Once her mother was fast asleep, the little robber-girl went over to the reindeer.
“Much as I would love to keep you here and tickle you with my sharp knife,” she said, “I am going to let you go back to Lapland. You must take Gerda to the Snow Queen’s palace to find Kay.” Then she lifted Gerda onto his back, tying her in place so that she wouldn’t fall.
“You can keep your boots,” she said, “but I want your pretty muff. Take my mother’s gloves to keep your hands warm.” And so saying, the robber-girl cut the rope that imprisoned the reindeer. “Away you go!” she cried, “and take good care of Gerda.” Gerda hugged the robber-girl goodbye and the reindeer galloped away through the gloomy forest.
“ ‘SHE LOOKS AS PLUMP AND JUICY AS A LITTLE LAMB,’ SAID AN OLD ROBBER WOMAN CLUTCHING A GLITTERING KNIFE”
They travelled for many days and nights, but when the night sky came alive with the dancing colours of the Northern Lights they knew they had reached Lapland. They stopped at a miserable-looking house with such a low door that they had to crawl in on all fours. Inside, an old woman sat by a stove cooking fish. Gerda was so cold that she could not speak, so the reindeer told her story as well as his own.
“Why you poor creatures,” said the old woman, “the Snow Queen’s summer palace is in Finland, hundreds of miles away.” She gave them food and drink, and wrote a message on a piece of dried fish.
“Give this message to the Finnish wise-woman and I promise she will help you,” she said. And she lifted Gerda onto the reindeer’s back and wished them a safe journey.
All night long they flew like the wind until at last they came to the wise-woman’s snow-house in Finland. She read the message. The reindeer repeated their story and asked the wise-woman for a magic potion strong enough to conquer the Snow Queen and rescue Kay. The wise-woman studied a parchment covered with strange writing.
At length she said, “Gerda already has more power than I can give her. Her tender heart and her innocence will protect her. You must carry her to the Snow Queen’s garden and leave her near the bush covered with red berries. Then she must go alone to find the Snow Queen and Kay and remove the glass from his eye and his heart.”
The wise-woman put Gerda on the reindeer’s back and he galloped away as fast as he could. Gerda had forgotten her boots and her mittens and it was freezing cold, but they did not stop until they reached the bush with the red berries. The reindeer set her down and kissed her with tears in his eyes before cantering away. A snowstorm swirled towards Gerda but the flakes were running along the ground instead of falling from the sky, and the closer they came the larger they grew. They were shaped like strange animals. Some were like white porcupines, some like coiled snakes and others like fierce, growling bears. Gerda was frightened and she began saying her prayers. As she spoke, the warm breath from her mouth looked like clouds of steam, and the clouds changed into hunters and warriors armed with spears and shields. They drove away the snow animals, and Gerda hurried on towards the Snow Queen’s palace.
KAY AND THE SNOW QUEEN
The walls of the palace were made of snowdrifts and the windows and doors were howling winds. Inside, the rooms were lit by the flashing Northern Lights but they were icy cold, empty and frightening. In the middle of the biggest snow-hall was a frozen lake on which the ice was cracked into a thousand pieces, each one exactly the same as the others. In the centre of the lake sat the Snow Queen who called it her Mirror of Reason, the only mirror that showed the world as it really was. And there was poor Kay! He was blue with cold but he felt nothing. The kisses of the Snow Queen had robbed him of all feeling. He was dragging around some blocks of ice, hopelessly trying to form them into patterns. To him it seemed the most important thing in the world.
“You shall have your freedom,” the Snow Queen had told him, “if you can make the word ‘Eternity’ out of the blocks of ice.” But however hard poor Kay tried, he couldn’t do it.
“It is time for me to visit the warm countries,” said the Snow Queen. “I shall whiten the mountain tops and sprinkle frost on the lemons and grapes to kill them.” She flew off, leaving Kay all alone. And this was how Gerda found him, sitting still and stiff with cold.
“Kay! Dear Kay! I have found you at last!” she cried and put her arms round him. Her warm tears flowed over him and soaked into his heart and the ice of the Snow Queen’s kisses were melted.
He turned his eyes towards Gerda and smiled. Together they sang their special song from the summer:
“The roses bloom for just one hour, then die;
but go on living evermore, on high.”
Kay burst into tears and the sliver of glass was washed out of his eye.
“Gerda! Beloved Gerda! Where have you been? And where have I been?” he cried, looking around. Laughing and crying, the children hugged one another and as they did so the blocks of ice formed themselves into the word “Eternity”. Kay was freed for ever from the power of the Snow Queen.
Hand-in-hand, Gerda and Kay made their way out of the Snow Queen’s terrible ice-palace. They talked about home and of the beautiful roses growing from the window boxes. Wherever they walked, the bitter winds died away and the sun shone. The reindeer was waiting for them with a female reindeer, who gave the children her warm milk to drink. Then they carried Gerda and Kay to the wise-woman’s snow-home and from there to Lapland, where the old woman gave them new clothes and took them by sledge to the border country.
Gerda and Kay waved goodbye to them all and set off on foot through a forest filled with green buds and singing birds. They met a girl on horseback, and it was none other than the little robber-girl.
“So this is the silly boy you have rescued from the end of the world,” she laughed. “I hope he is grateful to you.” Gerda hugged the robber-girl and asked if she had news of the prince and princess and the crows.
“The royal couple are travelling in foreign lands,” said the robber-girl, “but your wild crow is dead and his sweetheart is very upset. But do tell me everything that’s happened.” Gerda and Kay told the robber-girl all their adventures before they said goodbye, promising they would never forget each other.
The further Kay and Gerda travelled onwards, the greener and more beautiful the landscape became until finally, one morning, they heard the sound of church bells ringing and saw their own village in the distance. They walked together through the familiar streets to Grandmother’s door and went up the stairs.
Nothing in the old room seemed to have changed. But one thing was very different. When they looked at one another, Gerda and Kay realised that they were now grown-up. The roses were blooming in the window boxes and in the garden. They sat on the little chairs they had used as children and held hands, while the icy, empty splendour of the Snow Queen’s palace melted from their memory.
Grandmother sat reading in the warm sunshine, and Kay and Gerda looked at one another. They were grown up now, but in their hearts they were still children. They began to sing happily together:
“The roses bloom for just one hour, then die;
but go on living evermore, on high.”
THE NIGHTINGALE
Many years ago in China, there was an emperor who ruled over the land and its people. The emperor’s palace was the ilk most splendid in the world. It was made entirely of expensive porcelain and it was so delicate that the people had to be careful how they touched it. In the garden were the most wonderful flowers, and to the most expensive of them there had been tied tiny silver bells that rang when people passed by. Everything in the emperor’s garden was beautifully arranged. It was so big that even the gardener could not tell where it ended. If a man walked on and on eventually he would come to a glorious forest with tall trees and a deep, clear lake. The wood extended down to the sea, which was brilliant blue. Great ships sailed beneath the branches of the trees, and in these trees lived a nightingale. The nightingale sang so beautifully that even the poor fisherman, who was busy throwing out his nets, stopped still and listen
ed to his song.
“How beautiful that is!” he cried, but he had so much to do that he got back to work and forgot the bird. But the next day the fisherman heard the nightingale’s song once more and again cried, “How beautiful that is!”
Travellers came from all over the world to admire the emperor’s city, and they marvelled at the palace and the garden. But when they heard the nightingale’s song they said, “That’s the best wonder of all!”
When the travellers returned home, they would tell people all about the emperor’s city, the palace and the garden, but they did not forget the nightingale, which they placed highest of all. Wise men wrote books and poets wrote magnificent poems about the nightingale in the wood by the deep, clear lake.
The books spread all around the world, and eventually some came to the emperor. He sat on his golden throne and read and read. With every beautiful description of his city, the palace and the garden he nodded his head in agreement. “But the nightingale is the best wonder of all,” it was written at the end.
“What’s this?” exclaimed the emperor. “I don’t know of this nightingale! Is there such a bird in my empire, in my own garden, that I have never heard of? How can it be that I am learning this from a book?”
The emperor called for his most honourable court gentleman. The courtier was so grand that if anyone lowlier than him dared speak to him he simply answered “P!” which meant nothing.
“I have never heard of him,” replied the courtier. “He has never been introduced at court.”
“I command that the nightingale comes to the palace this evening to sing for me,” said the emperor. “The whole world knows what I possess, but I don’t know it myself!”
“I’ve never heard anyone talk about it,” said the courtier, “but I will find it.”
The courtier ran up and down all the staircases in the palace, through halls and corridors, but no one in the palace had met or even heard of the nightingale. He ran back to the emperor and said that the nightingale could be a story invented by writers.
“Your Majesty, a lot of fiction is written about our land, perhaps someone made up the story of the nightingale,” said the courtier.
“But the book was sent to me by the high and mighty Emperor of Japan,” said the emperor, “so it must be true. I will hear the nightingale! It must be here this evening! It has been commanded by its emperor, and if it does not come then I will arrange for all the courtiers to be trampled upon after dinner!”
“Tsing-pe!” said the courtier, and again he ran up and down all the staircases in the palace and through all the halls and corridors. Half of the courtiers ran with him because they did not want to be trampled upon.
There was a big investigation into the nightingale, which all the world knew about except the emperor and his courtiers. Finally, the courtiers met a poor little girl in the kitchen, who said, “The nightingale? Yes, I know him well; he can sing gloriously. Every evening I am allowed to take my poor sick mother the scraps from the table. When I get back I am tired and I rest in the wood, where I listen to the nightingale sing until tears come to my eyes, just as if my mother had kissed me.”
“Little kitchen girl,” said the courtier, “I will promote you to chef and let you watch the emperor dine if you will take us to the nightingale. The emperor wants him to sing at the palace this evening.”
So the girl led half the courtiers to the wood where the nightingale sang. On the way, a cow began to low in the nearby field.
“That’s him!” cried one of the pages. “What wonderful power for such a small creature! I have definitely heard this song before.”
“No, that is a cow lowing!” said the kitchen girl. “We are still a long way from the place where the nightingale sings.”
The frogs began to croak in the marsh.
“Glorious!” said the preacher. “I can hear him – he sounds just like the bells in the temple.”
“No, those are frogs!” said the kitchen girl. “But I think we’ll hear him soon.”
The nightingale began to sing.
“That’s him!” cried the kitchen girl. “Listen, he’s nearby.”
She pointed to a little, grey bird up in the tree.
“Can it be possible,” said the courtier, “that he looks that simple and plain? He must have lost his colour after seeing us all dressed so grandly.”
“Little nightingale!” called the kitchen girl. “Our gracious emperor wants you to sing for him.”
“It would be my pleasure!” replied the nightingale, and he began to sing the most delightful song.
“He sounds like glass bells!” said the courtier. It’s unbelievable that we’ve never heard him before. The bird will be a great success.”
“Shall I sing for the emperor again?” asked the nightingale, because he thought that the emperor was there.
“My excellent nightingale,” said the courtier. “I have great pleasure in inviting you to a festival at the palace this evening, where you shall charm his Majesty with your beautiful singing.”
“My song sounds best in the woods,” replied the nightingale, “but I will come if the emperor would like me to.”
The palace was decorated for the festival. The porcelain walls and floors gleamed in the light of a thousand golden lamps, and the most glorious of all the flowers, the ones that rang the most beautifully, were brought in from the garden and placed in the corridors. There was a lot of running around, which caused such a draught that the bells rang too loudly and no one could hear themselves speak.
The emperor sat on his throne in the great hall. In the middle of the room was a golden perch for the nightingale to sit on. All the courtiers were there and the little kitchen girl, who had been promoted to the title of Court Chef, stood behind the door. Everyone was dressed in wonderful robes and they all looked at the little, grey bird.
The nightingale sang so gloriously that tears came to the emperor’s eyes and ran down his cheeks. Then the nightingale sang even more sweetly and the sound went straight to the emperor’s heart. The emperor was so pleased that he offered the nightingale his golden slipper to wear around his neck. But the nightingale said that he had been given reward enough.
“I have seen tears in the emperor’s eyes – that is the greatest treasure of all. An emperor’s tears are very special, and that is enough reward for me.” With that, he began to sing again.
“That is the best flattery I have ever heard!” cried the ladies of the court, and they tried to imitate the nightingale by filling their mouths with water and gurgling whenever a gentleman spoke to them. Even the chamber maids were pleased with the singing, and they were the hardest of all to impress. As the courtier had predicted, the nightingale was a great success.
“THE ARTIFICIAL BIRD HAS ITS PLACE ON A SILKEN CUSHION CLOSE TO THE EMPEROR’S BED”
The nightingale was ordered to remain at court. He had his own cage and was allowed to go out twice each day and once at night. Twelve servants accompanied him when he went out, each of whom held tight to a string of silk fastened to the bird’s leg. There was no joy for the poor nightingale.
The whole city talked of the wonderful bird. Children were even named after him, though none of them could sing a note.
One day, the emperor received a parcel, which had the words “The Nightingale” written on it.
“Ah, a new book all about my wonderful bird,” said the emperor.
But it was not a book; it was a wonderful work of art. The emperor had been sent an artificial nightingale, which was decorated with diamonds, rubies and sapphires and could sing like a real bird. When the bird was wound up it sang a beautiful song and its tail moved up and down. As it moved, it shone with silver and gold.
“They must sing together!” cried the emperor. “What a duet it will be!”
So the two birds sang together, but it did not sound good. The real nightingale sang its own song while the artificial nightingale sang waltzes.
“It’s not the artifici
al bird’s fault,” said the play-write, “it’s lovely and I like its song.”
The emperor ordered that the artificial bird should sing alone. It was just as successful as the real one and it was prettier to look at. It sang its song thirty-three times and was still not tired. The people loved to hear it, but the emperor ordered that the real nightingale should sing a song next. But no one had noticed that he had flown out of a window, back to the green wood.
“Why would the nightingale do such a thing?” asked the emperor.
With that, the courtiers declared that the nightingale was an ungrateful creature.
“We have the best bird,” they said.
The courtiers listened to the artificial bird’s song for the thirty-fourth time and they still did not know it from heart because it was so intricate. The play-write praised the artificial bird and declared that it was better than the real one, not only because it looked better, but inside as well.
“Your Majesty, ladies and gentlemen, a real nightingale is unpredictable, but the artificial one is very settled. We can open it and explain it, to make people understand where waltzes come from and how they go.”
“We agree!” said the rest of the courtiers.
The emperor commanded that, on Sunday, the people of the city should hear the bird sing. The people were delighted with its song, but the poor fisherman, who had heard the real nightingale, said, “It sounds nice enough, but there’s something missing, though I don’t know what.”
The real nightingale was banished from the Empire, while the artificial bird took its place on a silk cushion next to the emperor’s bed. It was surrounded by heaps of gold and precious stones, which it had received as gifts. It had earned the title of High Imperial After-Dinner-Singer and was ranked higher than anyone in the court. The play-write wrote twenty-five volumes about it, which were very long and difficult, and everyone in the city declared that they had read and understood them because no one wanted to look stupid.
Hans Christian Andersen's Fairy Tales: Twenty Tales Illustrated by Harry Clarke Page 9