The Snow Queen
In Seven Stories
by
Hans Christian Andersen
(1845)
Which Describes a Looking-Glass and the
Broken Fragments.
You must attend to the commencement of
this story, for when we get to the end we shall know more than we do now about a
very wicked hobgoblin; he was one of the very worst, for he was a real demon.
One day, when he was in a merry mood, he made a looking-glass which had the
power of making everything good or beautiful that was reflected in it almost
shrink to nothing, while everything that was worthless and bad looked increased
in size and worse than ever. The most lovely landscapes appeared like boiled
spinach, and the people became hideous, and looked as if they stood on their
heads and had no bodies. Their countenances were so distorted that no one could
recognize them, and even one freckle on the face appeared to spread over the
whole of the nose and mouth. The demon said this was very amusing. When a good
or pious thought passed through the mind of any one it was misrepresented in the
glass; and then how the demon laughed at his cunning invention. All who went to
the demon’s school—for he kept a school—talked everywhere of the wonders they
had seen, and declared that people could now, for the first time, see what the
world and mankind were really like. They carried the glass about everywhere,
till at last there was not a land nor a people who had not been looked at
through this distorted mirror. They wanted even to fly with it up to heaven to
see the angels, but the higher they flew the more slippery the glass became, and
they could scarcely hold it, till at last it slipped from their hands, fell to
the earth, and was broken into millions of pieces. But now the looking-glass
caused more unhappiness than ever, for some of the fragments were not so large
as a grain of sand, and they flew about the world into every country. When one
of these tiny atoms flew into a person’s eye, it stuck there unknown to him, and
from that moment he saw everything through a distorted medium, or could see only
the worst side of what he looked at, for even the smallest fragment retained the
same power which had belonged to the whole mirror. Some few persons even got a
fragment of the looking-glass in their hearts, and this was very terrible, for
their hearts became cold like a lump of ice. A few of the pieces were so large
that they could be used as window-panes; it would have been a sad thing to look
at our friends through them. Other pieces were made into spectacles; this was
dreadful for those who wore them, for they could see nothing either rightly or
justly. At all this the wicked demon laughed till his sides shook—it tickled him
so to see the mischief he had done. There were still a number of these little
fragments of glass floating about in the air, and now you shall hear what
happened with one of them.
A Little Boy and a Little Girl
In a large town, full of houses and
people, there is not room for everybody to have even a little garden, therefore
they are obliged to be satisfied with a few flowers in flower-pots. In one of
these large towns lived two poor children who had a garden something larger and
better than a few flower-pots. They were not brother and sister, but they loved
each other almost as much as if they had been. Their parents lived opposite to
each other in two garrets, where the roofs of neighboring houses projected out
towards each other and the water-pipe ran between them. In each house was a
little window, so that any one could step across the gutter from one window to
the other. The parents of these children had each a large wooden box in which
they cultivated kitchen herbs for their own use, and a little rose-bush in each
box, which grew splendidly. Now after a while the parents decided to place these
two boxes across the water-pipe, so that they reached from one window to the
other and looked like two banks of flowers. Sweet-peas drooped over the boxes,
and the rose-bushes shot forth long branches, which were trained round the
windows and clustered together almost like a triumphal arch of leaves and
flowers. The boxes were very high, and the children knew they must not climb
upon them, without permission, but they were often, however, allowed to step out
together and sit upon their little stools under the rose-bushes, or play
quietly. In winter all this pleasure came to an end, for the windows were
sometimes quite frozen over. But then they would warm copper pennies on the
stove, and hold the warm pennies against the frozen pane; there would be very
soon a little round hole through which they could peep, and the soft bright eyes
of the little boy and girl would beam through the hole at each window as they
looked at each other. Their names were Kay and Gerda. In summer they could be
together with one jump from the window, but in winter they had to go up and down
the long staircase, and out through the snow before they could meet.
“See there are the white bees swarming,” said Kay’s old
grandmother one day when it was snowing.
“Have they a queen bee?” asked the little boy, for he knew
that the real bees had a queen.
“To be sure they have,” said the grandmother. “She is
flying there where the swarm is thickest. She is the largest of them all, and
never remains on the earth, but flies up to the dark clouds. Often at midnight
she flies through the streets of the town, and looks in at the windows, then the
ice freezes on the panes into wonderful shapes, that look like flowers and
castles.”
“Yes, I have seen them,” said both the children, and they
knew it must be true.
“Can the Snow Queen come in here?” asked the little girl.
“Only let her come,” said the boy, “I’ll set her on the
stove and then she’ll melt.”
Then the grandmother smoothed his hair and told him some
more tales. One evening, when little Kay was at home, half undressed, he climbed
on a chair by the window and peeped out through the little hole. A few flakes of
snow were falling, and one of them, rather larger than the rest, alighted on the
edge of one of the flower boxes. This snow-flake grew larger and larger, till at
last it became the figure of a woman, dressed in garments of white gauze, which
looked like millions of starry snow-flakes linked together. She was fair and
beautiful, but made of ice—shining and glittering ice. Still she was alive and
her eyes sparkled like bright stars, but there was neither peace nor rest in
their glance. She nodded towards the window and waved her hand. The little boy
was frightened and sprang from the chair; at the same moment it seemed as if a
large bird flew by the window. On the following day there was a clear frost, and
very soon came the spring. The sun shone; the young green leaves burst forth;
the swallows built their nests; windows were opened, and the children sat once
more in the garden on the roof, high above all the other rooms. How beautiful
the roses blossomed this summer. The little girl had learnt a hymn in which
roses were spoken of, and then she thought of their own roses, and she sang the
hymn to the little boy, and he sang too:—
“Roses bloom and cease to be,
But we shall the Christ-child see.”
Then the little ones held each other by
the hand, and kissed the roses, and looked at the bright sunshine, and spoke to
it as if the Christ-child were there. Those were splendid summer days. How
beautiful and fresh it was out among the rose-bushes, which seemed as if they
would never leave off blooming. One day Kay and Gerda sat looking at a book full
of pictures of animals and birds, and then just as the clock in the church tower
struck twelve, Kay said, “Oh, something has struck my heart!” and soon after,
“There is something in my eye.”
The little girl put her arm round his neck, and looked
into his eye, but she could see nothing.
“I think it is gone,” he said. But it was not gone; it was
one of those bits of the looking-glass—that magic mirror, of which we have
spoken—the ugly glass which made everything great and good appear small and
ugly, while all that was wicked and bad became more visible, and every little
fault could be plainly seen. Poor little Kay had also received a small grain in
his heart, which very quickly turned to a lump of ice. He felt no more pain, but
the glass was there still. “Why do you cry?” said he at last; “it makes you look
ugly. There is nothing the matter with me now. Oh, see!” he cried suddenly,
“that rose is worm-eaten, and this one is quite crooked. After all they are ugly
roses, just like the box in which they stand,” and then he kicked the boxes with
his foot, and pulled off the two roses.
“Kay, what are you doing?” cried the little girl; and
then, when he saw how frightened she was, he tore off another rose, and jumped
through his own window away from little Gerda.
When she afterwards brought out the picture book, he said,
“It was only fit for babies in long clothes,” and when grandmother told any
stories, he would interrupt her with “but;” or, when he could manage it, he
would get behind her chair, put on a pair of spectacles, and imitate her very
cleverly, to make people laugh. By-and-by he began to mimic the speech and gait
of persons in the street. All that was peculiar or disagreeable in a person he
would imitate directly, and people said, “That boy will be very clever; he has a
remarkable genius.” But it was the piece of glass in his eye, and the coldness
in his heart, that made him act like this. He would even tease little Gerda, who
loved him with all her heart. His games, too, were quite different; they were
not so childish. One winter’s day, when it snowed, he brought out a
burning-glass, then he held out the tail of his blue coat, and let the
snow-flakes fall upon it. “Look in this glass, Gerda,” said he; and she saw how
every flake of snow was magnified, and looked like a beautiful flower or a
glittering star. “Is it not clever?” said Kay, “and much more interesting than
looking at real flowers. There is not a single fault in it, and the snow-flakes
are quite perfect till they begin to melt.”
Soon after Kay made his appearance in large thick gloves,
and with his sledge at his back. He called up stairs to Gerda, “I’ve got to
leave to go into the great square, where the other boys play and ride.” And away
he went.
In the great square, the boldest among the boys would
often tie their sledges to the country people’s carts, and go with them a good
way. This was capital. But while they were all amusing themselves, and Kay with
them, a great sledge came by; it was painted white, and in it sat some one
wrapped in a rough white fur, and wearing a white cap. The sledge drove twice
round the square, and Kay fastened his own little sledge to it, so that when it
went away, he followed with it. It went faster and faster right through the next
street, and then the person who drove turned round and nodded pleasantly to Kay,
just as if they were acquainted with each other, but whenever Kay wished to
loosen his little sledge the driver nodded again, so Kay sat still, and they
drove out through the town gate. Then the snow began to fall so heavily that the
little boy could not see a hand’s breadth before him, but still they drove on;
then he suddenly loosened the cord so that the large sled might go on without
him, but it was of no use, his little carriage held fast, and away they went
like the wind. Then he called out loudly, but nobody heard him, while the snow
beat upon him, and the sledge flew onwards. Every now and then it gave a jump as
if it were going over hedges and ditches. The boy was frightened, and tried to
say a prayer, but he could remember nothing but the multiplication table.
The snow-flakes became larger and larger, till they
appeared like great white chickens. All at once they sprang on one side, the
great sledge stopped, and the person who had driven it rose up. The fur and the
cap, which were made entirely of snow, fell off, and he saw a lady, tall and
white, it was the Snow Queen.
“We have driven well,” said she, “but why do you tremble?
here, creep into my warm fur.” Then she seated him beside her in the sledge, and
as she wrapped the fur round him he felt as if he were sinking into a snow
drift.
“Are you still cold,” she asked, as she kissed him on the
forehead. The kiss was colder than ice; it went quite through to his heart,
which was already almost a lump of ice; he felt as if he were going to die, but
only for a moment; he soon seemed quite well again, and did not notice the cold
around him.
“My sledge! don’t forget my sledge,” was his first
thought, and then he looked and saw that it was bound fast to one of the white
chickens, which flew behind him with the sledge at its back. The Snow Queen
kissed little Kay again, and by this time he had forgotten little Gerda, his
grandmother, and all at home.
“Now you must have no more kisses,” she said, “or I should
kiss you to death.”
Kay looked at her, and saw that she was so beautiful, he
could not imagine a more lovely and intelligent face; she did not now seem to be
made of ice, as when he had seen her through his window, and she had nodded to
him. In his eyes she was perfect, and she did not feel at all afraid. He told
her he could do mental arithmetic, as far as fractions, and that he knew the
number of square miles and the number of inhabitants in the country. And she
always smiled so that he thought he did not know enough yet, and she looked
round the vast expanse as she flew higher and higher with him upon a black
cloud, while the storm blew and howled as if it were singing old songs. They
flew over woods and lakes, over sea and land; below them roared the wild wind;
the wolves howled and the snow crackled; over them flew the black screaming
crows, and above all shone the moon, clear and bright,—and so Kay passed through
the long winter’s night, and by day he slept at the feet of the Snow Queen.
The Flower Garden of the Woman Who Could
Conjure
But how fared little Gerda during Kay’s
absence? What had become of him, no one knew, nor could any one give the
slightest information, excepting the boys, who said that he had tied his sledge
to another very large one, which had driven through the street, and out at the
town gate. Nobody knew where it went; many tears were shed for him, and little
Gerda wept bitterly for a long time. She said she knew he must be dead; that he
was drowned in the river which flowed close by the school. Oh, indeed those long
winter days were very dreary. But at last spring came, with warm sunshine. “Kay
is dead and gone,” said little Gerda.
“I don’t believe it,” said the sunshine.
“He is dead and gone,” she said to the sparrows.
“We don’t believe it,” they replied; and at last little
Gerda began to doubt it herself. “I will put on my new red shoes,” she said one
morning, “those that Kay has never seen, and then I will go down to the river,
and ask for him.” It was quite early when she kissed her old grandmother, who
was still asleep; then she put on her red shoes, and went quite alone out of the
town gates toward the river. “Is it true that you have taken my little playmate
away from me?” said she to the river. “I will give you my red shoes if you will
give him back to me.” And it seemed as if the waves nodded to her in a strange
manner. Then she took off her red shoes, which she liked better than anything
else, and threw them both into the river, but they fell near the bank, and the
little waves carried them back to the land, just as if the river would not take
from her what she loved best, because they could not give her back little Kay.
But she thought the shoes had not been thrown out far enough. Then she crept
into a boat that lay among the reeds, and threw the shoes again from the farther
end of the boat into the water, but it was not fastened. And her movement sent
it gliding away from the land. When she saw this she hastened to reach the end
of the boat, but before she could so it was more than a yard from the bank, and
drifting away faster than ever. Then little Gerda was very much frightened, and
began to cry, but no one heard her except the sparrows, and they could not carry
her to land, but they flew along by the shore, and sang, as if to comfort her,
“Here we are! Here we are!” The boat floated with the stream; little Gerda sat
quite still with only her stockings on her feet; the red shoes floated after
her, but she could not reach them because the boat kept so much in advance. The
banks on each side of the river were very pretty. There were beautiful flowers,
old trees, sloping fields, in which cows and sheep were grazing, but not a man
to be seen. Perhaps the river will carry me to little Kay, thought Gerda, and
then she became more cheerful, and raised her head, and looked at the beautiful
green banks; and so the boat sailed on for hours. At length she came to a large
cherry orchard, in which stood a small red house with strange red and blue
windows. It had also a thatched roof, and outside were two wooden soldiers, that
presented arms to her as she sailed past. Gerda called out to them, for she
thought they were alive, but of course they did not answer; and as the boat
drifted nearer to the shore, she saw what they really were. Then Gerda called
still louder, and there came a very old woman out of the house, leaning on a
crutch. She wore a large hat to shade her from the sun, and on it were painted
all sorts of pretty flowers. “You poor little child,” said the old woman, “how
did you manage to come all this distance into the wide world on such a rapid
rolling stream?” And then the old woman walked in the water, seized the boat
with her crutch, drew it to land, and lifted Gerda out. And Gerda was glad to
feel herself on dry ground, although she was rather afraid of the strange old
woman. “Come and tell me who you are,” said she, “and how came you here.”
Then Gerda told her everything, while the old woman shook
her head, and said, “Hem-hem;” and when she had finished, Gerda asked if she had
not seen little Kay, and the old woman told her he had not passed by that way,
but he very likely would come. So she told Gerda not to be sorrowful, but to
taste the cherries and look at the flowers; they were better than any
picture-book, for each of them could tell a story. Then she took Gerda by the
hand and led her into the little house, and the old woman closed the door. The
windows were very high, and as the panes were red, blue, and yellow, the
daylight shone through them in all sorts of singular colors. On the table stood
beautiful cherries, and Gerda had permission to eat as many as she would. While
she was eating them the old woman combed out her long flaxen ringlets with a
golden comb, and the glossy curls hung down on each side of the little round
pleasant face, which looked fresh and blooming as a rose. “I have long been
wishing for a dear little maiden like you,” said the old woman, “and now you
must stay with me, and see how happily we shall live together.” And while she
went on combing little Gerda’s hair, she thought less and less about her adopted
brother Kay, for the old woman could conjure, although she was not a wicked
witch; she conjured only a little for her own amusement, and now, because she
wanted to keep Gerda. Therefore she went into the garden, and stretched out her
crutch towards all the rose-trees, beautiful though they were; and they
immediately sunk into the dark earth, so that no one could tell where they had
once stood. The old woman was afraid that if little Gerda saw roses she would
think of those at home, and then remember little Kay, and run away. Then she
took Gerda into the flower-garden. How fragrant and beautiful it was! Every
flower that could be thought of for every season of the year was here in full
bloom; no picture-book could have more beautiful colors. Gerda jumped for joy,
and played till the sun went down behind the tall cherry-trees; then she slept
in an elegant bed with red silk pillows, embroidered with colored violets; and
then she dreamed as pleasantly as a queen on her wedding day. The next day, and
for many days after, Gerda played with the flowers in the warm sunshine. She
knew every flower, and yet, although there were so many of them, it seemed as if
one were missing, but which it was she could not tell. One day, however, as she
sat looking at the old woman’s hat with the painted flowers on it, she saw that
the prettiest of them all was a rose. The old woman had forgotten to take it
from her hat when she made all the roses sink into the earth. But it is
difficult to keep the thoughts together in everything; one little mistake upsets
all our arrangements.
“What, are there no roses here?” cried Gerda; and she ran
out into the garden, and examined all the beds, and searched and searched. There
was not one to be found. Then she sat down and wept, and her tears fell just on
the place where one of the rose-trees had sunk down. The warm tears moistened
the earth, and the rose-tree sprouted up at once, as blooming as when it had
sunk; and Gerda embraced it and kissed the roses, and thought of the beautiful
roses at home, and, with them, of little Kay.
“Oh, how I have been detained!” said the little maiden, “I
wanted to seek for little Kay. Do you know where he is?” she asked the roses;
“do you think he is dead?”
And the roses answered, “No, he is not dead. We have been
in the ground where all the dead lie; but Kay is not there.”
“Thank you,” said little Gerda, and then she went to the
other flowers, and looked into their little cups, and asked, “Do you know where
little Kay is?” But each flower, as it stood in the sunshine, dreamed only of
its own little fairy tale of history. Not one knew anything of Kay. Gerda heard
many stories from the flowers, as she asked them one after another about him.
And what, said the tiger-lily? “Hark, do you hear the
drum?— ‘turn, turn,’—there are only two notes, always, ‘turn, turn.’ Listen to
the women’s song of mourning! Hear the cry of the priest! In her long red robe
stands the Hindoo widow by the funeral pile. The flames rise around her as she
places herself on the dead body of her husband; but the Hindoo woman is thinking
of the living one in that circle; of him, her son, who lighted those flames.
Those shining eyes trouble her heart more painfully than the flames which will
soon consume her body to ashes. Can the fire of the heart be extinguished in the
flames of the funeral pile?”
“I don’t understand that at all,” said little Gerda.
“That is my story,” said the tiger-lily.
What, says the convolvulus? “Near yonder narrow road
stands an old knight’s castle; thick ivy creeps over the old ruined walls, leaf
over leaf, even to the balcony, in which stands a beautiful maiden. She bends
over the balustrades, and looks up the road. No rose on its stem is fresher than
she; no apple-blossom, wafted by the wind, floats more lightly than she moves.
Her rich silk rustles as she bends over and exclaims, ‘Will he not come?’
“Is it Kay you mean?” asked Gerda.
“I am only speaking of a story of my dream,” replied the
flower.
What, said the little snow-drop? “Between two trees a rope
is hanging; there is a piece of board upon it; it is a swing. Two pretty little
girls, in dresses white as snow, and with long green ribbons fluttering from
their hats, are sitting upon it swinging. Their brother who is taller than they
are, stands in the swing; he has one arm round the rope, to steady himself; in
one hand he holds a little bowl, and in the other a clay pipe; he is blowing
bubbles. As the swing goes on, the bubbles fly upward, reflecting the most
beautiful varying colors. The last still hangs from the bowl of the pipe, and
sways in the wind. On goes the swing; and then a little black dog comes running
up. He is almost as light as the bubble, and he raises himself on his hind legs,
and wants to be taken into the swing; but it does not stop, and the dog falls;
then he barks and gets angry. The children stoop towards him, and the bubble
bursts. A swinging plank, a light sparkling foam picture,—that is my story.”
“It may be all very pretty what you are telling me,” said
little Gerda, “but you speak so mournfully, and you do not mention little Kay at
all.”
What do the hyacinths say? “There were three beautiful
sisters, fair and delicate. The dress of one was red, of the second blue, and of
the third pure white. Hand in hand they danced in the bright moonlight, by the
calm lake; but they were human beings, not fairy elves. The sweet fragrance
attracted them, and they disappeared in the wood; here the fragrance became
stronger. Three coffins, in which lay the three beautiful maidens, glided from
the thickest part of the forest across the lake. The fire-flies flew lightly
over them, like little floating torches. Do the dancing maidens sleep, or are
they dead? The scent of the flower says that they are corpses. The evening bell
tolls their knell.”
“You make me quite sorrowful,” said little Gerda; “your
perfume is so strong, you make me think of the dead maidens. Ah! is little Kay
really dead then? The roses have been in the earth, and they say no.”
“Cling, clang,” tolled the hyacinth bells. “We are not
tolling for little Kay; we do not know him. We sing our song, the only one we
know.”
Then Gerda went to the buttercups that were glittering
amongst the bright green leaves.
“You are little bright suns,” said Gerda; “tell me if you
know where I can find my play-fellow.”
And the buttercups sparkled gayly, and looked again at
Gerda. What song could the buttercups sing? It was not about Kay.
“The bright warm sun shone on a little court, on the first
warm day of spring. His bright beams rested on the white walls of the
neighboring house; and close by bloomed the first yellow flower of the season,
glittering like gold in the sun’s warm ray. An old woman sat in her arm chair at
the house door, and her granddaughter, a poor and pretty servant-maid came to
see her for a short visit. When she kissed her grandmother there was gold
everywhere: the gold of the heart in that holy kiss; it was a golden morning;
there was gold in the beaming sunlight, gold in the leaves of the lowly flower,
and on the lips of the maiden. There, that is my story,” said the buttercup.
“My poor old grandmother!” sighed Gerda; “she is longing
to see me, and grieving for me as she did for little Kay; but I shall soon go
home now, and take little Kay with me. It is no use asking the flowers; they
know only their own songs, and can give me no information.”
And then she tucked up her little dress, that she might
run faster, but the narcissus caught her by the leg as she was jumping over it;
so she stopped and looked at the tall yellow flower, and said, “Perhaps you may
know something.”
Then she stooped down quite close to the flower, and
listened; and what did he say?
“I can see myself, I can see myself,” said the narcissus.
“Oh, how sweet is my perfume! Up in a little room with a bow window, stands a
little dancing girl, half undressed; she stands sometimes on one leg, and
sometimes on both, and looks as if she would tread the whole world under her
feet. She is nothing but a delusion. She is pouring water out of a tea-pot on a
piece of stuff which she holds in her hand; it is her bodice. ‘Cleanliness is a
good thing,’ she says. Her white dress hangs on a peg; it has also been washed
in the tea-pot, and dried on the roof. She puts it on, and ties a
saffron-colored handkerchief round her neck, which makes the dress look whiter.
See how she stretches out her legs, as if she were showing off on a stem. I can
see myself, I can see myself.”
“What do I care for all that,” said Gerda, “you need not
tell me such stuff.” And then she ran to the other end of the garden. The door
was fastened, but she pressed against the rusty latch, and it gave way. The door
sprang open, and little Gerda ran out with bare feet into the wide world. She
looked back three times, but no one seemed to be following her. At last she
could run no longer, so she sat down to rest on a great stone, and when she
looked round she saw that the summer was over, and autumn very far advanced. She
had known nothing of this in the beautiful garden, where the sun shone and the
flowers grew all the year round.
“Oh, how I have wasted my time?” said little Gerda; “it is
autumn. I must not rest any longer,” and she rose up to go on. But her little
feet were wounded and sore, and everything around her looked so cold and bleak.
The long willow-leaves were quite yellow. The dew-drops fell like water, leaf
after leaf dropped from the trees, the sloe-thorn alone still bore fruit, but
the sloes were sour, and set the teeth on edge. Oh, how dark and weary the whole
world appeared!
The Prince and Princess
Gerda was obliged to rest again, and just
opposite the place where she sat, she saw a great crow come hopping across the
snow toward her. He stood looking at her for some time, and then he wagged his
head and said, “Caw, caw; good-day, good-day.” He pronounced the words as
plainly as he could, because he meant to be kind to the little girl; and then he
asked her where she was going all alone in the wide world.
The word alone Gerda understood very well, and knew how
much it expressed. So then she told the crow the whole story of her life and
adventures, and asked him if he had seen little Kay.
The crow nodded his head very gravely, and said, “Perhaps
I have—it may be.”
“No! Do you think you have?” cried little Gerda, and she
kissed the crow, and hugged him almost to death with joy.
“Gently, gently,” said the crow. “I believe I know. I
think it may be little Kay; but he has certainly forgotten you by this time for
the princess.”
“Does he live with a princess?” asked Gerda.
“Yes, listen,” replied the crow, “but it is so difficult
to speak your language. If you understand the crows’ language then I can explain
it better. Do you?”
“No, I have never learnt it,” said Gerda, “but my
grandmother understands it, and used to speak it to me. I wish I had learnt it.”
“It does not matter,” answered the crow; “I will explain
as well as I can, although it will be very badly done;” and he told her what he
had heard. “In this kingdom where we now are,” said he, “there lives a princess,
who is so wonderfully clever that she has read all the newspapers in the world,
and forgotten them too, although she is so clever. A short time ago, as she was
sitting on her throne, which people say is not such an agreeable seat as is
often supposed, she began to sing a song which commences in these words:
‘Why should I not be married?’
‘Why not indeed?’ said she, and so she
determined to marry if she could find a husband who knew what to say when he was
spoken to, and not one who could only look grand, for that was so tiresome. Then
she assembled all her court ladies together at the beat of the drum, and when
they heard of her intentions they were very much pleased. ‘We are so glad to
hear it,’ said they, ‘we were talking about it ourselves the other day.’ You may
believe that every word I tell you is true,” said the crow, “for I have a tame
sweetheart who goes freely about the palace, and she told me all this.”
Of course his sweetheart was a crow, for “birds of a
feather flock together,” and one crow always chooses another crow.
“Newspapers were published immediately, with a border of
hearts, and the initials of the princess among them. They gave notice that every
young man who was handsome was free to visit the castle and speak with the
princess; and those who could reply loud enough to be heard when spoken to, were
to make themselves quite at home at the palace; but the one who spoke best would
be chosen as a husband for the princess. Yes, yes, you may believe me, it is all
as true as I sit here,” said the crow. “The people came in crowds. There was a
great deal of crushing and running about, but no one succeeded either on the
first or second day. They could all speak very well while they were outside in
the streets, but when they entered the palace gates, and saw the guards in
silver uniforms, and the footmen in their golden livery on the staircase, and
the great halls lighted up, they became quite confused. And when they stood
before the throne on which the princess sat, they could do nothing but repeat
the last words she had said; and she had no particular wish to hear her own
words over again. It was just as if they had all taken something to make them
sleepy while they were in the palace, for they did not recover themselves nor
speak till they got back again into the street. There was quite a long line of
them reaching from the town-gate to the palace. I went myself to see them,” said
the crow. “They were hungry and thirsty, for at the palace they did not get even
a glass of water. Some of the wisest had taken a few slices of bread and butter
with them, but they did not share it with their neighbors; they thought if they
went in to the princess looking hungry, there would be a better chance for
themselves.”
“But Kay! tell me about little Kay!” said Gerda, “was he
amongst the crowd?”
“Stop a bit, we are just coming to him. It was on the
third day, there came marching cheerfully along to the palace a little
personage, without horses or carriage, his eyes sparkling like yours; he had
beautiful long hair, but his clothes were very poor.”
“That was Kay!” said Gerda joyfully. “Oh, then I have
found him;” and she clapped her hands.
“He had a little knapsack on his back,” added the crow.
“No, it must have been his sledge,” said Gerda; “for he
went away with it.”
“It may have been so,” said the crow; “I did not look at
it very closely. But I know from my tame sweetheart that he passed through the
palace gates, saw the guards in their silver uniform, and the servants in their
liveries of gold on the stairs, but he was not in the least embarrassed. ‘It
must be very tiresome to stand on the stairs,’ he said. ‘I prefer to go in.’ The
rooms were blazing with light. Councillors and ambassadors walked about with
bare feet, carrying golden vessels; it was enough to make any one feel serious.
His boots creaked loudly as he walked, and yet he was not at all uneasy.”
“It must be Kay,” said Gerda, “I know he had new boots on,
I have heard them creak in grandmother’s room.”
“They really did creak,” said the crow, “yet he went
boldly up to the princess herself, who was sitting on a pearl as large as a
spinning wheel, and all the ladies of the court were present with their maids,
and all the cavaliers with their servants; and each of the maids had another
maid to wait upon her, and the cavaliers’ servants had their own servants, as
well as a page each. They all stood in circles round the princess, and the
nearer they stood to the door, the prouder they looked. The servants’ pages, who
always wore slippers, could hardly be looked at, they held themselves up so
proudly by the door.”
“It must be quite awful,” said little Gerda, “but did Kay
win the princess?”
“If I had not been a crow,” said he, “I would have married
her myself, although I am engaged. He spoke just as well as I do, when I speak
the crows’ language, so I heard from my tame sweetheart. He was quite free and
agreeable and said he had not come to woo the princess, but to hear her wisdom;
and he was as pleased with her as she was with him.”
“Oh, certainly that was Kay,” said Gerda, “he was so
clever; he could work mental arithmetic and fractions. Oh, will you take me to
the palace?”
“It is very easy to ask that,” replied the crow, “but how
are we to manage it? However, I will speak about it to my tame sweetheart, and
ask her advice; for I must tell you it will be very difficult to gain permission
for a little girl like you to enter the palace.”
“Oh, yes; but I shall gain permission easily,” said Gerda,
“for when Kay hears that I am here, he will come out and fetch me in
immediately.”
“Wait for me here by the palings,” said the crow, wagging
his head as he flew away.
It was late in the evening before the crow returned. “Caw,
caw,” he said, “she sends you greeting, and here is a little roll which she took
from the kitchen for you; there is plenty of bread there, and she thinks you
must be hungry. It is not possible for you to enter the palace by the front
entrance. The guards in silver uniform and the servants in gold livery would not
allow it. But do not cry, we will manage to get you in; my sweetheart knows a
little back-staircase that leads to the sleeping apartments, and she knows where
to find the key.”
Then they went into the garden through the great avenue,
where the leaves were falling one after another, and they could see the light in
the palace being put out in the same manner. And the crow led little Gerda to
the back door, which stood ajar. Oh! how little Gerda’s heart beat with anxiety
and longing; it was just as if she were going to do something wrong, and yet she
only wanted to know where little Kay was. “It must be he,” she thought, “with
those clear eyes, and that long hair.” She could fancy she saw him smiling at
her, as he used to at home, when they sat among the roses. He would certainly be
glad to see her, and to hear what a long distance she had come for his sake, and
to know how sorry they had been at home because he did not come back. Oh what
joy and yet fear she felt! They were now on the stairs, and in a small closet at
the top a lamp was burning. In the middle of the floor stood the tame crow,
turning her head from side to side, and gazing at Gerda, who curtseyed as her
grandmother had taught her to do.
“My betrothed has spoken so very highly of you, my little
lady,” said the tame crow, “your life-history, Vita, as it may be called, is
very touching. If you will take the lamp I will walk before you. We will go
straight along this way, then we shall meet no one.”
“It seems to me as if somebody were behind us,” said Gerda,
as something rushed by her like a shadow on the wall, and then horses with
flying manes and thin legs, hunters, ladies and gentlemen on horseback, glided
by her, like shadows on the wall.
“They are only dreams,” said the crow, “they are coming to
fetch the thoughts of the great people out hunting.”
“All the better, for we shall be able to look at them in
their beds more safely. I hope that when you rise to honor and favor, you will
show a grateful heart.”
“You may be quite sure of that,” said the crow from the
forest.
They now came into the first hall, the walls of which were
hung with rose-colored satin, embroidered with artificial flowers. Here the
dreams again flitted by them but so quickly that Gerda could not distinguish the
royal persons. Each hall appeared more splendid than the last, it was enought to
bewilder any one. At length they reached a bedroom. The ceiling was like a great
palm-tree, with glass leaves of the most costly crystal, and over the centre of
the floor two beds, each resembling a lily, hung from a stem of gold. One, in
which the princess lay, was white, the other was red; and in this
Gerda had to seek for little Kay. She pushed one of the red leaves aside, and
saw a little brown neck. Oh, that must be Kay! She called his name out quite
loud, and held the lamp over him. The dreams rushed back into the room on
horseback. He woke, and turned his head round, it was not little Kay! The prince
was only like him in the neck, still he was young and pretty. Then the princess
peeped out of her white-lily bed, and asked what was the matter. Then little
Gerda wept and told her story, and all that the crows had done to help her.
“You poor child,” said the prince and princess; then they
praised the crows, and said they were not angry for what they had done, but that
it must not happen again, and this time they should be rewarded.
“Would you like to have your freedom?” asked the princess,
“or would you prefer to be raised to the position of court crows, with all that
is left in the kitchen for yourselves?”
Then both the crows bowed, and begged to have a fixed
appointment, for they thought of their old age, and said it would be so
comfortable to feel that they had provision for their old days, as they called
it. And then the prince got out of his bed, and gave it up to Gerda,—he could do
no more; and she lay down. She folded her little hands, and thought, “How good
everyone is to me, men and animals too;” then she closed her eyes and fell into
a sweet sleep. All the dreams came flying back again to her, and they looked
like angels, and one of them drew a little sledge, on which sat Kay, and nodded
to her. But all this was only a dream, and vanished as soon as she awoke.
The following day she was dressed from head to foot in
silk and velvet, and they invited her to stay at the palace for a few days, and
enjoy herself, but she only begged for a pair of boots, and a little carriage,
and a horse to draw it, so that she might go into the wide world to seek for
Kay. And she obtained, not only boots, but also a muff, and she was neatly
dressed; and when she was ready to go, there, at the door, she found a coach
made of pure gold, with the coat-of-arms of the prince and princess shining upon
it like a star, and the coachman, footman, and outriders all wearing golden
crowns on their heads. The prince and princess themselves helped her into the
coach, and wished her success. The forest crow, who was now married, accompanied
her for the first three miles; he sat by Gerda’s side, as he could not bear
riding backwards. The tame crow stood in the door-way flapping her wings. She
could not go with them, because she had been suffering from headache ever since
the new appointment, no doubt from eating too much. The coach was well stored
with sweet cakes, and under the seat were fruit and gingerbread nuts. “Farewell,
farewell,” cried the prince and princess, and little Gerda wept, and the crow
wept; and then, after a few miles, the crow also said “Farewell,” and this was
the saddest parting. However, he flew to a tree, and stood flapping his black
wings as long as he could see the coach, which glittered in the bright sunshine.
Little Robber-Girl
The coach drove on through a thick
forest, where it lighted up the way like a torch, and dazzled the eyes of some
robbers, who could not bear to let it pass them unmolested.
“It is gold! it is gold!” cried they, rushing forward, and
seizing the horses. Then they struck the little jockeys, the coachman, and the
footman dead, and pulled little Gerda out of the carriage.
“She is fat and pretty, and she has been fed with the
kernels of nuts,” said the old robber-woman, who had a long beard and eyebrows
that hung over her eyes. “She is as good as a little lamb; how
nice she will taste!” and as she said this, she drew forth a shining knife, that
glittered horribly. “Oh!” screamed the old woman the same moment; for her own
daughter, who held her back, had bitten her in the ear. She was a wild and
naughty girl, and the mother called her an ugly thing, and had not time to kill
Gerda.
“She shall play with me,” said the little robber-girl;
“she shall give me her muff and her pretty dress, and sleep with me in my bed.”
And then she bit her mother again, and made her spring in the air, and jump
about; and all the robbers laughed, and said, “See how she is dancing with her
young cub.”
“I will have a ride in the coach,” said the little
robber-girl; and she would have her own way; for she was so self-willed and
obstinate.
She and Gerda seated themselves in the coach, and drove
away, over stumps and stones, into the depths of the forest. The little
robber-girl was about the same size as Gerda, but stronger; she had broader
shoulders and a darker skin; her eyes were quite black, and she had a mournful
look. She clasped little Gerda round the waist, and said,—
“They shall not kill you as long as you don’t make us
vexed with you. I suppose you are a princess.”
“No,” said Gerda; and then she told her all her history,
and how fond she was of little Kay.
The robber-girl looked earnestly at her, nodded her head
slightly, and said, “They sha’nt kill you, even if I do get angry with you; for
I will do it myself.” And then she wiped Gerda’s eyes, and stuck her own hands
in the beautiful muff which was so soft and warm.
The coach stopped in the courtyard of a robber’s castle,
the walls of which were cracked from top to bottom. Ravens and crows flew in and
out of the holes and crevices, while great bulldogs, either of which looked as
if it could swallow a man, were jumping about; but they were not allowed to
bark. In the large and smoky hall a bright fire was burning on the stone floor.
There was no chimney; so the smoke went up to the ceiling, and found a way out
for itself. Soup was boiling in a large cauldron, and hares and rabbits were
roasting on the spit.
“You shall sleep with me and all my little animals
to-night,” said the robber-girl, after they had had something to eat and drink.
So she took Gerda to a corner of the hall, where some straw and carpets were
laid down. Above them, on laths and perches, were more than a hundred pigeons,
who all seemed to be asleep, although they moved slightly when the two little
girls came near them. “These all belong to me,” said the robber-girl; and she
seized the nearest to her, held it by the feet, and shook it till it flapped its
wings. “Kiss it,” cried she, flapping it in Gerda’s face. “There sit the
wood-pigeons,” continued she, pointing to a number of laths and a cage which had
been fixed into the walls, near one of the openings. “Both rascals would fly
away directly, if they were not closely locked up. And here is my old sweetheart
‘Ba;’” and she dragged out a reindeer by the horn; he wore a bright copper ring
round his neck, and was tied up. “We are obliged to hold him tight too, or else
he would run away from us also. I tickle his neck every evening with my sharp
knife, which frightens him very much.” And then the robber-girl drew a long
knife from a chink in the wall, and let it slide gently over the reindeer’s
neck. The poor animal began to kick, and the little robber-girl laughed, and
pulled down Gerda into bed with her.
“Will you have that knife with you while you are asleep?”
asked Gerda, looking at it in great fright.
“I always sleep with the knife by me,” said the
robber-girl. “No one knows what may happen. But now tell me again all about
little Kay, and why you went out into the world.”
Then Gerda repeated her story over again, while the
wood-pigeons in the cage over her cooed, and the other pigeons slept. The little
robber-girl put one arm across Gerda’s neck, and held the knife in the other,
and was soon fast asleep and snoring. But Gerda could not close her eyes at all;
she knew not whether she was to live or die. The robbers sat round the fire,
singing and drinking, and the old woman stumbled about. It was a terrible sight
for a little girl to witness.
Then the wood-pigeons said, “Coo, coo; we have seen little
Kay. A white fowl carried his sledge, and he sat in the carriage of the Snow
Queen, which drove through the wood while we were lying in our nest. She blew
upon us, and all the young ones died excepting us two. Coo, coo.”
“What are you saying up there?” cried Gerda. “Where was
the Snow Queen going? Do you know anything about it?”
“She was most likely travelling to Lapland, where there is
always snow and ice. Ask the reindeer that is fastened up there with a rope.”
“Yes, there is always snow and ice,” said the reindeer;
“and it is a glorious place; you can leap and run about freely on the sparkling
ice plains. The Snow Queen has her summer tent there, but her strong castle is
at the North Pole, on an island called Spitzbergen.”
“Oh, Kay, little Kay!” sighed Gerda.
“Lie still,” said the robber-girl, “or I shall run my
knife into your body.”
In the morning Gerda told her all that the wood-pigeons
had said; and the little robber-girl looked quite serious, and nodded her head,
and said, “That is all talk, that is all talk. Do you know where Lapland is?”
she asked the reindeer.
“Who should know better than I do?” said the animal, while
his eyes sparkled. “I was born and brought up there, and used to run about the
snow-covered plains.”
“Now listen,” said the robber-girl; “all our men are gone
away,— only mother is here, and here she will stay; but at noon she always
drinks out of a great bottle, and afterwards sleeps for a little while; and
then, I’ll do something for you.” Then she jumped out of bed, clasped her mother
round the neck, and pulled her by the beard, crying, “My own little nanny goat,
good morning.” Then her mother filliped her nose till it was quite red; yet she
did it all for love.
When the mother had drunk out of the bottle, and was gone
to sleep, the little robber-maiden went to the reindeer, and said, “I should
like very much to tickle your neck a few times more with my knife, for it makes
you look so funny; but never mind,—I will untie your cord, and set you free, so
that you may run away to Lapland; but you must make good use of your legs, and
carry this little maiden to the castle of the Snow Queen, where her play-fellow
is. You have heard what she told me, for she spoke loud enough, and you were
listening.”
Then the reindeer jumped for joy; and the little
robber-girl lifted Gerda on his back, and had the forethought to tie her on, and
even to give her her own little cushion to sit on.
“Here are your fur boots for you,” said she; “for it will
be very cold; but I must keep the muff; it is so pretty. However, you shall not
be frozen for the want of it; here are my mother’s large warm mittens; they will
reach up to your elbows. Let me put them on. There, now your hands look just
like my mother’s.”
But Gerda wept for joy.
“I don’t like to see you fret,” said the little
robber-girl; “you ought to look quite happy now; and here are two loaves and a
ham, so that you need not starve.” These were fastened on the reindeer, and then
the little robber-maiden opened the door, coaxed in all the great dogs, and then
cut the string with which the reindeer was fastened, with her sharp knife, and
said, “Now run, but mind you take good care of the little girl.” And then Gerda
stretched out her hand, with the great mitten on it, towards the little
robber-girl, and said, “Farewell,” and away flew the reindeer, over stumps and
stones, through the great forest, over marshes and plains, as quickly as he
could. The wolves howled, and the ravens screamed; while up in the sky quivered
red lights like flames of fire. “There are my old northern lights,” said the
reindeer; “see how they flash.” And he ran on day and night still faster and
faster, but the loaves and the ham were all eaten by the time they reached
Lapland.
The Lapland Woman and the Finland Woman
They stopped at a little hut; it was very
mean looking; the roof sloped nearly down to the ground, and the door was so low
that the family had to creep in on their hands and knees, when they went in and
out. There was no one at home but an old Lapland woman, who was cooking fish by
the light of a train-oil lamp. The reindeer told her all about Gerda’s story,
after having first told his own, which seemed to him the most important, but
Gerda was so pinched with the cold that she could not speak. “Oh, you
poor things,” said the Lapland woman, “you have a long way to go yet. You must
travel more than a hundred miles farther, to Finland. The Snow Queen lives there
now, and she burns Bengal lights every evening. I will write a few words on a
dried stock-fish, for I have no paper, and you can take it from me to the
Finland woman who lives there; she can give you better information than I can.”
So when Gerda was warmed, and had taken something to eat and drink, the woman
wrote a few words on the dried fish, and told Gerda to take great care of it.
Then she tied her again on the reindeer, and he set off at full speed. Flash,
flash, went the beautiful blue northern lights in the air the whole night long.
And at length they reached Finland, and knocked at the chimney of the Finland
woman’s hut, for it had no door above the ground. They crept in, but it was so
terribly hot inside that that woman wore scarcely any clothes; she was small and
very dirty looking. She loosened little Gerda’s dress, and took off the fur
boots and the mittens, or Gerda would have been unable to bear the heat; and
then she placed a piece of ice on the reindeer’s head, and read what was written
on the dried fish. After she had read it three times, she knew it by heart, so
she popped the fish into the soup saucepan, as she knew it was good to eat, and
she never wasted anything. The reindeer told his own story first, and then
little Gerda’s, and the Finlander twinkled with her clever eyes, but she said
nothing. “You are so clever,” said the reindeer; “I know you can tie all the
winds of the world with a piece of twine. If a sailor unties one knot, he has a
fair wind; when he unties the second, it blows hard; but if the third and fourth
are loosened, then comes a storm, which will root up whole forests. Cannot you
give this little maiden something which will make her as strong as twelve men,
to overcome the Snow Queen?”
“The Power of twelve men!” said the Finland woman; “that
would be of very little use.” But she went to a shelf and took down and unrolled
a large skin, on which were inscribed wonderful characters, and she read till
the perspiration ran down from her forehead. But the reindeer begged so hard for
little Gerda, and Gerda looked at the Finland woman with such beseeching tearful
eyes, that her own eyes began to twinkle again; so she drew the reindeer into a
corner, and whispered to him while she laid a fresh piece of ice on his head,
“Little Kay is really with the Snow Queen, but he finds everything there so much
to his taste and his liking, that he believes it is the finest place in the
world; but this is because he has a piece of broken glass in his heart, and a
little piece of glass in his eye. These must be taken out, or he will never be a
human being again, and the Snow Queen will retain her power over him.”
“But can you not give little Gerda something to help her
to conquer this power?”
“I can give her no greater power than she has already,”
said the woman; “don’t you see how strong that is? How men and animals are
obliged to serve her, and how well she has got through the world, barefooted as
she is. She cannot receive any power from me greater than she now has, which
consists in her own purity and innocence of heart. If she cannot herself obtain
access to the Snow Queen, and remove the glass fragments from little Kay, we can
do nothing to help her. Two miles from here the Snow Queen’s garden begins; you
can carry the little girl so far, and set her down by the large bush which
stands in the snow, covered with red berries. Do not stay gossiping, but come
back here as quickly as you can.” Then the Finland woman lifted little Gerda
upon the reindeer, and he ran away with her as quickly as he could.
“Oh, I have forgotten my boots and my mittens,” cried
little Gerda, as soon as she felt the cutting cold, but the reindeer dared not
stop, so he ran on till he reached the bush with the red berries; here he set
Gerda down, and he kissed her, and the great bright tears trickled over the
animal’s cheeks; then he left her and ran back as fast as he could.
There stood poor Gerda, without shoes, without gloves, in
the midst of cold, dreary, ice-bound Finland. She ran forwards as quickly as she
could, when a whole regiment of snow-flakes came round her; they did not,
however, fall from the sky, which was quite clear and glittering with the
northern lights. The snow-flakes ran along the ground, and the nearer they came
to her, the larger they appeared. Gerda remembered how large and beautiful they
looked through the burning-glass. But these were really larger, and much more
terrible, for they were alive, and were the guards of the Snow Queen, and had
the strangest shapes. Some were like great porcupines, others like twisted
serpents with their heads stretching out, and some few were like little fat
bears with their hair bristled; but all were dazzlingly white, and all were
living snow-flakes. Then little Gerda repeated the Lord’s Prayer, and the cold
was so great that she could see her own breath come out of her mouth like steam
as she uttered the words. The steam appeared to increase, as she continued her
prayer, till it took the shape of little angels who grew larger the moment they
touched the earth. They all wore helmets on their heads, and carried spears and
shields. Their number continued to increase more and more; and by the time Gerda
had finished her prayers, a whole legion stood round her. They thrust their
spears into the terrible snow-flakes, so that they shivered into a hundred
pieces, and little Gerda could go forward with courage and safety. The angels
stroked her hands and feet, so that she felt the cold less, and she hastened on
to the Snow Queen’s castle.
But now we must see what Kay is doing. In truth he thought
not of little Gerda, and never supposed she could be standing in the front of
the palace.
Of the Palace of the Snow Queen and What
Happened There At Last
The walls of the palace were formed of
drifted snow, and the windows and doors of the cutting winds. There were more
than a hundred rooms in it, all as if they had been formed with snow blown
together. The largest of them extended for several miles; they were all lighted
up by the vivid light of the aurora, and they were so large and empty, so icy
cold and glittering! There were no amusements here, not even a little bear’s
ball, when the storm might have been the music, and the bears could have danced
on their hind legs, and shown their good manners. There were no pleasant games
of snap-dragon, or touch, or even a gossip over the tea-table, for the
young-lady foxes. Empty, vast, and cold were the halls of the Snow Queen. The
flickering flame of the northern lights could be plainly seen, whether they rose
high or low in the heavens, from every part of the castle. In the midst of its
empty, endless hall of snow was a frozen lake, broken on its surface into a
thousand forms; each piece resembled another, from being in itself perfect as a
work of art, and in the centre of this lake sat the Snow Queen, when she was at
home. She called the lake “The Mirror of Reason,” and said that it was the best,
and indeed the only one in the world.
Little Kay was quite blue with cold, indeed almost black,
but he did not feel it; for the Snow Queen had kissed away the icy shiverings,
and his heart was already a lump of ice. He dragged some sharp, flat pieces of
ice to and fro, and placed them together in all kinds of positions, as if he
wished to make something out of them; just as we try to form various figures
with little tablets of wood which we call “a Chinese puzzle.” Kay’s fingers were
very artistic; it was the icy game of reason at which he played, and in his eyes
the figures were very remarkable, and of the highest importance; this opinion
was owing to the piece of glass still sticking in his eye. He composed many
complete figures, forming different words, but there was one word he never could
manage to form, although he wished it very much. It was the word “Eternity.” The
Snow Queen had said to him, “When you can find out this, you shall be your own
master, and I will give you the whole world and a new pair of skates.” But he
could not accomplish it.
“Now I must hasten away to warmer countries,” said the
Snow Queen. “I will go and look into the black craters of the tops of the
burning mountains, Etna and Vesuvius, as they are called,—I shall make them look
white, which will be good for them, and for the lemons and the grapes.” And away
flew the Snow Queen, leaving little Kay quite alone in the great hall which was
so many miles in length; so he sat and looked at his pieces of ice, and was
thinking so deeply, and sat so still, that any one might have supposed he was
frozen.
Just at this moment it happened that little Gerda came
through the great door of the castle. Cutting winds were raging around her, but
she offered up a prayer and the winds sank down as if they were going to sleep;
and she went on till she came to the large empty hall, and caught sight of Kay;
she knew him directly; she flew to him and threw her arms round his neck, and
held him fast, while she exclaimed, “Kay, dear little Kay, I have found you at
last.”
But he sat quite still, stiff and cold.
Then little Gerda wept hot tears, which fell on his
breast, and penetrated into his heart, and thawed the lump of ice, and washed
away the little piece of glass which had stuck there. Then he looked at her, and
she sang—
“Roses bloom and cease to be,
But we shall the Christ-child see.”
Then Kay burst into tears, and he wept so that the
splinter of glass swam out of his eye. Then he recognized Gerda, and said,
joyfully, “Gerda, dear little Gerda, where have you been all this time, and
where have I been?” And he looked all around him, and said, “How cold it is, and
how large and empty it all looks,” and he clung to Gerda, and she laughed and
wept for joy. It was so pleasing to see them that the pieces of ice even danced
about; and when they were tired and went to lie down, they formed themselves
into the letters of the word which the Snow Queen had said he must find out
before he could be his own master, and have the whole world and a pair of new
skates. Then Gerda kissed his cheeks, and they became blooming; and she kissed
his eyes, and they shone like her own; she kissed his hands and his feet, and
then he became quite healthy and cheerful. The Snow Queen might come home now
when she pleased, for there stood his certainty of freedom, in the word she
wanted, written in shining letters of ice.
Then they took each other by the hand, and went forth from
the great palace of ice. They spoke of the grandmother, and of the roses on the
roof, and as they went on the winds were at rest, and the sun burst forth. When
they arrived at the bush with red berries, there stood the reindeer waiting for
them, and he had brought another young reindeer with him, whose udders were
full, and the children drank her warm milk and kissed her on the mouth. Then
they carried Kay and Gerda first to the Finland woman, where they warmed
themselves thoroughly in the hot room, and she gave them directions about their
journey home. Next they went to the Lapland woman, who had made some new clothes
for them, and put their sleighs in order. Both the reindeer ran by their side,
and followed them as far as the boundaries of the country, where the first green
leaves were budding. And here they took leave of the two reindeer and the
Lapland woman, and all said—Farewell. Then the birds began to twitter, and the
forest too was full of green young leaves; and out of it came a beautiful horse,
which Gerda remembered, for it was one which had drawn the golden coach. A young
girl was riding upon it, with a shining red cap on her head, and pistols in her
belt. It was the little robber-maiden, who had got tired of staying at home; she
was going first to the north, and if that did not suit her, she meant to try
some other part of the world. She knew Gerda directly, and Gerda remembered her:
it was a joyful meeting.
“You are a fine fellow to go gadding about in this way,”
said she to little Kay, “I should like to know whether you deserve that any one
should go to the end of the world to find you.”
But Gerda patted her cheeks, and asked after the prince
and princess.
“They are gone to foreign countries,” said the
robber-girl.
“And the crow?” asked Gerda.
“Oh, the crow is dead,” she replied; “his tame sweetheart
is now a widow, and wears a bit of black worsted round her leg. She mourns very
pitifully, but it is all stuff. But now tell me how you managed to get him
back.”
Then Gerda and Kay told her all about it.
“Snip, snap, snare! it’s all right at last,” said the
robber-girl.
Then she took both their hands, and promised that if ever
she should pass through the town, she would call and pay them a visit. And then
she rode away into the wide world. But Gerda and Kay went hand-in-hand towards
home; and as they advanced, spring appeared more lovely with its green verdure
and its beautiful flowers. Very soon they recognized the large town where they
lived, and the tall steeples of the churches, in which the sweet bells were
ringing a merry peal as they entered it, and found their way to their
grandmother’s door. They went upstairs into the little room, where all looked
just as it used to do. The old clock was going “tick, tick,” and
the hands pointed to the time of day, but as they passed through the door into
the room they perceived that they were both grown up, and become a man and
woman. The roses out on the roof were in full bloom, and peeped in at the
window; and there stood the little chairs, on which they had sat when children;
and Kay and Gerda seated themselves each on their own chair, and held each other
by the hand, while the cold empty grandeur of the Snow Queen’s palace vanished
from their memories like a painful dream. The grandmother sat in God’s bright
sunshine, and she read aloud from the Bible, “Except ye become as little
children, ye shall in no wise enter into the kingdom of God.” And Kay and Gerda
looked into each other’s eyes, and all at once understood the words of the old
song,
“Roses bloom and cease to be,
But we shall the Christ-child see.”
And they both sat there, grown up, yet
children at heart; and it was summer,—warm, beautiful summer.
