PLACE

by Hans Christian Andersen



IT is more than a hundred years ago! At the border of the wood,
near a large lake, stood the old mansion: deep ditches surrounded it
on every side, in which reeds and bulrushes grew. Close by the
drawbridge, near the gate, there was an old willow tree, which bent
over the reeds.


From the narrow pass came the sound of bugles and the trampling of
horses' feet; therefore a little girl who was watching the geese
hastened to drive them away from the bridge, before the whole
hunting party came galloping up; they came, however, so quickly,
that the girl, in order to avoid being run over, placed herself on one
of the high corner-stones of the bridge. She was still half a child
and very delicately built; she had bright blue eyes, and a gentle,
sweet expression. But such things the baron did not notice; while he
was riding past the little goose-girl, he reversed his hunting crop,
and in rough play gave her such a push with it that she fell
backward into the ditch.


"Everything in the right place!" he cried. "Into the ditch with
you."


Then he burst out laughing, for that he called fun; the others
joined in- the whole party shouted and cried, while the hounds barked.


While the poor girl was falling she happily caught one of the
branches of the willow tree, by the help of which she held herself
over the water, and as soon as the baron with his company and the dogs had disappeared through the gate, the girl endeavoured to scramble up, but the branch broke off, and she would have fallen backward among the rushes, had not a strong hand from above seized her at this moment. It was the hand of a pedlar; he had witnessed what had happened from a short distance, and now hastened to assist her.

"Everything in the right place," he said, imitating the noble
baron, and pulling the little maid up to the dry ground. He wished
to put the branch back in the place it had been broken off, but it
is not possible to put everything in the right place;" therefore he
stuck the branch into the soft ground.


"Grow and thrive if you can, and produce a good flute for them
yonder at the mansion," he said; it would have given him great
pleasure to see the noble baron and his companions well thrashed.

Then he entered the castle- but not the banqueting hall; he was too
humble for that. No; he went to the servants' hall. The men-servants
and maids looked over his stock of articles and bargained with him;
loud crying and screaming were heard from the master's table above:
they called it singing- indeed, they did their best. Laughter and
the howls of dogs were heard through the open windows: there they were feasting and revelling; wine and strong old ale were foaming in the glasses and jugs; the favourite dogs ate with their masters; now and then the squires kissed one of these animals, after having wiped its mouth first with the tablecloth. They ordered the pedlar to come up, but only to make fun of him. The wine had got into their heads, and reason had left them. They poured beer into a stocking that he could drink with them, but quick. That's what they called fun, and it made them laugh. Then meadows, peasants, and farmyards were staked on one card and lost.


"Everything in the right place!" the pedlar said when he had at
last safely got out of Sodom and Gomorrah, as he called it. "The
open high road is my right place; up there I did not feel at ease."
The little maid, who was still watching the geese, nodded kindly
to him as he passed through the gate.


Days and weeks passed, and it was seen that the broken
willow-branch which the peddlar had stuck into the ground near the
ditch remained fresh and green- nay, it even put forth fresh twigs;
the little goose-girl saw that the branch had taken root, and was very
pleased; the tree, so she said, was now her tree. While the tree was
advancing, everything else at the castle was going backward, through
feasting and gambling, for these are two rollers upon which nobody
stands safely. Less than six years afterwards the baron passed out
of his castle-gate a poor beggar, while the baronial seat had been
bought by a rich tradesman. He was the very pedlar they had made fun of and poured beer into a stocking for him to drink; but honesty and industry bring one forward, and now the pedlar was the possessor of the baronial estate. From that time forward no card-playing was permitted there.


"That's a bad pastime," he said; "when the devil saw the Bible for
the first time he wanted to produce a caricature in opposition to
it, and invented card-playing."


The new proprietor of the estate took a wife, and whom did he
take?- The little goose-girl, who had always remained good and kind,
and who looked as beautiful in her new clothes as if she had been a
lady of high birth. And how did all this come about? That would be too long a tale to tell in our busy time, but it really happened, and
the most important events have yet to be told.


It was pleasant and cheerful to live in the old place now: the
mother superintended the household, and the father looked after things out-of-doors, and they were indeed very prosperous.


Where honesty leads the way, prosperity is sure to follow. The old
mansion was repaired and painted, the ditches were cleaned and
fruit-trees planted; all was homely and pleasant, and the floors
were as white and shining as a pasteboard. In the long winter evenings
the mistress and her maids sat at the spinning-wheel in the large
hall; every Sunday the counsellor- this title the pedlar had obtained,
although only in his old days- read aloud a portion from the Bible.


The children (for they had children) all received the best education, but they were not all equally clever, as is the case in all families.


In the meantime the willow tree near the drawbridge had grown up
into a splendid tree, and stood there, free, and was never clipped.
"It is our genealogical tree," said the old people to their
children, "and therefore it must be honoured."


A hundred years had elapsed. It was in our own days; the lake
had been transformed into marsh land; the whole baronial seat had,
as it were, disappeared. A pool of water near some ruined walls was
the only remainder of the deep ditches; and here stood a magnificent
old tree with overhanging branches- that was the genealogical tree.
Here it stood, and showed how beautiful a willow can look if one
does not interfere with it. The trunk, it is true, was cleft in the
middle from the root to the crown; the storms had bent it a little,
but it still stood there, and out of every crevice and cleft, in which
wind and weather had carried mould, blades of grass and flowers sprang forth. Especially above, where the large boughs parted, there was quite a hanging garden, in which wild raspberries and hart's-tongue ferns throve, and even a little mistletoe had taken root, and grew gracefully in the old willow branches, which were reflected in the
dark water beneath when the wind blew the chickweed into the corner of the pool. A footpath which led across the fields passed close by the old tree. High up, on the woody hillside, stood the new mansion. It had a splendid view, and was large and magnificent; its window panes were so clear that one might have thought there were none there at all. The large flight of steps which led to the entrance looked like a
bower covered with roses and broad-leaved plants. The lawn was as
green as if each blade of grass was cleaned separately morning and
evening. Inside, in the hall, valuable oil paintings were hanging on
the walls. Here stood chairs and sofas covered with silk and velvet,
which could be easily rolled about on castors; there were tables
with polished marble tops, and books bound in morocco with gilt edges.

燕鸥and小蟹UID: 199804

Indeed, well-to-do and distinguished people lived here; it was the
dwelling of the baron and his family. Each article was in keeping with
its surroundings. "Everything in the right place" was the motto
according to which they also acted here, and therefore all the
paintings which had once been the honour and glory of the old
mansion were now hung up in the passage which led to the servants'
rooms. It was all old lumber, especially two portraits- one
representing a man in a scarlet coat with a wig, and the other a
lady with powdered and curled hair holding a rose in her hand, each of them being surrounded by a large wreath of willow branches. Both
portraits had many holes in them, because the baron's sons used the
two old people as targets for their crossbows. They represented the
counsellor and his wife, from whom the whole family descended.

"But they did not properly belong to our family," said one of the boys; "he was a pedlar and she kept the geese. They were not like papa and mamma." The portraits were old lumber, and "everything in its right place." That was why the great-grandparents had been hung up in the passage leading to the servants' rooms.


The son of the village pastor was tutor at the mansion. One day he
went for a walk across the fields with his young pupils and their
elder sister, who had lately been confirmed. They walked along the
road which passed by the old willow tree, and while they were on the
road she picked a bunch of field-flowers. "Everything in the right
place," and indeed the bunch looked very beautiful. At the same time
she listened to all that was said, and she very much liked to hear the
pastor's son speak about the elements and of the great men and women in history. She had a healthy mind, noble in thought and deed, and with a heart full of love for everything that God had created. They
stopped at the old willow tree, as the youngest of the baron's sons
wished very much to have a flute from it, such as had been cut for him from other willow trees; the pastor's son broke a branch off.

"Oh, pray do not do it!" said the young lady; but it was already done.
"That is our famous old tree. I love it very much. They often laugh at
me at home about it, but that does not matter. There is a story
attached to this tree." And now she told him all that we already
know about the tree- the old mansion, the pedlar and the goose-girl
who had met there for the first time, and had become the ancestors
of the noble family to which the young lady belonged.


"They did not like to be knighted, the good old people," she said;
"their motto was 'everything in the right place,' and it would not
be right, they thought, to purchase a title for money. My grandfather,
the first baron, was their son. They say he was a very learned man,
a great favourite with the princes and princesses, and was invited
to all court festivities. The others at home love him best; but, I
do not know why, there seemed to me to be something about the old
couple that attracts my heart! How homely, how patriarchal, it must
have been in the old mansion, where the mistress sat at the
spinning-wheel with her maids, while her husband read aloud out of the Bible!"


"They must have been excellent, sensible people," said the
pastor's son. And with this the conversation turned naturally to
noblemen and commoners; from the manner in which the tutor spoke about the significance of being noble, it seemed almost as if he did not belong to a commoner's family.


"It is good fortune to be of a family who have distinguished
themselves, and to possess as it were a spur in oneself to advance
to all that is good. It is a splendid thing to belong to a noble
family, whose name serves as a card of admission to the highest
circles. Nobility is a distinction; it is a gold coin that bears the
stamp of its own value. It is the fallacy of the time, and many
poets express it, to say that all that is noble is bad and stupid, and
that, on the contrary, the lower one goes among the poor, the more
brilliant virtues one finds. I do not share this opinion, for it is
wrong. In the upper classes one sees many touchingly beautiful traits;
my own mother has told me of such, and I could mention several.

One day she was visiting a nobleman's house in town; my grandmother, I believe, had been the lady's nurse when she was a child. My mother and the nobleman were alone in the room, when he suddenly noticed an old woman on crutches come limping into the courtyard; she came every Sunday to carry a gift away with her.


"'There is the poor old woman,' said the nobleman; 'it is so
difficult for her to walk.'


"My mother had hardly understood what he said before he
disappeared from the room, and went downstairs, in order to save her
the troublesome walk for the gift she came to fetch. Of course this is
only a little incident, but it has its good sound like the poor
widow's two mites in the Bible, the sound which echoes in the depth of every human heart; and this is what the poet ought to show and point out- more especially in our own time he ought to sing of this; it does good, it mitigates and reconciles! But when a man, simply because he is of noble birth and possesses a genealogy, stands on his hind legs and neighs in the street like an Arabian horse, and says when a commoner has been in a room: 'Some people from the street have been here,' there nobility is decaying; it has become a mask of the kind that Thespis created, and it is amusing when such a person is
exposed in satire."


Such was the tutor's speech; it was a little long, but while he
delivered it he had finished cutting the flute.


There was a large party at the mansion; many guests from the
neighbourhood and from the capital had arrived. There were ladies with tasteful and with tasteless dresses; the big hall was quite crowded with people. The clergymen stood humbly together in a corner, and looked as if they were preparing for a funeral, but it was a festival-only the amusement had not yet begun. A great concert was to take place, and that is why the baron's young son had brought his willow
flute with him; but he could not make it sound, nor could his
father, and therefore the flute was good for nothing.
There was music and songs of the kind which delight most those
that perform them; otherwise quite charming!
"Are you an artist?" said a cavalier, the son of his father;
"you play on the flute, you have made it yourself; it is genius that
rules- the place of honour is due to you."
"Certainly not! I only advance with the time, and that of course
one can't help."


"I hope you will delight us all with the little instrument- will
you not?" Thus saying he handed to the tutor the flute which had
been cut from the willow tree by the pool; and then announced in a
loud voice that the tutor wished to perform a solo on the flute.


They wished to tease him- that was evident, and therefore the tutor
declined to play, although he could do so very well. They urged and
requested him, however, so long, that at last he took up the flute and
placed it to his lips.


That was a marvellous flute! Its sound was as thrilling as the
whistle of a steam engine; in fact it was much stronger, for it
sounded and was heard in the yard, in the garden, in the wood, and
many miles round in the country; at the same time a storm rose and
roared; "Everything in the right place." And with this the baron, as
if carried by the wind, flew out of the hall straight into the
shepherd's cottage, and the shepherd flew- not into the hall,
thither he could not come- but into the servants' hall, among the
smart footmen who were striding about in silk stockings; these haughty menials looked horror-struck that such a person ventured to sit at table with them. But in the hall the baron's daughter flew to the
place of honour at the end of the table- she was worthy to sit
there; the pastor's son had the seat next to her; the two sat there as
if they were a bridal pair. An old Count, belonging to one of the
oldest families of the country, remained untouched in his place of
honour; the flute was just, and it is one's duty to be so. The
sharp-tongued cavalier who had caused the flute to be played, and
who was the child of his parents, flew headlong into the fowl-house,
but not he alone.


The flute was heard at the distance of a mile, and strange
events took place. A rich banker's family, who were driving in a coach and four, were blown out of it, and could not even find room behind it with their footmen. Two rich farmers who had in our days shot up higher than their own corn-fields, were flung into the ditch; it was a dangerous flute. Fortunately it burst at the first sound, and that was a good thing, for then it was put back into its owner's pocket- "its right place."


The next day, nobody spoke a word about what had taken place; thus
originated the phrase, "to pocket the flute." Everything was again
in its usual order, except that the two old pictures of the peddlar
and the goose-girl were hanging in the banqueting-hall. There they
were on the wall as if blown up there; and as a real expert said
that they were painted by a master's hand, they remained there and
were restored. "Everything in the right place," and to this it will
come. Eternity is long, much longer indeed than this story.


THE END

燕鸥and小蟹UID: 199804

GRANDMOTHER

by Hans Christian Andersen



GRANDMOTHER is very old, her face is wrinkled, and her hair is
quite white; but her eyes are like two stars, and they have a mild,
gentle expression in them when they look at you, which does you
good. She wears a dress of heavy, rich silk, with large flowers worked on it; and it rustles when she moves. And then she can tell the most wonderful stories. Grandmother knows a great deal, for she was alive before father and mother- that's quite certain. She has a hymn-book with large silver clasps, in which she often reads; and in the book, between the leaves, lies a rose, quite flat and dry; it is not so
pretty as the roses which are standing in the glass, and yet she
smiles at it most pleasantly, and tears even come into her eyes. "I
wonder why grandmother looks at the withered flower in the old book
that way? Do you know?" Why, when grandmother's tears fall upon the rose, and she is looking at it, the rose revives, and fills the room
with its fragrance; the walls vanish as in a mist, and all around
her is the glorious green wood, where in summer the sunlight streams
through thick foliage; and grandmother, why she is young again, a
charming maiden, fresh as a rose, with round, rosy cheeks, fair,
bright ringlets, and a figure pretty and graceful; but the eyes, those
mild, saintly eyes, are the same,- they have been left to grandmother.
At her side sits a young man, tall and strong; he gives her a rose and
she smiles. Grandmother cannot smile like that now. Yes, she is
smiling at the memory of that day, and many thoughts and recollections of the past; but the handsome young man is gone, and the rose has withered in the old book, and grandmother is sitting there, again an old woman, looking down upon the withered rose in the book.

Grandmother is dead now. She had been sitting in her arm-chair,
telling us a long, beautiful tale; and when it was finished, she
said she was tired, and leaned her head back to sleep awhile. We could hear her gentle breathing as she slept; gradually it became quieter and calmer, and on her countenance beamed happiness and peace. It was as if lighted up with a ray of sunshine. She smiled once more, and then people said she was dead. She was laid in a black coffin, looking mild and beautiful in the white folds of the shrouded linen, though her eyes were closed; but every wrinkle had vanished, her hair looked white and silvery, and around her mouth lingered a sweet smile.


We did not feel at all afraid to look at the corpse of her who had
been such a dear, good grandmother. The hymn-book, in which the rose still lay, was placed under her head, for so she had wished it; and then they buried grandmother.


On the grave, close by the churchyard wall, they planted a
rose-tree; it was soon full of roses, and the nightingale sat among
the flowers, and sang over the grave. From the organ in the church
sounded the music and the words of the beautiful psalms, which were
written in the old book under the head of the dead one.


The moon shone down upon the grave, but the dead was not there;
every child could go safely, even at night, and pluck a rose from
the tree by the churchyard wall. The dead know more than we do who are living. They know what a terror would come upon us if such a strange thing were to happen, as the appearance of a dead person among us.


They are better off than we are; the dead return no more. The earth
has been heaped on the coffin, and it is earth only that lies within
it. The leaves of the hymn-book are dust; and the rose, with all its
recollections, has crumbled to dust also. But over the grave fresh
roses bloom, the nightingale sings, and the organ sounds and there
still lives a remembrance of old grandmother, with the loving,
gentle eyes that always looked young. Eyes can never die. Ours will
once again behold dear grandmother, young and beautiful as when, for the first time, she kissed the fresh, red rose, that is now dust in
the grave.


THE END

燕鸥and小蟹UID: 199804

HOLGER DANSKE

by Hans Christian Andersen



IN Denmark there stands an old castle named Kronenburg, close by
the Sound of Elsinore, where large ships, both English, Russian, and
Prussian, pass by hundreds every day. And they salute the old castle
with cannons, "Boom, boom," which is as if they said, "Good-day."
And the cannons of the old castle answer "Boom," which means "Many thanks." In winter no ships sail by, for the whole Sound is covered with ice as far as the Swedish coast, and has quite the appearance of a high-road. The Danish and the Swedish flags wave, and Danes and Swedes say, "Good-day," and "Thank you" to each other, not with cannons, but with a friendly shake of the hand; and they exchange white bread and biscuits with each other, because foreign articles taste the best.


But the most beautiful sight of all is the old castle of Kronenburg, where Holger Danske sits in the deep, dark cellar, into which no one goes. He is clad in iron and steel, and rests his head on his strong arm; his long beard hangs down upon the marble table, into which it has become firmly rooted; he sleeps and dreams, but in his dreams he sees everything that happens in Denmark. On each Christmas-eve an angel comes to him and tells him that all he has dreamed is true, and that he may go to sleep again in peace, as Denmark is not yet in any real danger; but should danger ever come, then Holger Danske will rouse himself, and the table will burst asunder as he draws out his beard. Then he will come forth in his strength, and strike a blow that shall sound in all the countries of the world.


An old grandfather sat and told his little grandson all this about
Holger Danske, and the boy knew that what his grandfather told him
must be true. As the old man related this story, he was carving an
image in wood to represent Holger Danske, to be fastened to the prow of a ship; for the old grandfather was a carver in wood, that is,
one who carved figures for the heads of ships, according to the
names given to them. And now he had carved Holger Danske, who stood there erect and proud, with his long beard, holding in one hand his broad battle-axe, while with the other he leaned on the Danish arms.


The old grandfather told the little boy a great deal about Danish
men and women who had distinguished themselves in olden times, so that he fancied he knew as much even as Holger Danske himself, who, after all, could only dream; and when the little fellow went to bed, he thought so much about it that he actually pressed his chin against the counterpane, and imagined that he had a long beard which had become rooted to it. But the old grandfather remained sitting at his work and carving away at the last part of it, which was the Danish arms. And when he had finished he looked at the whole figure, and thought of all he had heard and read, and what he had that evening related to his little grandson. Then he nodded his head, wiped his spectacles and put them on, and said, "Ah, yes; Holger Danske will not appear in my lifetime, but the boy who is in bed there may very likely live to see him when the event really comes to pass." And the old grandfather nodded again; and the more he looked at Holger Danske, the more satisfied he felt that he had carved a good image of him. It seemed to glow with the color of life; the armor glittered like iron and steel. The hearts in the Danish arms grew more and more red; while the lions, with gold crowns on their heads, were leaping up.

"That is the most beautiful coat of arms in the world," said the old man.


"The lions represent strength; and the hearts, gentleness and love."
And as he gazed on the uppermost lion, he thought of King Canute,
who chained great England to Denmark's throne; and he looked at the
second lion, and thought of Waldemar, who untied Denmark and conquered the Vandals. The third lion reminded him of Margaret, who united Denmark, Sweden, and Norway. But when he gazed at the red hearts, their colors glowed more deeply, even as flames, and his memory followed each in turn. The first led him to a dark, narrow prison, in which sat a prisoner, a beautiful woman, daughter of Christian the Fourth, Eleanor Ulfeld, and the flame became a rose on her bosom, and its blossoms were not more pure than the heart of this noblest and best of all Danish women. "Ah, yes; that is indeed a noble heart in the Danish arms," said the grandfather. and his spirit
followed the second flame, which carried him out to sea, where cannons roared and the ships lay shrouded in smoke, and the flaming heart attached itself to the breast of Hvitfeldt in the form of the ribbon
of an order, as he blew himself and his ship into the air in order
to save the fleet. And the third flame led him to Greenland's wretched
huts, where the preacher, Hans Egede, ruled with love in every word
and action. The flame was as a star on his breast, and added another
heart to the Danish arms. And as the old grandfather's spirit followed
the next hovering flame, he knew whither it would lead him. In a
peasant woman's humble room stood Frederick the Sixth, writing his
name with chalk on the beam. The flame trembled on his breast and in
his heart, and it was in the peasant's room that his heart became
one for the Danish arms. The old grandfather wiped his eyes, for he
had known King Frederick, with his silvery locks and his honest blue
eyes, and had lived for him, and he folded his hands and remained
for some time silent. Then his daughter came to him and said it was
getting late, that he ought to rest for a while, and that the supper
was on the table.


"What you have been carving is very beautiful, grandfather,"
said she. "Holger Danske and the old coat of arms; it seems to me as
if I have seen the face somewhere."


"No, that is impossible," replied the old grandfather; "but I have
seen it, and I have tried to carve it in wood, as I have retained it
in my memory. It was a long time ago, while the English fleet lay in
the roads, on the second of April, when we showed that we were true, ancient Danes. I was on board the Denmark, in Steene Bille's squadron; I had a man by my side whom even the cannon balls seemed to fear. He sung old songs in a merry voice, and fired and fought as if he were something more than a man. I still remember his face, but from whence he came, or whither he went, I know not; no one knows. I have often thought it might have been Holger Danske himself, who had swam down to us from Kronenburg to help us in the hour of danger. That was my idea, and there stands his likeness."
The wooden figure threw a gigantic shadow on the wall, and even on
part of the ceiling; it seemed as if the real Holger Danske stood
behind it, for the shadow moved; but this was no doubt caused by the flame of the lamp not burning steadily. Then the daughter-in-law
kissed the old grandfather, and led him to a large arm-chair by the
table; and she, and her husband, who was the son of the old man and
the father of the little boy who lay in bed, sat down to supper with
him. And the old grandfather talked of the Danish lions and the Danish hearts, emblems of strength and gentleness, and explained quite clearly that there is another strength than that which lies in a
sword, and he pointed to a shelf where lay a number of old books,
and amongst them a collection of Holberg's plays, which are much
read and are so clever and amusing that it is easy to fancy we have
known the people of those days, who are described in them.


"He knew how to fight also," said the old man; "for he lashed
the follies and prejudices of people during his whole life."
Then the grandfather nodded to a place above the looking-glass,
where hung an almanac, with a representation of the Round Tower upon it, and said "Tycho Brahe was another of those who used a sword, but not one to cut into the flesh and bone, but to make the way of the stars of heaven clear, and plain to be understood. And then he whose father belonged to my calling,- yes, he, the son of the old image-carver, he whom we ourselves have seen, with his silvery locks and his broad shoulders, whose name is known in all lands;- yes, he was a sculptor, while I am only a carver. Holger Danske can appear in marble, so that people in all countries of the world may hear of the strength of Denmark. Now let us drink the health of Bertel."
But the little boy in bed saw plainly the old castle of Kronenburg, and the Sound of Elsinore, and Holger Danske, far down in the cellar, with his beard rooted to the table, and dreaming of everything that was passing above him.


And Holger Danske did dream of the little humble room in which the
image-carver sat; he heard all that had been said, and he nodded in
his dream, saying, "Ah, yes, remember me, you Danish people, keep me in your memory, I will come to you in the hour of need."


The bright morning light shone over Kronenburg, and the wind
brought the sound of the hunting-horn across from the neighboring
shores. The ships sailed by and saluted the castle with the boom of
the cannon, and Kronenburg returned the salute, "Boom, boom." But
the roaring cannons did not awake Holger Danske, for they meant only "Good morning," and "Thank you." They must fire in another fashion before he awakes; but wake he will, for there is energy yet in
Holger Danske.


THE END

燕鸥and小蟹UID: 199804

IB AND LITTLE CHRISTINA

by Hans Christian Andersen



IN the forest that extends from the banks of the Gudenau, in North
Jutland, a long way into the country, and not far from the clear
stream, rises a great ridge of land, which stretches through the
wood like a wall. Westward of this ridge, and not far from the
river, stands a farmhouse, surrounded by such poor land that the sandy soil shows itself between the scanty ears of rye and wheat which grow in it. Some years have passed since the people who lived here cultivated these fields; they kept three sheep, a pig, and two oxen; in fact they maintained themselves very well, they had quite enough to live upon, as people generally have who are content with their lot. They even could have afforded to keep two horses, but it was a saying among the farmers in those parts, "The horse eats himself up;" that is to say, he eats as much as he earns. Jeppe Jans
cultivated his fields in summer, and in the winter he made wooden
shoes. He also had an assistant, a lad who understood as well as he
himself did how to make wooden shoes strong, but light, and in the
fashion. They carved shoes and spoons, which paid well; therefore no one could justly call Jeppe Jans and his family poor people. Little
Ib, a boy of seven years old and the only child, would sit by,
watching the workmen, or cutting a stick, and sometimes his finger
instead of the stick. But one day Ib succeeded so well in his
carving that he made two pieces of wood look really like two little
wooden shoes, and he determined to give them as a present to Little
Christina.


"And who was Little Christina?" She was the boatman's daughter,
graceful and delicate as the child of a gentleman; had she been
dressed differently, no one would have believed that she lived in a
hut on the neighboring heath with her father. He was a widower, and
earned his living by carrying firewood in his large boat from the
forest to the eel-pond and eel-weir, on the estate of Silkborg, and
sometimes even to the distant town of Randers. There was no one
under whose care he could leave Little Christina; so she was almost
always with him in his boat, or playing in the wood among the
blossoming heath, or picking the ripe wild berries. Sometimes, when
her father had to go as far as the town, he would take Little
Christina, who was a year younger than Ib, across the heath to the
cottage of Jeppe Jans, and leave her there. Ib and Christina agreed
together in everything; they divided their bread and berries when they
were hungry; they were partners in digging their little gardens;
they ran, and crept, and played about everywhere. Once they wandered a long way into the forest, and even ventured together to climb the high ridge. Another time they found a few snipes' eggs in the wood, which was a great event. Ib had never been on the heath where Christina's father lived, nor on the river; but at last came an opportunity.


Christina's father invited him to go for a sail in his boat; and the
evening before, he accompanied the boatman across the heath to his
house. The next morning early, the two children were placed on the top of a high pile of firewood in the boat, and sat eating bread and
wild strawberries, while Christina's father and his man drove the boat
forward with poles. They floated on swiftly, for the tide was in their
favor, passing over lakes, formed by the stream in its course;
sometimes they seemed quite enclosed by reeds and water-plants, yet
there was always room for them to pass out, although the old trees
overhung the water and the old oaks stretched out their bare branches, as if they had turned up their sleeves and wished to show their knotty, naked arms. Old alder-trees, whose roots were loosened from the banks, clung with their fibres to the bottom of the stream, and the tops of the branches above the water looked like little woody
islands. The water-lilies waved themselves to and fro on the river,
everything made the excursion beautiful, and at last they came to
the great eel-weir, where the water rushed through the flood-gates;
and the children thought this a beautiful sight. In those days there
was no factory nor any town house, nothing but the great farm, with
its scanty-bearing fields, in which could be seen a few herd of
cattle, and one or two farm laborers. The rushing of the water through
the sluices, and the scream of the wild ducks, were almost the only
signs of active life at Silkborg. After the firewood had been
unloaded, Christina's father bought a whole bundle of eels and a
sucking-pig, which were all placed in a basket in the stern of the
boat. Then they returned again up the stream; and as the wind was
favorable, two sails were hoisted, which carried the boat on as well
as if two horses had been harnessed to it. As they sailed on, they
came by chance to the place where the boatman's assistant lived, at
a little distance from the bank of the river. The boat was moored; and
the two men, after desiring the children to sit still, both went on
shore. they obeyed this order for a very short time, and then forgot
it altogether. First they peeped into the basket containing the eels
and the sucking-pig; then they must needs pull out the pig and take it
in their hands, and feel it, and touch it; and as they both wanted
to hold it at the same time, the consequence was that they let it fall
into the water, and the pig sailed away with the stream.
Here was a terrible disaster. Ib jumped ashore, and ran a little
distance from the boat.


"Oh, take me with you," cried Christina; and she sprang after him.
In a few minutes they found themselves deep in a thicket, and could no longer see the boat or the shore. They ran on a little farther, and
then Christina fell down, and began to cry.


Ib helped her up, and said, "Never mind; follow me. Yonder is
the house." But the house was not yonder; and they wandered still
farther, over the dry rustling leaves of the last year, and treading
on fallen branches that crackled under their little feet; then they
heard a loud, piercing cry, and they stood still to listen.


Presently the scream of an eagle sounded through the wood; it was an
ugly cry, and it frightened the children; but before them, in the
thickest part of the forest, grew the most beautiful blackberries,
in wonderful quantities. They looked so inviting that the children
could not help stopping; and they remained there so long eating,
that their mouths and cheeks became quite black with the juice.


Presently they heard the frightful scream again, and Christina
said, "We shall get into trouble about that pig."
"Oh, never mind," said Ib; "we will go home to my father's
house. It is here in the wood." So they went on, but the road led them
out of the way; no house could be seen, it grew dark, and the children
were afraid. The solemn stillness that reigned around them was now and then broken by the shrill cries of the great horned owl and other
birds that they knew nothing of. At last they both lost themselves
in the thicket; Christina began to cry, and then Ib cried too; and,
after weeping and lamenting for some time, they stretched themselves
down on the dry leaves and fell asleep.


The sun was high in the heavens when the two children woke. They
felt cold; but not far from their resting-place, on a hill, the sun
was shining through the trees. They thought if they went there they
should be warm, and Ib fancied he should be able to see his father's
house from such a high spot. But they were far away from home now, in quite another part of the forest. They clambered to the top of
the rising ground, and found themselves on the edge of a declivity,
which sloped down to a clear transparent lake. Great quantities of
fish could be seen through the clear water, sparkling in the sun's
rays; they were quite surprised when they came so suddenly upon such an unexpected sight.


Close to where they stood grew a hazel-bush, covered with
beautiful nuts. They soon gathered some, cracked them, and ate the
fine young kernels, which were only just ripe. But there was another
surprise and fright in store for them. Out of the thicket stepped a
tall old woman, her face quite brown, and her hair of a deep shining
black; the whites of her eyes glittered like a Moor's; on her back she
carried a bundle, and in her hand a knotted stick. She was a gypsy.
The children did not at first understand what she said. She drew out
of her pocket three large nuts, in which she told them were hidden the
most beautiful and lovely things in the world, for they were wishing
nuts. Ib looked at her, and as she spoke so kindly, he took courage,
and asked her if she would give him the nuts; and the woman gave
them to him, and then gathered some more from the bushes for
herself, quite a pocket full. Ib and Christina looked at the wishing
nuts with wide open eyes.


"Is there in this nut a carriage, with a pair of horses?" asked
Ib.


"Yes, there is a golden carriage, with two golden horses," replied
the woman.


"Then give me that nut," said Christina; so Ib gave it to her, and
the strange woman tied up the nut for her in her handkerchief.
Ib held up another nut. "Is there, in this nut, a pretty little
neckerchief like the one Christina has on her neck?" asked Ib.


"There are ten neckerchiefs in it," she replied, "as well as
beautiful dresses, stockings, and a hat and veil."


"Then I will have that one also," said Christina; "and it is a
pretty one too. And then Ib gave her the second nut.
The third was a little black thing. "You may keep that one,"
said Christina; "it is quite as pretty."


"What is in it?" asked Ib.


"The best of all things for you," replied the gypsy. So Ib held
the nut very tight.


Then the woman promised to lead the children to the right path,
that they might find their way home: and they went forward certainly
in quite another direction to the one they meant to take; therefore no
one ought to speak against the woman, and say that she wanted to steal the children. In the wild wood-path they met a forester who knew Ib, and, by his help, Ib and Christina reached home, where they found every one had been very anxious about them. They were pardoned and forgiven, although they really had both done wrong, and deserved to get into trouble; first, because they had let the sucking-pig fall into the water; and, secondly, because they had run away. Christina was taken back to her father's house on the heath, and Ib remained in the farm-house on the borders of the wood, near the great land ridge.


The first thing Ib did that evening was to take out of his
pocket the little black nut, in which the best thing of all was said
to be enclosed. He laid it carefully between the door and the
door-post, and then shut the door so that the nut cracked directly.
But there was not much kernel to be seen; it was what we should call
hollow or worm-eaten, and looked as if it had been filled with tobacco or rich black earth. "It is just what I expected!" exclaimed Ib.
"How should there be room in a little nut like this for the best thing
of all? Christina will find her two nuts just the same; there will
be neither fine clothes or a golden carriage in them."


Winter came; and the new year, and indeed many years passed
away; until Ib was old enough to be confirmed, and, therefore, he went during a whole winter to the clergyman of the nearest village to be prepared.


One day, about this time, the boatman paid a visit to Ib's
parents, and told them that Christina was going to service, and that
she had been remarkably fortunate in obtaining a good place, with most respectable people. "Only think," he said, "She is going to the rich innkeeper's, at the hotel in Herning, many miles west from here.

燕鸥and小蟹UID: 199804

She is to assist the landlady in the housekeeping; and, if afterwards
she behaves well and remains to be confirmed, the people will treat
her as their own daughter."


So Ib and Christina took leave of each other. People already
called them "the betrothed," and at parting the girl showed Ib the two
nuts, which she had taken care of ever since the time that they lost
themselves in the wood; and she told him also that the little wooden
shoes he once carved for her when he was a boy, and gave her as a
present, had been carefully kept in a drawer ever since. And so they
parted.


After Ib's confirmation, he remained at home with his mother,
for he had become a clever shoemaker, and in summer managed the farm for her quite alone. His father had been dead some time, and his
mother kept no farm servants. Sometimes, but very seldom, he heard
of Christina, through a postillion or eel-seller who was passing.


But she was well off with the rich innkeeper; and after being
confirmed she wrote a letter to her father, in which was a kind
message to Ib and his mother. In this letter, she mentioned that her
master and mistress had made her a present of a beautiful new dress,
and some nice under-clothes. This was, of course, pleasant news.


One day, in the following spring, there came a knock at the door
of the house where Ib's old mother lived; and when they opened it,
lo and behold, in stepped the boatman and Christina. She had come to pay them a visit, and to spend the day. A carriage had to come from the Herning hotel to the next village, and she had taken the
opportunity to see her friends once more. She looked as elegant as a
real lady, and wore a pretty dress, beautifully made on purpose for
her. There she stood, in full dress, while Ib wore only his working
clothes. He could not utter a word; he could only seize her hand and
hold it fast in his own, but he felt too happy and glad to open his
lips. Christina, however, was quite at her ease; she talked and
talked, and kissed him in the most friendly manner. Even afterwards,
when they were left alone, and she asked, "Did you know me again, Ib?" he still stood holding her hand, and said at last, "You are become quite a grand lady, Christina, and I am only a rough working man; but I have often thought of you and of old times." Then they
wandered up the great ridge, and looked across the stream to the
heath, where the little hills were covered with the flowering broom.
Ib said nothing; but before the time came for them to part, it
became quite clear to him that Christina must be his wife: had they
not even in childhood been called the betrothed? To him it seemed as
if they were really engaged to each other, although not a word had
been spoken on the subject. They had only a few more hours to remain together, for Christina was obliged to return that evening to the
neighboring village, to be ready for the carriage which was to start
the next morning early for Herning. Ib and her father accompanied
her to the village. It was a fine moonlight evening; and when they
arrived, Ib stood holding Christina's hand in his, as if he could
not let her go. His eyes brightened, and the words he uttered came
with hesitation from his lips, but from the deepest recesses of his
heart: "Christina, if you have not become too grand, and if you can be
contented to live in my mother's house as my wife, we will be
married some day. But we can wait for a while."


"Oh yes," she replied; "Let us wait a little longer, Ib. I can
trust you, for I believe that I do love you. But let me think it
over." Then he kissed her lips; and so they parted.


On the way home, Ib told the boatman that he and Christina were as
good as engaged to each other; and the boatman found out that he had always expected it would be so, and went home with Ib that evening, and remained the night in the farmhouse; but nothing further was said of the engagement. During the next year, two letters passed
between Ib and Christina. They were signed, "Faithful till death;" but
at the end of that time, one day the boatman came over to see Ib, with
a kind greeting from Christina. He had something else to say, which
made him hesitate in a strange manner. At last it came out that
Christina, who had grown a very pretty girl, was more lucky than ever.


She was courted and admired by every one; but her master's son, who had been home on a visit, was so much pleased with Christina that he wished to marry her. He had a very good situation in an office at Copenhagen, and as she had also taken a liking for him, his parents
were not unwilling to consent. But Christina, in her heart, often
thought of Ib, and knew how much he thought of her; so she felt
inclined to refuse this good fortune, added the boatman. At first Ib
said not a word, but he became as white as the wall, and shook his
head gently, and then he spoke,- "Christina must not refuse this
good fortune."


"Then will you write a few words to her?" said the boatman.
Ib sat down to write, but he could not get on at all. The words
were not what he wished to say, so he tore up the page. The
following morning, however, a letter lay ready to be sent to
Christina, and the following is what he wrote:-


"The letter written by you to your father I have read, and see
from it that you are prosperous in everything, and that still better
fortune is in store for you. Ask your own heart, Christina, and
think over carefully what awaits you if you take me for your
husband, for I possess very little in the world. Do not think of me or
of my position; think only of your own welfare. You are bound to me by no promises; and if in your heart you have given me one, I release you from it. May every blessing and happiness be poured out upon you, Christina. Heaven will give me the heart's consolation.
Ever your sincere friend, IB."

This letter was sent, and Christina received it in due time. In
the course of the following November, her banns were published in
the church on the heath, and also in Copenhagen, where the
bridegroom lived. She was taken to Copenhagen under the protection
of her future mother-in-law, because the bridegroom could not spare
time from his numerous occupations for a journey so far into
Jutland. On the journey, Christina met her father at one of the
villages through which they passed, and here he took leave of her.
Very little was said about the matter to Ib, and he did not refer to
it; his mother, however, noticed that he had grown very silent and
pensive. Thinking as he did of old times, no wonder the three nuts
came into his mind which the gypsy woman had given him when a child, and of the two which he had given to Christina. These wishing nuts, after all, had proved true fortune-tellers. One had contained a gilded carriage and noble horses, and the other beautiful clothes; all of
these Christina would now have in her new home at Copenhagen. Her part had come true. And for him the nut had contained only black earth. The gypsy woman had said it was the best for him. Perhaps it was, and this also would be fulfilled. He understood the gypsy woman's meaning now. The black earth- the dark grave- was the best thing for him now.


Again years passed away; not many, but they seemed long years to
Ib. The old innkeeper and his wife died one after the other; and the
whole of their property, many thousand dollars, was inherited by their
son. Christina could have the golden carriage now, and plenty of
fine clothes. During the two long years which followed, no letter came
from Christina to her father; and when at last her father received one
from her, it did not speak of prosperity or happiness. Poor Christina!
Neither she nor her husband understood how to economize or save, and the riches brought no blessing with them, because they had not asked for it.


Years passed; and for many summers the heath was covered with
bloom; in winter the snow rested upon it, and the rough winds blew
across the ridge under which stood Ib's sheltered home. One spring day the sun shone brightly, and he was guiding the plough across his
field. The ploughshare struck against something which he fancied was a firestone, and then he saw glittering in the earth a splinter of
shining metal which the plough had cut from something which gleamed brightly in the furrow. He searched, and found a large golden armlet of superior workmanship, and it was evident that the plough had disturbed a Hun's grave. He searched further, and found more
valuable treasures, which Ib showed to the clergyman, who explained
their value to him. Then he went to the magistrate, who informed the
president of the museum of the discovery, and advised Ib to take the
treasures himself to the president.


"You have found in the earth the best thing you could find,"
said the magistrate.


"The best thing," thought Ib; "the very best thing for me,- and
found in the earth! Well, if it really is so, then the gypsy woman was
right in her prophecy."


So Ib went in the ferry-boat from Aarhus to Copenhagen. To him who had only sailed once or twice on the river near his own home, this seemed like a voyage on the ocean; and at length he arrived at
Copenhagen. The value of the gold he had found was paid to him; it was a large sum- six hundred dollars. Then Ib of the heath went out, and wandered about in the great city.


On the evening before the day he had settled to return with the
captain of the passage-boat, Ib lost himself in the streets, and
took quite a different turning to the one he wished to follow. He
wandered on till he found himself in a poor street of the suburb
called Christian's Haven. Not a creature could be seen. At last a very
little girl came out of one of the wretched-looking houses, and Ib
asked her to tell him the way to the street he wanted; she looked up
timidly at him, and began to cry bitterly. He asked her what was the
matter; but what she said he could not understand. So he went along
the street with her; and as they passed under a lamp, the light fell
on the little girl's face. A strange sensation came over Ib, as he
caught sight of it. The living, breathing embodiment of Little
Christina stood before him, just as he remembered her in the days of
her childhood. He followed the child to the wretched house, and
ascended the narrow, crazy staircase which led to a little garret in
the roof. The air in the room was heavy and stifling, no light was
burning, and from one corner came sounds of moaning and sighing. It was the mother of the child who lay there on a miserable bed. With the help of a match, Ib struck a light, and approached her.


"Can I be of any service to you?" he asked. "This little girl
brought me up here; but I am a stranger in this city. Are there no
neighbors or any one whom I can call?"


Then he raised the head of the sick woman, and smoothed her
pillow. He started as he did so. It was Christina of the heath! No one
had mentioned her name to Ib for years; it would have disturbed his
peace of mind, especially as the reports respecting her were not good.


The wealth which her husband had inherited from his parents had made him proud and arrogant. He had given up his certain appointment, and travelled for six months in foreign lands, and, on his return, had lived in great style, and got into terrible debt. For a time he had trembled on the high pedestal on which he had placed himself, till
at last he toppled over, and ruin came. His numerous merry companions, and the visitors at his table, said it served him right, for he had kept house like a madman. One morning his corpse was found in the canal. The cold hand of death had already touched the heart of
Christina. Her youngest child, looked for in the midst of
prosperity, had sunk into the grave when only a few weeks old; and
at last Christina herself became sick unto death, and lay, forsaken
and dying, in a miserable room, amid poverty she might have borne in
her younger days, but which was now more painful to her from the
luxuries to which she had lately been accustomed. It was her eldest
child, also a Little Christina, whom Ib had followed to her home,
where she suffered hunger and poverty with her mother.


It makes me unhappy to think that I shall die, and leave this poor
child," sighed she. "Oh, what will become of her?" She could say no
more.


Then Ib brought out another match, and lighted a piece of candle
which he found in the room, and it threw a glimmering light over the
wretched dwelling. Ib looked at the little girl, and thought of
Christina in her young days. For her sake, could he not love this
child, who was a stranger to him? As he thus reflected, the dying
woman opened her eyes, and gazed at him. Did she recognize him? He never knew; for not another word escaped her lips.

* * * * * * *

In the forest by the river Gudenau, not far from the heath, and
beneath the ridge of land, stood the little farm, newly painted and
whitewashed. The air was heavy and dark; there were no blossoms on the heath; the autumn winds whirled the yellow leaves towards the
boatman's hut, in which strangers dwelt; but the little farm stood
safely sheltered beneath the tall trees and the high ridge. The turf
blazed brightly on the hearth, and within was sunlight, the
sparkling light from the sunny eyes of a child; the birdlike tones
from the rosy lips ringing like the song of a lark in spring. All
was life and joy. Little Christina sat on Ib's knee. Ib was to her
both father and mother; her own parents had vanished from her
memory, as a dream-picture vanishes alike from childhood and age.

Ib's house was well and prettily furnished; for he was a prosperous man now, while the mother of the little girl rested in the churchyard at
Copenhagen, where she had died in poverty. Ib had money now- money which had come to him out of the black earth; and he had Christina for his own, after all.

THE END

TommUID: 177042

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燕鸥and小蟹UID: 199804

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