As soon as spring came and the warmth of the sun could be felt through the earth, the swallow said good-by to Inchelina, who opened the hole that the mole had made. The sun shone down so pleasantly. The swallow asked her if she did not want to come along with him; she could sit on his back and he would fly with her out into the great forest. But Inchelina knew that the field mouse would be sad and lonely if she left.
“I cannot,” she said.
The bird thanked her once more. “Farewell.… Farewell, lovely girl,” he sang, and flew out into the sunshine.
Inchelina’s eyes filled with tears as she watched the swallow fly away, for she cared so much for the bird.
“Tweet … tweet,” he sang, and disappeared in the forest.
Poor Inchelina was miserable. Soon the grain would be so tall that the field would be in shade, and she would no longer be able to enjoy the warm sunshine.
“This summer you must spend getting your trousseau ready,” said the field mouse, for the sober mole in the velvet coat had proposed to her. “You must have both woolens and linen to wear and to use in housekeeping when you become Mrs. Mole.”
Inchelina had to spin by hand and the field mouse hired four spiders to weave both night and day. Every evening the mole came visiting, but all he talked about was how nice it would be when the summer was over. He didn’t like the way the sun baked the earth; it made it so hard to dig in. As soon as autumn came they would get married. But Inchelina was not happy; she thought the mole was dull and she did not love him. Every day, at sunrise and at sunset, she tiptoed to the entrance of the field mouse’s house, so that when the wind blew and parted the grain, she could see the blue sky above her. She thought of how light and beautiful it was out there, and she longed for her friend the swallow but he never came back. “He is probably far away in the wonderful green forest!” she thought.
Autumn came and Inchelina’s trousseau was finished.
“In four weeks we shall hold your wedding,” said the field mouse.
Inchelina cried and said she did not want to marry the boring old mole.
“Fiddlesticks!” squeaked the field mouse. “Don’t be stubborn or I will bite you with my white teeth. You are getting an excellent husband; he has a velvet coat so fine that the queen does not have one that is better. He has both a larder and kitchen, you ought to thank God for giving you such a good husband.”
The day of the wedding came; the mole had already arrived. Inchelina grieved. Now she would never see the warm sun again. The mole lived far down under the ground, for he didn’t like the sun. While she lived with the field mouse, she at least had been allowed to walk as far as the entrance of the little house and look at the sun.
“Farewell.… Farewell, you beautiful sun!” Inchelina lifted her hands up toward the sky and then took a few steps out upon the field. The harvest was over and only the stubbles were left. She saw a little red flower. Embracing it, she said: “Farewell! And give my love to the swallow if you ever see him.”
“Tweet … Tweet …” something said in the air above her.
She looked up. It was the little swallow. As soon as he saw Inchelina he chirped with joy. And she told the bird how she had to marry the awful mole, and live forever down under the ground, and never see the sun again. The very telling of her future brought tears to her eyes.
“Now comes the cold winter,” said the swallow, “and I fly far away to the warm countries. Why don’t you come with me? You can sit on my back; tie yourself on so you won’t fall off and we will fly far away from the ugly mole and his dismal house; across the great mountains, to the countries where the sun shines more beautifully than here and the loveliest flowers grow and it is always summer. Fly with me, Inchelina. You saved my life when I lay freezing in the cold cellar of the earth.”
“Yes, I will come,” cried Inchelina, and climbed up on the bird’s back. She tied herself with a ribbon to one of his feathers, and the swallow flew high up into the air, above the forests and lakes and over the high mountains that are always snow-covered. Inchelina froze in the cold air, but she crawled underneath the warm feathers of the bird and only stuck her little head out to see all the beauty below her.
They came to the warm countries. And it was true what the swallow had said: the sun shone more brightly and the sky seemed twice as high. Along the fences grew the loveliest green and blue grapes. From the trees in the forests hung oranges and lemons. Along the roads the most beautiful children ran, chasing many-colored butterflies. The swallow flew even farther south, and the landscape beneath them became more and more beautiful.
Near a forest, on the shores of a lake, stood the ruins of an ancient temple; ivy wound itself around the white pillars. On top of these were many swallows’ nests and one of them belonged to the little swallow that was carrying Inchelina.
“This is my house,” he said. “Now choose for yourself one of the beautiful flowers down below and I will set you down on it, it will make a lovely home for you.”
“How wonderful!” exclaimed Inchelina, and clapped her hands. Among the broken white marble pillars grew tall, lovely white flowers. The swallow sat her down on the leaves of one of them; and to Inchelina’s astonishment, she saw a little man sitting in the center of the flower. He was white and almost transparent, as if he were made of glass. On his head he wore a golden crown. On his back were a pair of wings. He was no taller than Inchelina. In every one of the flowers there lived such a tiny angel; and this one was the king of them all.
“How handsome he is!” whispered Inchelina to the swallow.
The tiny little king was terrified of the bird, who was several times larger than he was. But when he saw Inchelina he forgot his fear. She was the loveliest creature he had ever seen; and so he took the crown off his own head and put it on hers. Then he asked her what her name was and whether she wanted to be queen of the flowers.
Now here was a better husband than old mother toad’s ugly son or the mole with the velvet coat. Inchelina said yes; and from every flower came a lovely little angel to pay homage to their queen. How lovely and delicate they all were; and they brought her gifts, and the best of these was a pair of wings, so she would be able to fly, as they all did, from flower to flower.
It was a day of happiness. And the swallow, from his nest in the temple, sang for them as well as he could. But in his heart he was ever so sad, for he, too, loved Inchelina and had hoped never to be parted from her.
“You shall not be called Inchelina any longer,” said the king. “It is an ugly name. From now on we shall call you Maja.”
“Farewell! Farewell!” called the little swallow. He flew back to the north, away from the warm countries. He came to Denmark; and there he has his nest, above the window of a man who can tell fairy tales.
“Tweet … tweet,” sang the swallow. And the man heard it and wrote down the whole story.
6
The Naughty Boy
Once upon a time an old poet—a really nice and kind old poet—was sitting cozily by his potbelly stove toasting apples. Outside a storm was raging and the rain was coming down by the bucket.
“Anyone caught out tonight won’t have a dry stitch on,” remarked the poet, and sighed.
“Open the door! I am wet and freezing!” cried a little child, and banged on the poet’s door, while the wind made all the windows rattle.
“Poor little fellow!” exclaimed the poet, and hurried to open the door. There stood a little boy; he was stark naked and the water was streaming down his golden hair. He was so cold that he was trembling all over; and had he not been let in, he certainly would have died that night out in the awful storm.
“You poor little boy.” The poet took him by the hand. “Come in and sit down by the stove and get dry. I’ll give you wine and toasted apples. You are a beautiful child!”
And that he was. His eyes shone like two stars, and even though his golden hair was wet, it curled most becomingly. He looked like an angel as he stood there pale and shi
vering. In his hands he had a bow and some arrows, which were much the worse for having been out in the rain, for all the colors on the pretty arrows had run into each other.
The old poet sat down next to the stove with the child in his lap. He dried his hair and warmed his hands in his own; then he gave him a toasted apple and a glass of mulled wine. The boy soon recovered. The color returned to his cheeks. He jumped down from the poet’s knees and began to dance around his chair.
“You are a lively child,” said the old poet, and smiled. “What is your name?”
“I am called Cupid,” answered the boy. “Don’t you know me? There are my bow and arrows. I am good at shooting. Look, the moon has come out; the weather is fine now.”
“But I am afraid your bow and arrows are spoiled,” the poet said.
“That is too bad!” The boy picked up the bow and glanced at it. “Now that it’s dry it looks all right,” he argued. “Look, the string is taut. No harm has come to it.” Cupid slipped an arrow into the bow and bent it. He took aim and the arrow pierced the old man’s heart! “There, you can see for yourself, my bow is fine,” the naughty, ungrateful boy said laughingly to the poor old poet who had taken him into his warm living room and given him mulled wine and the very best of his toasted apples.
The old poet lay on the floor, weeping. He had really been hit, right in the heart. “Oh … oh …” he moaned. “The mischievous child! I am going to tell all the other boys and girls to beware of Cupid and never to play with him, so he cannot do them any harm.”
All the boys and girls who were warned by the old poet did their best to be on the alert against Cupid; but he fooled them anyway, because he is very cunning.
When a student is returning from a lecture at the university, Cupid runs along beside him, wearing a black robe and with a book under his arm. The student cannot recognize him; he mistakes him for another student and takes his arm; then Cupid shoots an arrow into his heart. The girls are not safe from him, even in church when they are being confirmed. In the theater, he sits astride the chandelier and nobody notices him up there among the burning candles, but they feel it when he shoots his arrows at them.
He runs about in the royal parks and on the embankment where your parents love to go for a walk. He has hit their hearts with his arrows once, too. Ask them, and see what they say.
Cupid is a rascal! Don’t ever have anything to do with him! Imagine, he once shot your poor old grandmother, right through the heart; it’s so long ago that it no longer hurts, but she hasn’t forgotten it. Pooh! That mischievous Cupid! Now you know what he is like and what a naughty boy he is.
7
The Traveling Companion
Poor Johannes was miserable; his father was ill and there was no hope of his recovering. It was late in the evening; they were alone together. The lamp on the table was burning low.
“You have been a good son,” whispered the father. “I am sure that God will help you and protect you.” The dying man looked kindly and earnestly at his son, then he breathed very deeply and died.
He looked as if he were asleep. Johannes wept, for now he was alone in the world. He had neither father or mother, nor brothers or sisters. He kneeled down and kissed his father’s hand. Many a tear ran down his cheeks before he finally fell asleep with his head resting against the hard board of the bedstead.
He dreamed a strange dream, in which the sun and the moon curtsied before him. He saw his father, too, alive and well. He heard him laugh as he always did whenever something amused him. A lovely girl, with long beautiful hair and a gold crown on her head, took his hand in hers; and his father said to him, “This is your bride: the most beautiful girl in the world.” Then he woke, the dream was over. His father was dead. There lay his cold body. He was all alone, poor Johannes!
Next week his father was buried. Johannes walked behind the coffin. He could no longer see his father, whom he loved so much. He heard the earth fall on the coffin lid. He peered down into the grave. He could see the corner of the burial chest; another shovelful of earth and that, too, was out of sight. At that moment Johannes felt that his heart would break from sorrow. A psalm was sung and it sounded so beautiful that he burst out crying, and the tears relieved his grief. The sunlight played on the leaves of the trees; it was as if the sun wanted to say, “Do not be sad, Johannes! Can’t you see how beautiful the blue sky is? Your father is up there and he is begging God to help, so that all may go well for you.”
“I will try always to be good,” thought Johannes. “Then I, too, will go to heaven when I die and see my father again. I will have so much to tell him, and he will teach me about all the beautiful things in heaven, as he taught me about all that is beautiful here on earth. Oh, how wonderful it will be!” For a moment, as the words became a picture in Johannes’ mind, he smiled though tears ran down his face.
The little birds in the chestnut tree sang, “Tweet … Tweet …” They were happy even though they were attending a funeral; or maybe they were happy because they knew that the dead man now had wings more beautiful than theirs, for he had been good while he lived on earth. Johannes saw how the little birds flew from the branches of the tree far out into the world, and he wanted to fly with them. But first he must carve a wooden cross to put on his father’s grave.
In the evening when he was finished, he returned to the churchyard and found the grave covered with sand and decorated with flowers. The people of the village had wanted to show that they, too, loved his father and felt sorrow at his death.
Early the next morning Johannes packed his few belongings into a small bundle and put his inheritance of fifty silver marks in a purse which he hid under his belt. Now he was ready to go out into the world, but first he went to his father’s grave to pray and say good-by. “I shall always be good, Father,” he promised, “so that you may, without shame, bid God to protect me.”
As he walked across the fields, leaving the village behind him, the flowers nodded as the wind blew over them and said, “Welcome, Johannes! Welcome to our green world, is it not beautiful?” But Johannes could not hear them; he turned to look once more at the old church where he had been baptized and where every Sunday he had attended service with his father and sung hymns. High up in one of the little windows of the tower he saw the church pixy with his red woolen hat. The pixy was shading his eyes with his hand, the sun was shining right in his face. Johannes waved good-by to him and the pixy took off his hat and swung it over his head; then he put his hand on his heart and blew kisses toward Johannes, to show that he wished him good luck and a happy journey.
Johannes thought about all the beautiful things he would see in the big marvelous world as he walked on, farther and farther away from all that he knew. Soon he no longer recognized the countryside. He passed through villages and towns he had never seen before, and all the people he met were strangers.
The first night he slept in a haystack and thought it was as fine a bed as anyone could have, that a king could not have offered him one more comfortable. The fields, the little river, the haystack, and the blue heaven above him. What a lovely bedchamber! The green grass dotted with red and white flowers was a carpet; the hedge of wild roses and the elderberry bushes were better than bouquets of flowers in vases; and the river, with its clear water, was his washing basin. The reeds that grew along its edge nodded to say both good morning and good night to him, and the moon was an excellent night lamp that couldn’t set fire to the curtains. Here Johannes could sleep peacefully and he did, and only woke after the sun had risen and all the little birds started singing, “Good morning! Good morning! Aren’t you up yet?”
The bells rang from the church tower; it was Sunday. The people were going to church and Johannes went too; he sang a hymn and listened to the minister preach. Everything was just as it was in the church where he had been baptized and attended service with his father.
In the churchyard there were many graves where the grass grew high, for there was no one to tend them. Johan
nes thought of his own father’s grave which soon would look like these, now that he was not there to weed and plant flowers on it. He pulled up some of the grass and straightened the wooden crosses that had fallen; then he took the wreaths that the wind had blown from the graves and put them back where he thought they belonged, hoping that some stranger would do the same for his father’s grave.
Outside the church stood a beggar. Johannes gave him a silver coin and then walked on, happy and content, out into the wide, wide world.
Toward evening a storm began to gather. Johannes looked for shelter but the landscape was bare and uninhabited; finally, when night had already fallen, he saw a little church on a hill. The door to the church was ajar; here he would seek shelter until the storm was over.
“I will just sit in a corner,” he thought. “I am tired and need some rest.” He sat down, folded his hands, and said his prayers; then he feel asleep and dreamed, while the storm broke and lightning flashed and the thunder roared.
When he woke it was past midnight, the storm was over, and the moolight shone through the windows into the church. Near the altar stood a coffin; it was open and in it lay a dead man who was to be buried the next day. Johannes was not afraid, for he had a good conscience, and he knew that the dead cannot do anyone any harm. It is living, evil human beings one has to fear. Two such worthless men were now standing before the open coffin. They wanted to harm the dead man; they were preparing to take him out of his coffin and throw him out of the church. Poor dead man!
“What are you doing?” cried Johannes. “It is sinful to disturb the dead. Let the poor man sleep in Jesus’ name!”
“Nonsense!” screamed one of the wicked men. “He has cheated us. He owed us money, which he couldn’t pay back, and now he has died, on top of it, and we shan’t ever see a penny of our money again. But we shall have our revenge. We shall throw him in front of the church door and there he can lie like a dog.”
The Complete Fairy Tales Page 6