The Classic Fairy Tales (Second Edition) (Norton Critical Editions)

by Edited by Maria Tatar

  The Marsh Woman was at home, for the brewery was being visited that day by the devil and his great-grandmother, an extremely venomous old creature whose hands are never idle. She always has some needlework with her, and she had it with her this time too. Her pincushion was with her that day so that she could give people pins and needles in their legs and make them get up and run around. And she was busy embroidering lies and crocheting rash words that might have fallen harmlessly to the ground had she not woven them into mischief and slander. How cleverly that old great-granny could sew, embroider, and weave!

  When the devil’s great-grandmother saw Inger, she put on her spectacles and took a good look at her. “That girl has talent,” she declared. “I’d like to take her back with me as a souvenir. She’d make a perfect statue for my great-grandson’s entrance hall.” And she got her!

  That’s how little Inger ended up in hell. People can’t always go straight down there, but if they have a little talent, they can get there in a roundabout way.

  The antechamber there seemed endless. It made you dizzy to look straight ahead and dizzy to look back. A crowd of anxious, miserable souls were waiting for the gates of mercy to be flung open. They would have to wait for a long time! Huge, hideous, fat spiders were spinning webs that would last a thousand years around the feet of those waiting, and the webs were like foot screws or manacles that clamped down as strongly as copper chains on the feet. On top of all that, there was a deep sense of despair in every soul, a feeling of anxiety that was itself a torment. Among the crowd was a miser who had lost the key to his money box and now remembered that he had left it in the lock. But wait—it would take far too long to describe all the pain and torment suffered in that place. Inger began to feel the torture of standing still, just like a statue. It was as if she were riveted to the ground by the loaf of bread.

  “This is what comes from trying to keep your shoes clean,” she said to herself. “Look at how they’re all staring at me.” Yes, it’s true, they were all staring at her, with evil passions gleaming in their eyes. They spoke without a sound coming from their mouths, and it was horrifying to look at them!

  “It must be a pleasure to look at me,” Inger thought. “I have a pretty face and nice clothes.” And then she turned her eyes, for her neck was too stiff to move. Goodness, how dirty she had become in the Marsh Woman’s brewery! She hadn’t thought of that. Her dress was covered with one great streak of slime; a snake had wound itself into her hair and was dangling down her neck; and from each fold in her dress an ugly toad was peeping out, making a croaking noise that sounded like the bark of a wheezy lapdog. It was most disagreeable. “Still,” she consoled herself, “the others down here look no less dreadful.”

  Worst of all was the terrible hunger Inger felt. If she could just stoop down and break off a bit of the loaf on which she was standing! Impossible—for her back had stiffened, her arms and hands had stiffened, and her entire body was like a statue made of stone. All she could do was roll her eyes, roll them right around so that she could see what was behind her, and that was truly a ghastly sight. Flies began to land on her, and they crawled back and forth across her eyes. She blinked, but the flies wouldn’t go away. They couldn’t fly away because their wings had been pulled off, and they had become creeping insects. That made Inger’s torment even worse, and, as for the pangs of hunger, it began to feel to her as if her innards were eating themselves up. She began to feel so empty inside, so terribly empty.

  “If this goes on much longer, I won’t be able to bear it,” she said, but she had to bear it, and everything just became worse than ever.

  Suddenly a hot tear fell on her forehead. It trickled down her face and chest, right down to the loaf of bread. Then another tear fell, and many more followed. Who could be weeping for little Inger? Didn’t she have a mother up there on earth? The tears of grief shed by a mother for her wayward child can always reach her, but they only burn and make the torture all the greater. And now this unbearable hunger—and the impossibility of getting even a mouthful from the loaf she had trod underfoot! She was beginning to have the feeling that everything inside her must have eaten itself up. She was like a thin, hollow reed that absorbs every sound it hears. She could hear everything said about her on earth above, and what she heard was harsh and spiteful. Her mother may have been weeping and feeling deep sorrow, but still she said: “Pride goes before a fall. That’s what led to your ruin, Inger. You have created so much sorrow for your mother!”

  Inger’s mother and everyone else up above were all aware of her sin and how she had trod upon the loaf, sunk down, and disappeared. They had learned about it from the cowherd, who had seen it for himself from the crest of a hill.

  “You have brought me so much grief, Inger,” her mother said. “Yes, I always knew it would happen.”

  “I wish I had never been born!” Inger thought. “I would have been so much better off. Mother’s tears can do me no good now.”

  Inger heard her master and mistress speaking, those good people who had been like parents to her. “She was always a sinful child,” they said. “She had no respect for the gifts of our Lord, but trampled them underfoot. It will be hard for her to squeeze through the gates of mercy.”

  “They should have done a better job raising me,” Inger thought. “They should have cured me of my bad ways, if I had any.”

  Inger heard that a ballad had been written about her—“The proud young girl who stepped on a loaf to keep her shoes clean.” It was being sung from one end of the country to the other.

  “Why should I have to suffer and be punished so severely for such a little thing?” Inger thought. “Why aren’t others punished for their sins as well? There would be so many people to punish. Oh, I am in such pain!”

  Inger’s heart became even harder than her shell-like form. “Nothing will ever improve while I’m in this company! And I don’t want to get better. Look at them all glaring at me!”

  Her heart grew even harder and was filled with hatred for all humans.

  “I dare say that they will have something to talk about now. Oh, I am in such pain!”

  And she could hear people telling her story to children as a warning, and the little ones called her Wicked Inger. “She was so horrid,” they said, “so nasty that she deserved to be punished.”

  The children had nothing but harsh words for her.

  One day, when hunger and resentment were gnawing deeply away in her hollow body, she heard her name spoken. Her story was being told to an innocent child, a small girl who burst into tears when she heard about proud Inger and her love of finery.

  “Won’t she ever come back up again?” the girl asked. And she was told: “She will never return.”

  “What if she asks for forgiveness and promises never to do it again?”

  “But she won’t ask to be forgiven,” they replied.

  “Oh, how I wish that she would!” the little girl said in great distress. “I’ll give up my doll’s house if they let her return. It’s so horrible for poor Inger!”

  These words went straight to Inger’s heart and seemed to do her good. It was the first time anyone had said “Poor Inger” without adding anything about her faults. An innocent little child had wept and prayed for her. She was so moved that she would have liked to weep as well, but the tears would not flow, and that too was torture.

  The years passed by up there, but down below nothing changed. Inger heard fewer words from above and there was less talk about her. Then one day she heard a deep sigh: “Inger, Inger, what sorrow you have brought me! I always said you would!” Those were her mother’s dying words.

  Sometimes she heard her name mentioned by her former mistress, who always spoke in the mildest way: “I wonder if I shall ever see you again, Inger. There’s no knowing where I’ll end up.” But Inger knew well enough that her honest mistress would never end up in the place where she was.

  A long time passed, slowly and bitterly. Then Inger heard her name spoken
once again, and she saw above her what looked like two bright stars shining down on her. They were two gentle eyes that were about to close on earth. So many years had passed since the time when a small girl had cried inconsolably for “Poor Inger” that the child was by now an old woman, and the good Lord was about to call her to himself. In that final hour, when all the thoughts and deeds of a lifetime pass before you, the woman recalled clearly how, as a small child, she had wept bitter tears when hearing the sad story of Inger. That moment and the sense of sorrow following it were so vivid in the old woman’s mind at the hour of her death that she cried out these heartfelt words: “Dear Lord, have I not too, like poor Inger, sometimes thoughtlessly trampled underfoot your blessings and counted them without value? Have I not also been guilty of pride and vanity in my inmost heart? And yet you, in your mercy, did not let me sink but held me up. Do not forsake me in this final hour!”

  The old woman’s eyes closed, and the eyes of her soul were opened to what had been hidden. And because Inger had been so profoundly present in her final thoughts, the old woman was actually able to see her and to understand how deeply she had sunk. At the dreadful sight of her, the saintly soul burst into tears. She stood like a child in the kingdom of heaven and wept for poor Inger. Her tears and prayers rang like an echo down into the hollow, empty shell that held an imprisoned, tormented soul. Inger was overwhelmed by all the unexpected love from above. To think that one of God’s angels would be weeping for her! How did she deserve this act of kindness? The tormented soul thought back on every deed she had performed during her life on earth and was convulsed with sobs, weeping in ways that the old Inger could never have wept. Inger was filled with sorrow for herself, and she felt certain the gates of mercy would never open for her. She was beginning to realize this with the deepest humility, when, suddenly, a brilliant ray flashed down into the bottomless pit, one more powerful than the sunbeams that melt the snowmen that boys build outdoors. And at the touch of this ray—faster than a snowflake turns into water when it lands on a child’s warm lips—Inger’s stiffened, stony figure vanished. A tiny bird soared like forked lightning up toward the world of humans.

  The bird seemed timid and afraid of everything around it, as if ashamed and wanting to avoid the sight of all living creatures. It hastened to find shelter and discovered it in the dark hole of a crumbling wall. It cowered there, and trembled all over, without uttering a sound, for it had no voice. It stayed there for a long time before it dared to peer out and take in the beauty all around. And, yes indeed, it was beautiful. The air was so fresh, the breeze gentle, and the moon was shining brightly. Among the fragrant trees and flowers, the bird was perched in a cozy spot, its feathers clean and dainty. How much love and splendor there was in all created things! The bird was eager to express in song the thoughts bursting from its heart, but it could not. It wanted to sing like the nightingale or the cuckoo in the springtime. Our Lord, who can hear even the voiceless hymn of the worm, understood the hymn of praise that swelled up in chords of thought, like the psalms that resonated in David’s heart before they took shape in words and music.

  For days and weeks, these mute songs grew stronger. Someday they would surely find a voice, perhaps with the first stroke of a wing performing a good deed. Was the time not ripe?

  The holy feast of Christmas was nigh. A farmer had put a pole up near the wall and had tied an unthreshed bundle of oats to it, so that creatures of the air might also have a merry Christmas and a cheerful meal in this season of the Savior.

  The sun rose that Christmas morning and shone down brightly upon the sheaf of oats and all the twittering birds gathered around it. A faint “tweet, tweet” sounded from the wall. The swelling thoughts had finally turned into sound, and the feeble chirp turned into a hymn of joy. The idea of a good deed had awakened, and the bird flew out from its hiding place. In heaven they knew exactly what kind of bird it was.

  Winter began in earnest; the ponds were frozen over with thick ice; and the birds and wild creatures were short of food. The tiny bird flew along country roads, and, there, in the tracks of sledges, it managed to find a grain of corn here and there, or in the best places, a few crumbs of bread. It would eat but a single grain of corn and then alert the other famished birds so that they too could find food. It also flew into the towns, inspecting the ground, and wherever a kindly hand had scattered breadcrumbs from the window for birds, it would take just a single crumb and give the rest away.

  By the end of the winter the bird had collected and given away so many crumbs that they equaled in weight the loaf upon which little Inger had trod to keep her fine shoes from being soiled. And when it had found and given away the last crumb, the bird’s gray wings turned white and spread out.

  “Look, there’s a tern flying across the lake,” the children cried out when they saw the white bird. First it dipped down into the water, then it rose into the bright sunshine. The bird’s wings glittered so brightly in the air that it was impossible to see where it was flying. They say that it flew straight into the sun.

  * * *

  †  From The Annotated Hans Christian Andersen, trans. Maria Tatar (New York: Norton, 2008), pp. 316, 318–29. Copyright © 2008 by Maria Tatar. Used by permission of W. W. Norton & Company.

  The Red Shoes†

  There was once a little girl who was delicate and pretty but so poor that she had to go barefoot all summer long. In the winter, she had to wear big wooden clogs that chafed against her ankles until they turned red. It was just dreadful.

  Old Mother Shoemaker lived right in the middle of the village. She took some old strips of red cloth and did her best to turn them into a little pair of shoes. They may have been crudely made, but she meant well, and the girl was to have them. The little girl’s name was Karen.

  On the day that her mother was buried, Karen was given the red shoes and wore them for the very first time. It’s true that they were not the proper shoes for mourning, but they were all she had, and so she put them on her bare feet, walking behind the plain coffin made of straw.

  Just then a grand old carriage passed by, and inside it sat a grand old woman. She looked at the little girl and took pity on her. And she said to the pastor: “How about giving the little girl to me? I will treat her kindly.”

  Karen thought that all this had happened because she had been wearing the red shoes, but the old woman declared that the shoes were hideous, and she had them burned. Karen was then dressed in proper new clothing. She had to learn to read and sew, and people said that she was pretty. But the mirror told her: “You are more than pretty—you’re beautiful!”

  One day the queen came traveling through the country with her little daughter, who was a princess. People were swarming around the castle, and Karen was there too. The little princess was dressed in fine white clothing and stood at the window for all to admire. She wasn’t wearing a train, and she didn’t have a golden crown on her head, but she was wearing splendid red shoes made of fine leather. Of course they were much nicer than the ones Old Mother Shoemaker had made for little Karen. There’s nothing in the world like a pair of red shoes!

  When Karen was old enough to be confirmed, she was given new clothes, and she was to have new shoes as well. A prosperous shoemaker in town measured her little feet. The shop was right in his house, and the parlor had big glass cases, with stylish shoes and shiny boots on display. Everything in them looked attractive, but since the old woman could not see well, the display gave her no pleasure. Among the many shoes was a pair of red ones that looked just like the shoes worn by the princess. They were beautiful! The shoemaker told Karen that he had made them for the daughter of a count, but that the fit had not been right.

  “They must be made of patent leather,” the old woman said. “See how they shine!”

  “Yes, they are shiny!” Karen said. And since the shoes fit, the old woman bought them, but she had no idea they were red. If she had known, she would never have let Karen wear them to be confirmed, but th
at is exactly what Karen did.

  Everyone looked at Karen’s feet when she walked down the aisle in the church toward the doorway for the choir. Even the old paintings on the crypts—the portraits of pastors and their wives wearing stiff collars and long black gowns—seemed to have their eyes fixed on her red shoes. That was all Karen could think about, even when the pastor placed his hand on her head and spoke of the holy baptism, the covenant with God, and the fact that she should now be a good Christian. The organ played solemnly, the children sang sweetly, and the old choir leader sang too, but, still, Karen could think only about her red shoes.

  By the afternoon, the old woman had heard from everyone in the parish about the red shoes. She told Karen that wearing red shoes to church was dreadful and not the least bit proper. From that day on, whenever Karen went to church, she was to wear black shoes, even if they were worn out.

  The following Sunday Karen was supposed to go to communion. She looked at her black shoes, and she looked at the red ones. And then she looked at the red ones again and put them on.

  It was a beautiful, sunny day. Karen and the old woman took the path through the cornfields, where it was rather dusty.

  At the church door they met an old soldier, who was leaning on a crutch. He had a long, odd-looking beard that was more red than white—in fact it was red. He made a deep bow, and then he asked the old woman if he could polish her shoes. Karen stretched out her little foot as well. “Just look at those beautiful dancing shoes,” the soldier said. “May they stay on tight when you dance,” and he tapped the soles of the shoes.

  The old woman gave the soldier a penny and then went into the church with Karen.

  Everyone in the church stared at Karen’s red shoes, and all the portraits stared at them too. And when Karen knelt down at the altar and put the chalice to her lips, all she could think of were her red shoes, which seemed to be floating in the chalice. She forgot to sing the hymn, and she also forgot to recite the Lord’s Prayer.