The Complete Fairy Tales and Stories

by Hans Christian Andersen

  “ ‘I will have to fool someone,’ she said, ‘even though it is a sin and a shame, for I am too poor to keep a false coin. I can try to pass it off on the rich baker. It won’t hurt him because he can afford it.’

  “Now I was to give that poor woman a bad conscience,” sighed the shilling. “And I thought to myself, ‘Could I really have changed so much with age?’

  “And the woman took me to the rich baker, but he knew his currency. I had hardly been put down on his counter before I was flung right back into the poor woman’s face. I felt a great sadness come over me. I, who had had such a happy youth, confident of my value and my genuineness, now was the cause of grief to others. I became melancholy, as melancholy as a silver coin can be when it is unwanted. The woman picked me up and took me home with her. ‘I won’t try to fool anyone with you again,’ she said, gazing at me with kindness and generosity. ‘I shall drill a hole in you so everyone can see that you are counterfeit.… And yet, it suddenly struck me that you might be a lucky coin! Just like that, out of nowhere the thought came to me that you were a lucky coin. I’ll make a hole in you anyway, but then I will put a string through it and give you to the neighbor’s little girl to wear as a good-luck charm.’

  “And that was what she did. It isn’t very pleasant to have a hole drilled through you, but you can bear an awful lot when you know that the intentions are good. A string was drawn through me and that’s how I became a medal and was hung around a little girl’s neck. The child smiled at me and kissed me; and I spent one whole night sleeping on her innocent, warm breast.

  “In the morning the girl’s mother took me between her thumb and her forefinger and looked at me intently; she had her own ideas about what ought to be done with me. She took a pair of scissors and cut the string.

  “ ‘A good-luck charm, let’s see how much your luck amounts to.’ She put me in vinegar, so that I became green; and then she puttied up my hole and rubbed me so that no one would notice that I had a hole. When it grew dark, she took me to the office of the state lottery, to find out how much luck I would bring.

  “How horrible I felt! I had a pain in the middle of myself, as if I were about to break in two. At the state lottery office there would be a whole till full of coins both large and small, and every one of them proud of their faces and inscriptions; and there in front of them all, I knew I would be called counterfeit and thrown back at the woman. But it didn’t happen. There were so many people buying tickets that I was thrown unnoticed in among the other coins. Whether or not she ever won anything on that lottery ticket, I cannot tell you. All I know is that the next morning I was discovered and humiliated again. Once more I was put aside and then sent on my way to deceive someone else. And it is unbearable to have to play the fraud when you are honest; and I see no reason to deny that I am honest.

  “A year and a day went by. I passed from one hand to another, from one house to another. Always cursed, always unwelcome. No one had any faith in me and finally I had no faith in myself, or in the world. It was a difficult time.

  “One day I was given to a tourist. He looked so ignorant and innocent that, naturally, he was cheated. He took me for good currency without a glance but, when he wanted to use me, he heard the hue and cry, ‘Counterfeit! Valueless!’

  “ ‘I was given it as change,’ he said, looking at me carefully. Then he smiled broadly and that was the first time that a face had smiled when it was examining me. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘It is a coin from my own country. A good honest silver shilling that has had a hole drilled through it, as if it were counterfeit. That’s really funny! I’ll take good care of you and see to it that you come home again.’

  “Happiness rushed through me when I heard myself being called good’ and ‘honest.’ And now I was to go home. Back to my native country again, to that land where everyone knew that I was made of pure silver—almost pure silver, that is—and that the face on my head was that of our king. I would have sparkled with joy if nature had meant for me to sparkle, but only steel can sparkle, not silver.

  “I was wrapped in a piece of fine white paper so that I would not have to associate with the other coins and get lost again. I was only brought out on special occasions when my owner met people from his own country, and they spoke well of me and said that I was very interesting. Isn’t it funny that you can be called interesting when you haven’t said a single word?

  “Finally, I was home and my trials and tribulations were over. Life was pleasant again. I was silver and my inscription was authentic. It didn’t matter that a hole had been drilled through me to proclaim me as false, because I wasn’t and that is all that is important. Don’t give up, eventually justice will triumph. That’s my philosophy,” said the silver shilling.

  117

  The Bishop of Børglum Cloister and His Kinsmen

  We are on the west coast of Jutland, a bit north of the great peat bog. We can hear the waves beating on the beach, but we cannot see the ocean because a long hill of sand stretches between us and the sea. Our horses are weary. It has been hard work pulling the carriage along the sandy road, but we have reached our destination. On top of the hill there are buildings: it is a farm built on the remains of Børglum Cloister; the church is still standing.

  It is late in the evening, but it is summer, it is a clear, white night. Standing on the summit of the hill, we can see eastward as far as Alborg Fjord and westward, out over the heath and the meadows, to the dark blue sea.

  We pass the outbuildings of the farm and drive through the old portals of the cloister into the courtyard. Like sentinels, the linden trees grow in rows along the walls. Here there is shelter from the west wind, and the trees have become so tall that their branches hide the windows.

  We climb the old, worn, circular staircase, and through the long corridors we walk under ancient beams. The voice of the wind sounds strange; one does not know why but its tone is different. When you are afraid or you want to make someone else afraid, you begin to notice things that you have not seen before, and old legends come into your mind. They say that the monks of the cloister, who have long since been dead, still attend mass in the church; they appear like shades and you can hear their singing in the strange sound of the wind. A curious mood comes over us. We think of bygone ages and our thoughts turn backward to become one with the past.

  There is a shipwreck on the coast. The Bishop of Børglum’s men are already on the beach, and those sailors who survived the merciless sea do not survive the bishop’s men. The tongues of the waves lick away the blood from the cloven skulls. All that drifts ashore—both the remains of the ship and its cargo—belong to the bishop, if there are no survivors to lay claim to them. Through the years Børglum Cloister has been well supplied by the sea. In the cellars, alongside the barrels of native beer and mead, stand casks of the finest wines. In the kitchens there is not only game from the Danish forests but hams and sausages from far away; and in the ponds of the cloister gardens swim fat carp. The Bishopric of Børglum is rich; and Olaf Glob, the bishop, is a powerful man, already wealthy in the property of this world, but he still desires more. In his hands he holds the reins of power and everyone must bow and bend to his will.

  Not far away, at Thy, his rich kinsman has died. “Kin are worst against kin,” as the saying goes. The man who died was rich, and all of the district of Thy that did not belong to the Church had been his. Now the Bishop of Børglum, in the name of the Church, claims the estate. The son of the dead man is not in Denmark; he is studying abroad. It is years since any message has come from him, perhaps he has been laid in his grave and will never return to govern where his widowed mother now rules in his place.

  “A woman should obey, not command,” says the bishop. He sends a summons to her that she must appear before the assembly. She comes, but she has broken no laws or done any wrong. Her defense is the justice of her cause and her peers have no complaint against her.

  Tell us, Bishop of Børglum, what are you so pensi
ve about? What are you writing on that parchment? You smile as you seal it. What message is within that letter, which is closed by the ribbon and seal of the Bishop of Børglum? You give the letter to one of your horsemen; he has far to ride, for he is being sent to Rome, with a message for the Pope.

  Summer is over. The leaves have turned yellow and are ready to fall. The storms are coming. It is the season of shipwrecks. Twice winter follows summer before the bishop’s servant returns from Rome. He returns with another letter that is closed by a more important seal than that of the Bishop of Børglum.

  The widow has been excommunicated, punished by the Pope for her willful offense against a pious servant of the Church, the Bishop of Børglum: “Expelled from the congregation. She and anyone who follows her are banned; both kith and kin must avoid her as they would one who had the plague or leprosy.”

  “Those who will not bend must be broken,” says the Bishop of Børglum.

  Only an old servant remains with the widow. No one else dares help her. She has lost her friends and her family, but she has not lost her faith in God. Together the two women plow the earth; and the grain grows, even though the soil has been condemned by both the bishop and the Pope.

  “You child of hell! I shall teach you to obey. With the hand of the Pope, you shall be summoned to the Ecclesiastical Court, where you will be judged and punished,” threatens the Bishop of Børglum.

  The widow still has two oxen, which she harnesses to a cart, and with her servant she sets out. She will leave Denmark, travel abroad, where she will be a stranger among strangers. She will hear languages that she cannot understand and live among people who have customs and habits she does not know.

  The two women travel south, to where the green hills become high mountains and the grape ripens. Along the way they meet rich merchants who fear for their wealth when their wagons go through the dark forests. But the widow’s poverty guards her against the robbers, who prey on other travelers. Two women in an old cart, drawn by two black oxen, pass safely along the unsafe, narrow roads.

  They are in France, and there one morning they meet a dignified-looking young nobleman. He is richly dressed and followed by twelve armed servants. He stops to look at the cart and the strange women. He asks them where they come from, and the widow answers that they are from Thy in Denmark.

  As her lips pronounce the name of her native land, she cannot help but speak of her sorrow and the injustice that has been done to her. But God had willed her to tell her story, as He had willed that this meeting between herself and the young knight, who was her son, should take place.

  The young man gave her his hand, then he embraced her; and the poor mother wept. During all those years she had remained dry-eyed, even though she had bitten her lips till tiny drops of blood appeared on them.

  Again it is time for the trees to give up their leaves. The storms come. Ships are wrecked; and casks of wine pass from the beaches to the cellars of the cloister. In the bishop’s kitchens the fires glow; meat is being roasted. While the winter wind whips the cloister walls, inside it is warm and comfortable. At table the news is told: “Jens Glob of Thy has returned with his mother. They say he will summon the bishop before the Ecclesiastical Court and the King’s Court.”

  “Fat lot of good that will do him,” says the bishop, and smiles. “If my young kinsman is wise, he will forget our quarrel.”

  Another year passes, again it is autumn. The first frost has come, and the white bees sting your face before they melt. It is bracing weather, say those who have been out of doors. But Jens Glob has been sitting in front of his fire all day. He is deep in thought. To himself he mumbles, “Bishop of Børglum, I shall defeat you! As long as you hide under the cloak of the Pope, the law cannot touch you, but I—Jens Glob of Thy—know how to reach you!”

  He writes a letter to his brother-in-law, Olaf Hase of Salling, and bids him come to Hvidberg Church on Christmas Eve, when the Bishop of Børglum is to celebrate mass there. Jens Glob has just heard the news that soon the bishop will go from Børglum into the district of Thy.

  The meadows and the peat bogs are frozen and covered with snow. The ice can easily bear the weight of a horse. The bishop and his train of priests, monks, and armed servants take the shortest route, riding through the forest of yellow reeds, where the wind blows so sorrowfully.

  “Play on your trumpet!” the bishop orders; and a musician wearing a foxskin cape puts the instrument to his lips. The air is clear as they ride from the heath onto the frozen marshes, south to Hvidberg Church.

  Soon the wind plays on its trumpet. It blows a storm and with each puff it gains strength. To visit God’s House, through the storm of God’s wrath, they travel. God’s House stands undisturbed by God’s weather that sweeps over the marsh and the meadow and the sea. The Bishop of Børglum and his companions arrive safely. But the journey of Olaf Hase of Salling is not so easy. He is on the other side of the fjord. The wind has whipped the waters into foam in the sound between Salling and Thy.

  Jens Glob has summoned Olaf Hase to Thy this Christmas Eve to sit in judgment on the Bishop of Børglum. God’s House is to be their courthouse, and the altar the bar. The candles are lit in the great brass candlesticks; and the wind is reading from the Book of Judges. Strange and terrible are the sounds that come from the heath and the marsh and the storm-swept waters that no boat can cross.

  Olaf Hase has reached the coast. He decides that he will send his men back with a message to his wife; he will ford the tempest-torn waters alone. But first he says farewell to his men. He sets them free from their oaths to him and gives each the weapon he bears and the horse he rides. “But all of you shall be my witness that if Jens Glob stands alone in Hvidberg Church tonight, no man may say that the fault is mine.”

  But Olaf Hase’s men are loyal, they courageously follow him into the dark, deep waters. Ten are drowned. Only Olaf and two of his younger men reach the other side of the sound. And still they have far to ride.

  It is past midnight. Soon the dawn will break on Christmas Day. The wind has stopped blowing. The light from the church shines through the windows onto the snow. Mass has long since been said; the church is still. The melted beeswax from the candles drips onto the stone floors. Now Olaf Hase arrives. Jens Glob meets his kinsman on the porch of Hvidberg Church.

  “Merry Christmas! I am reconciled with the Bishop of Børglum.”

  “If you are reconciled,” replies Olaf as he draws his sword, “then neither you nor the bishop shall leave the church alive.”

  Jens Glob opens the door of the church. “Be not so hasty, dear cousin. See first how I have settled my dispute. I have slain the bishop and his men. He is mute forever, and now neither he nor I shall ever speak again about the injustice done to my mother.”

  On the altar the flames of the candles glow with a reddish hue, but not as red as the blood upon the floor. The Bishop of Børglum’s skull has been cloven in two. He lies among the still bodies of his servants. It is silent, nothing is heard from the church on this holy Christmas night.

  On the third day after Christmas the bells toll in Børglum Cloister. Beneath a black baldachin lie the bishop and his men. Black crepe has been wound about the great candelabra. Wearing his cloak of silver sable, clasping his crozier in his powerless hands, rests the dead—formerly so mighty—Bishop of Børglum. There is a smell of incense. The monks are chanting their lament. The winds take up the song of grief, and now it sounds like a judgment, a message of anger and damnation.

  Here the wind never dies; it only rests for a while before it begins to sing again. When the storms of the autumn come, its song is of the Bishop of Børglum and his kinsman’s revenge. The timid peasant driving his cart along the sandy road any dark winter night hears the singing and he shivers, not alone from the cold. Those sleeping within the old cloister walls, they, too, hear the song of the wind. Something moves along the long corridor on the other side of the bedroom door. This was once the passage to the church; the entranc
e has long since been walled up. Now fear and imagination open it. Again the candles in the candelabra are lit. Once more the smell of incense fills the church. The monks are singing mass for their dead bishop, whose body lies dressed in sable, with his shepherd’s crook—the sign of his power—in his powerless hands. His pale, proud forehead is cloven and the bloody wound shines as red as a flame from hell. They are the sins of this world—of the will and the desire to do evil—that are burning.

  Stay in your grave, disappear into the night, into oblivion, Bishop of Børglum! Memories of a time that is past.

  The wind blows furiously tonight. It drowns the noise of the surf. There is a storm raging on the sea. It will take its toll in human life. For time does not change the character of the sea. Tonight it is a mouth eager to swallow; tomorrow it will be a clear eye that you can mirror yourself in, just as it was in that earlier age that we have just buried. Now sleep peacefully, if you can.

  It is morning. Outside the sun is shining, but the wind is still blowing. A message comes that there has been a shipwreck during the night. Time has changed nothing!

  A ship went aground near the tiny fishing village of Lokken, not far away. From the windows of the farmhouse we can see the red-tiled roofs of the cottages, the beach, and the sea. There on a sandy reef is the wrecked ship.

  During the night rockets with lines attached to them were fired out to the doomed ship. Within hours, heavy cables connected the ship and the land. Everyone on board was rescued, brought ashore, and given a warm bed.

  In the cozy rooms of the manor house, built on the remains of Børglum Cloister, the survivors of the ill-fated ship are welcome. The wealthy farmer can speak the language of their country. Tonight there will be a dance in the old building. Someone will play the piano and the Danish youth will dance with the foreigners. The magic messenger, the telegraph, has brought news of the rescue to the seamen’s homes. Tonight there will be a celebration and the sound of merriment inside the long corridor that once led to the church of Børglum Cloister.