That certainly was thoughtful of her. At noon on Wednesday an envelope with a ticket had arrived for him, but there was no note or letter with it. In the evening Knud went for the first time in his life to the theater; and what did he see? He saw Johanna, so beautiful, so lovely. In the play she got married to a stranger; but then, it was only a play, not real life, or Johanna would not have sent him a ticket to come and see it. Knud knew that well enough, so he didn’t mind. Everybody clapped and shouted, and so did Knud. He screamed, “Hurrah,” as loud as he could.
Even the king, who attended the performance, smiled most kindly down at Johanna; one could see he was pleased. Knud felt himself terribly small among such splendid company, but he loved his Johanna ever so much and felt sure that she cared for him too. A man must say the first words; that was what the little gingerbread girl had thought, and that story Knud had not forgotten.
Next Sunday Knud set off to visit Johanna. He felt as solemn as if he were going to church to receive the sacraments. Johanna was home alone, nothing could have been luckier.
“I am glad you have come,” she said. “I nearly sent Father off to fetch you, but I felt sure that you would come. Next Friday I will be leaving Copenhagen. I am going to France. I must, for only there can I learn to be a great singer.”
Knud felt as though the whole room were turning around him and that, within him, his heart were breaking, but he did not cry. Even though no tears could be seen in his eyes, it was obvious that he was very sad.
Johanna saw it right away, and she almost cried. “Oh, you poor, faithful, honest soul!” she exclaimed, and her words loosened Knud’s tongue. He told her how much he loved her and how much he wanted her to be his wife.
Johanna, who had been holding his hand in hers, let go of it and turned as pale as death. Then she said, seriously, almost mournfully, “Don’t make yourself and me unhappy, Knud. I will always be your good sister whom you can trust. But I can never be more.” She stroked his moist forehead with her soft hands. “God gives us strength when we ask it of Him.”
At that moment her stepmother came into the room.
“Knud is beside himself because I am leaving,” said Johanna to her stepmother, and then patted him on the back. “Now be a man,” she said smilingly, as if they had only been talking about her journey. “Child,” she added, “you will have to be kind and sensible as you were when we were children and sat under the willow tree.”
Knud’s world broke into pieces and one piece was lost forever. He felt that his thoughts were like loose threads that the wind could play with. He stayed even though he was not sure whether he had been invited to. But Johanna’s father and his wife treated him kindly, and Johanna poured the tea as she had the last time he had been there. She sang, too, but her voice did not sound as sweet; yet it was beautiful enough to break one’s heart. When they parted, Knud did not offer her his hand but she took it anyway. “Will you not give your sister your hand when you say good-by? My dear old playmate!” She smiled while tears ran down her cheeks. “Sister,” she repeated. That word brought no comfort to Knud; thus they parted.
She sailed to France. Knud stayed in Copenhagen and walked its muddy streets. The young shoemakers asked him what he was brooding about and invited him to come along with them. “To amuse yourself is almost a duty when you are young,” one of them explained.
He went with them to a dance. There were many pretty girls, but none as lovely as Johanna. In the midst of all the gaiety, where he had expected to forget her, he remembered her most clearly. “God gives us strength when we ask it of Him,” she had said. Knud folded his hands as if he were going to kneel down and pray right there, with the dancing couples all about him, and the violins playing. He was shocked! What had he done? How could he have taken Johanna with him to such a place? For she was with him; didn’t he carry her in his heart?
He rushed out into the street and did not stop running till he stood once more before the house where she had lived. The house was dark; everything was dark and lonesome. The world went its way and Knud went his.
Winter came and the Sound froze; it was a real ice winter and all of nature seemed dead and buried.
Finally spring came. The ice thawed and ships from foreign countries came to the harbor of Copenhagen once again. Knud longed to go away, far away, out into the wide world, but not to France.
He packed his knapsack and set out. He wandered along the roads of Germany without purpose or peace. He walked from one city to the next, too restless to remain in any one of them. Only when he reached Nuremberg, far to the south, did his feet begin to drag, so that he felt that he had the power to make himself stay put.
It was a strange city that looked as though it had been cut out of an old-fashioned picture book. Each street went its own way, not one of them was straight; and the houses did not necessarily follow them. Some of the houses jutted out and filled half the sidewalk, and not two of them looked alike. Some had bay windows and little towers, others had gables and carved cornices. Around the crooked roofs ran copper gutters shaped like dragons or strangely elongated dogs.
Here, on the main square, Knud stood one morning with his knapsack on his back. He was looking at one of the old fountains whose waters fell down over marvelous bronze figures depicting scenes from the Bible and history. A pretty servingmaid had come to fetch water; she gave him a rose from the handful of flowers she was carrying. This, Knud decided, was a good omen.
He could hear the music of an organ. He was reminded of home, of the church in Køge. The church here was very large; it was a cathedral. Knud entered. The sunlight shone through the stained-glass windows and between the tall, slender columns. He felt the holiness of the place and for the first time his soul was at peace.
He sought and found a good master; he stayed in Nuremberg and learned the language.
The old moat and defenses around the town had been made into gardens, but the city wall, with its sturdy towers, was still intact. There was a wooden gallery along the outside of the walls where ropemakers twisted their long cords into strong rope. In the cracks and crevices of the old stonemasonry, elderberry trees had taken root; their branches spread out over the low cottages built at the base of the walls. Here the master for whom Knud worked lived; and he had a little garret room in his master’s house. The elderberry branches shaded the window of the attic in which Knud slept. He lived there one summer and the following winter, but when spring arrived he could not remain. The smell of the flowering elderberry was too much for him. It reminded him of Køge, of his home. He felt that he was back in the garden of his childhood. Knud found another master and moved farther inside the city where there were no elderberry trees.
His new master lived near one of the old bridges, across from a water mill. The houses were built at the water’s edge and they all had rickety old balconies that hung out over the river. Here were no elderberry trees, not even a single flower could grow; but there was an old willow tree. It clung to the house, holding onto it so that the raging waters could not uproot it and tear it away. Its branches hung down over the river just as the willow tree’s at home had over the little stream.
He had moved from “mother elderberry” to “father willow.” Especially at night in the moonlight the willow tree would make him yearn for home. At last he could not stand it any longer. And why? Ask the flowering elderberry tree, ask the willow. He bade his master good-by and left Nuremberg to travel farther south.
He never talked to anyone about Johanna; he kept his sorrow locked within himself. But he often thought about the story of the two gingerbread figures and how the man had had a bitter almond on his left side. Now he felt he knew its bitter taste. Johanna, who was always gentle and smiling, was like the girl, gingerbread all the way through. The straps of his knapsack cut his shoulders and neck, he felt that he had difficulty breathing; he readjusted them but it did not help. The world was not whole around him, he carried half of it inside him, and that he could do nothing about
.
It was not before he reached the great mountains that the dimensions of the world grew real and his thoughts turned outward, not inward to torture himself.
The sight of the Alps brought tears to his eyes. He thought they looked like the folded wings of the world. What would happen if the world spread its wings, with their great feathers of black forests, waterfalls, clouds, and snow fields? “On doomsday it will happen and the earth will fly toward God and break like a soap bubble! Oh, I wish doomsday would come!” he sighed.
The countryside he passed through seemed to him like an enormous orchard.
The young girls, sitting on the little wooden balconies of the houses doing lacework, would nod to the wanderer. The snow on the tall mountains glowed like embers in the light from the setting sun. The green lakes, surrounded by dark pine trees, reminded him of the color of the sea at home in Køge, but the sadness that he felt was more filled with sweetness than with pain.
Where the Rhine like a gigantic wave rushed forth and its waters were crushed and transformed into mist where rainbows play, he thought of the water mill near Køge. There, too, the water roared and was crushed into foam. He would have liked to stay in the little town by the Rhine but there were too many elderberries and willows growing there. So he set out across the great mountains. He walked through narrow passes, along roads that clung to the steep mountainside like swallows’ nests. Far below him were clouds which hid the waterfalls that he could hear roaring in the abyss.
Amidst the eternal snow he walked and the summer sun warmed his back. He said farewell to the north and came to the country where chestnut trees spread their crowns between fields of corn and vineyards. The mountains were a wall between himself and his memories, and that was a blessing.
He came to the great city of Milan. There he found a German shoemaker who would hire him. The master and his wife were a kind, elderly couple who soon grew fond of the young journeyman, who, though he was so silent, worked so hard. It was as if God had finally given Knud peace, taken the burden from his heart.
His greatest pleasure was to climb to the top of Milan Cathedral, which seemed to him to have been shaped out of the white snow of his own country. He stood among the spires and arches, with sculptures peeping out at him at every turn. Above him was the blue sky and below him the city and the great plains of Lombardy. Looking toward the north, he could see the snow-covered Alps, and at the sight of them he would recall Køge and its church with ivy-covered walls. But he no longer thought of it with longing. He had decided that here, beyond the great mountains, his grave would be.
It was now three years since he had left Denmark and one whole year since he had come to Milan. One evening his employer, the old German shoemaker, invited him to the opera. What a fantastic theater it was, with its seven balconies, gold leafing, and silk curtains. Every seat was occupied by an elegantly dressed lady or gentleman; they looked as though they were at a ball. The women carried little bouquets of flowers in their hands. So many lamps burned that the huge room was as light as if the sun itself had been the chandelier. The orchestra began to play. It was much larger than the one in the theater in Copenhagen, but that evening Johanna had sung, while here …
It was magic! The curtain rose and there stood Johanna clad in gold and silk, with a crown on her head! She sang as beautifully as only one of God’s angels can and then she stepped to the front of the stage and smiled—as only Johanna could smile—down at Knud.
Poor Knud grabbed his master’s hand and screamed as loudly as he could, “Johanna!” But his cry was drowned in the music.
The old shoemaker nodded and said, “Yes, her name is Johanna,” and then he took the program and pointed to the spot where her full name stood.
It was no dream! The audience applauded and shouted her name and the ladies threw their flowers up on the stage. Endless curtain calls were demanded. When she left the opera house the crowd unharnessed the horses of her carriage and drew it in triumph through the city. Knud helped to pull it, and he was the happiest among that happy group. When they came to the brilliantly lit villa where she lived, Knud stood by the door of her carriage. It opened and she stepped out. The light from the many lamps illuminated her dear face. She smiled and thanked them all. She was deeply touched. Knud looked straight into her face and she looked straight into his, but she did not recognize him.
A gentleman wearing a decoration on his chest offered her his arm. She took it. “They are engaged,” he heard people behind whisper.
Knud walked straight home and packed his knapsack. Now he wanted to return to the elderberry tree and to the willow tree. Yes, under the willow tree one could dream a whole life in one short hour.
Everyone begged him to stay, but they could not keep him from leaving. They told him that the first snow had already fallen in the mountains. But he only said that he would walk in the wheel tracks of a carriage and cut himself a good stout cane.
He walked toward the mountains. He climbed up and came down on the other side. Weak and tired, he stumbled toward the north.
The stars came out; it was night, no house or town was near. Far down below him, in the valley, stars were shining—it was the lamps in the houses but to Knud it appeared as if there were two heavens: one above him and one below. He felt that he was ill. More and more stars appeared below him. Finally he realized that it was a little village, and he gathered the last of his strength and walked toward it.
He stayed a few days in a little inn. Down here in the valley the snow had already melted and the roads were muddy. One morning someone played a Danish melody on a barrel organ. His restless longing for home returned.
Knud set out again. He walked so fast, as if he feared that if he did not get home soon he would find everyone there dead. To no one had he spoken of his grief, the greatest sorrow that a man can experience. Such misery you cannot tell to the world, for it does not amuse or entertain anyone, even your friends. And poor Knud had no friends. A foreigner in a foreign land, he wandered homeward toward the north.
He had received only one letter from his parents and that had been more than a year ago. In it they had written, “You are not really Danish like we are. We love our country but you love only foreign lands.” His parents felt they had a right to write like that because they knew him, because they were his father and mother.
It was evening. He was walking along a broad highway; it began to freeze. The landscape had become more and more flat, there were fields and meadows. At the side of the road stood a big willow tree. Everything looked so homely, so Danish. He sat down under the willow tree. He was terribly tired; his head fell down on his chest and he closed his eyes. He felt that the branches of the tree engulfed him, embraced him. The tree became an old man, “father willow” himself; and he lifted Knud up in his arms and carried his tired son home to the bleak beach of Køge, to the garden of his childhood.
Yes, it was the willow tree from Køge, it had gone out into the world to find him, and now “father willow” had found him and brought him back to the little garden by the stream. And there stood Johanna, dressed in all the beautiful clothes she had had on when last he saw her, and with the golden crown on her head. She shouted to him, “Welcome!”
Beside her stood two strange figures; they looked larger and more human than they had when he was a child. They were the gingerbread man and the gingerbread girl.
“Thank you,” they said to Knud. “You have taught us always to speak up and say what one feels, or else nothing will come of it. We have, and now we are engaged.”
Then the gingerbread couple walked ahead of them through the town of Køge, and they looked very decent and proper even from behind. They walked right up to the church, and Knud and Johanna followed them; they, too, were walking hand in hand. The church looked as it always had, with green ivy covering its walls. The big doors of the church opened, the organ was playing.
At the entrance the gingerbread couple stepped aside and said, “The bridal couple mu
st go first.” Knud and Johanna walked up to the altar and kneeled down. Ice-cold tears ran from Johanna’s eyes. It was his great love that was thawing the ice around her heart; the tears fell on his burning cheeks and woke him.
There he sat under a willow tree in a foreign land on a cold winter evening, while the winds whipped hail into his face.
“That was the loveliest moment of my life,” he mumbled. “And it was only a dream. God, let me dream it once more!” He closed his eyes. He slept, and he dreamed.
In the early morning it began to snow, and the wind made a snowdrift that covered his legs and his feet while he slept. At church time the peasants found the journeyman; he had frozen to death underneath the willow tree.
68
Five Peas from the Same Pod
There once were five peas in a pod; they were green and the pod was green, and so they believed that the whole world was green, and that was quite right. Now the peas grew and the pod grew, and each little pea adjusted itself to its accommodations; they sat five in a row, one right next to the other. The sun shone on the pod and the rain washed it. It was warm and cozy inside, light in the daytime and dark at night, just as it is supposed to be. As the peas grew bigger they also reasoned better and thought much more; after all, they had to do something to pass the time away.
“I wonder if we shall sit here forever,” said one of them. “I am afraid that I shall grow hard from sitting so long. I have a notion that there is something outside, I can feel it!”
Weeks passed and the peas turned yellow and the pod turned yellow. “The world is turning yellow,” they all five said; and that was not an unreasonable thing for them to say.
Suddenly they felt the pod being torn off the plants. They had fallen into the hands of a human being. The pod was stuck down into a pocket where a lot of other pods lay. “Soon they will open up for us,” said the peas, and that’s what they were waiting for.
The Complete Fairy Tales Page 50