Everyone was leaving the church, and the old woman climbed into the carriage. As Karen was lifting her foot to follow her in, the old soldier standing nearby said: “Take a look at those beautiful dancing shoes!” Karen could not help herself—she just had to take a few dance steps. But once she started, her feet could not stop. It was as if the shoes had taken control. She danced around the corner of the church—she could not stop herself. The coachman had to chase after her, grab hold of her, and lift her into the carriage. But even in there her feet kept on dancing, and she gave the kind old woman a few terrible kicks. Finally they managed to get the shoes off, and her legs began to calm down.
Once they were home, the shoes were put into a cupboard, but Karen could not help going over to look at them.
Not much later, the old woman was taken ill, and it was said that she would not live long. She needed someone to take care of her and nurse her, and who better to do it than Karen?
But in town there was to be a grand ball, and Karen had been invited. She looked at the old woman, who didn’t, after all, have much longer to live. Then she looked at the red shoes, for there was no harm in that. She put them on, for there was no harm in that either. Then she left for the ball and began dancing.
When Karen turned to the right, the shoes turned left. When she wanted to dance up the ballroom floor, the shoes danced down the floor. They danced down the stairs, into the street, and out through the town gate. Dance she did, and dance she must, right out into the dark forest.
Something was shining brightly above the trees, and Karen thought it must be the moon, because it resembled a face, but it turned out to be the old soldier with the red beard. He nodded and said: “Take a look at those beautiful dancing shoes!”
Karen was horrified and tried to take the shoes off, but they wouldn’t come off. She tore off her stockings, but the shoes had grown onto her feet. And dance she did, for dance she must, over hill and dale, rain or shine, night and day. Nighttime was the most terrible time of all.
Karen danced into the open churchyard, but the dead did not join in her dance. They had better things to do than dance. She wanted to sit down on a pauper’s grave, where bitter tansy weed grows, but there was no rest or peace for her there. When she danced toward the open church door, she realized that it was guarded by an angel in long white robes, with wings that reached from his shoulders down to the ground. His expression was stern and solemn, and in his hand he held a broad, gleaming sword.
“Dance you shall!” he said to her. “Dance in your red shoes until you turn pale and cold, and your skin shrivels up like a mummy. Dance you shall from door to door, and wherever you find children who are proud and vain, you will knock on the door so that they will hear you and fear you! Dance you shall! Dance!”
“Have mercy!” Karen shouted. But she did not hear the angel’s reply, for the shoes were already carrying her through the gate, along highways and byways, and she had to keep on dancing.
One morning, she danced past a door she knew well. Inside you could hear a hymn, and then a coffin covered with flowers was carried out. Karen knew that the old woman must have died. Now she was all alone in the world and cursed by the angel of God.
Dance she did and dance she must, dance through the dark night. Her shoes took her through thickets with briars that scratched her until she bled. She danced across the heath until she reached a lonely little house. She knew that this was the home of the executioner, and she tapped on the window with her finger and said: “Come outside! Come outside! I can’t come in because I’m dancing!”
The executioner said: “You don’t know who I am, do you? I chop off the heads of evil people, and I can feel that my ax is getting impatient.”
“Don’t chop my head off!” Karen cried. “If you do, I won’t be able to repent. But go ahead and chop the red shoes off my feet.”
Karen confessed her sins, and the executioner chopped off the feet in those red shoes. And the shoes danced across the fields and into the deep forest, with the feet still in them.
The executioner made wooden feet and crutches for her. He taught her a hymn that was sung by sinners. Then she kissed the hand that had wielded the ax, and off she went across the heath.
“I have suffered long enough because of those red shoes,” she said. “It’s time to go to church and let everyone see me.” She hobbled over as fast as she could to the church door, and, when she got there, the red shoes were dancing in front of her. Horrified, she turned back.
All week long she was miserable and wept many bitter tears. When Sunday came, she said: “I have suffered and struggled long enough. I have a feeling that I am just as good as many of the people sitting in church and holding their heads high.” She set out confidently, but when she reached the gate she saw the red shoes dancing in front of her. She turned away horrified and, this time, repented her sins with all her heart.
Karen went over to the parsonage and asked if she might be taken into service there. She promised to work hard and to do everything asked of her. Wages were of no interest to her. All she needed was a roof over her head and the chance to stay with good people. The parson’s wife took pity on her and hired her. Karen was thoughtful and hardworking. In the evening, she would sit quietly and listen to the parson as he read from the Bible. The children were all fond of her, but whenever they talked about dressing up in frills and finery and looking as beautiful as a queen, she would shake her head.
The next Sunday they all went to church and asked if she wanted to join them. Tears came to her eyes as she looked with sorrow over at her crutches. The others went to hear the word of God while she retreated to her lonely little room, just big enough to hold a bed and a chair. She sat down with her hymnal and was reading it devoutly when the wind carried the sounds of the organ from the church to her. She raised her tear-stained face upward and said: “Help me, O Lord!”
The sun began to shine brightly, and an angel in white robes—the one that she had seen at night in the church doorway—appeared before her. Where he had once held a sword with a sharp blade he now had a beautiful green branch covered with roses. He touched the ceiling with the branch, and it rose high up into the air. A golden star was shining on the spot he had touched. Then he touched the walls, and they moved outward and away. Karen looked at the organ and heard it playing. She saw the portraits of the pastors and their wives. The congregation was seated in carved pews and singing from hymnals.
The church itself had come to the poor girl in her tiny crowded room, or perhaps she had gone to the church. She was sitting in a pew with others from the parsonage. When they finished the hymn, they looked up, nodded in her direction, and said: “It was right for you to come, Karen.”
“I’m here by the grace of God,” she replied.
The organ swelled, and the children in the choir lifted their voices in soft and beautiful sounds. Bright, warm sunshine flooded through the window into the church pew where Karen was seated. Her heart was so filled with sunshine, and with peace and joy, that it burst. Her soul flew on the rays of the sun up to God, and no one there asked her about the red shoes.
* * *
† From The Annotated Hans Christian Andersen, trans. Maria Tatar (New York: Norton, 2008), pp. 252, 254, 256–62. Copyright © 2008 by Maria Tatar. Used by permission of W. W. Norton & Company.
The Emperor’s New Clothes†
Many years ago there lived an Emperor who cared so much about beautiful new clothes that he spent all his money on dressing stylishly. He took no interest at all in his soldiers, nor did he care to attend the theater or go out for a drive, unless of course it gave him a chance to show off his new clothes. He had a different outfit for every hour of the day and, just as you usually say that kings are sitting in council, it was always said of him: “The Emperor is in his dressing room right now.”
In the big city where the Emperor lived, there were many distractions. Strangers came and went all the time, and one day two swindlers appeared. T
hey claimed to be weavers and said that they knew how to weave the loveliest cloth you could imagine. Not only were the colors and designs they created unusually beautiful, but the clothes made from their fabrics also had the amazing ability of becoming invisible to those who were unfit for their posts or just hopelessly stupid.
“Those must be lovely clothes!” thought the Emperor. “If I wore something like that, I could tell which men in my kingdom were unfit for their posts, and I would also be able to tell the smart ones from the stupid ones. Yes, I must have some of that fabric woven for me at once.” And he paid the swindlers a large sum of money so that they could get started at once.
The swindlers assembled a couple of looms and pretended to be working, but there was nothing at all on their looms. Straightaway they demanded the finest silk and the purest gold thread, which they promptly stowed away in their own bags. Then they worked far into the night on their empty looms.
“Well, now, I wonder how the weavers are getting on with their work,” the Emperor thought. But he was beginning to feel some anxiety about the fact that anyone who was stupid or unfit for his post would not be able to see what was being woven. Not that he had any fears about himself—he felt quite confident on that score—but all the same it might be better to send someone else out first, to see how things were progressing. Everyone in town had heard about the cloth’s mysterious power, and they were all eager to discover the incompetence or stupidity of their neighbors.
“I will send my honest old minister to the weavers,” the Emperor thought. “He’s the best person to inspect the cloth, for he has plenty of good sense, and no one is better qualified for his post than he is.”
So off went the good-natured old minister to the workshop where the two swindlers were laboring with all their might at the empty looms. “God save us!” thought the minister, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Why, I can’t see thing!” But he was careful not to say that out loud.
The two swindlers invited him to take a closer look—didn’t he find the pattern beautiful and the colors lovely? They gestured at the empty frames, but no matter how widely he opened his eyes, he couldn’t see a thing, for there was nothing there. “Good Lord!” he thought. “Is it possible that I’m an idiot? I never once suspected it, and I mustn’t let on that it is a possibility. Can it be that I’m unfit for my post? No, it will never do for me to admit that I can’t see the cloth.”
“Well, why aren’t you saying anything about it?” asked one of the swindlers, who was pretending to be weaving.
“Oh, it’s enchanting! Quite exquisite!” the old minister said, peering over his spectacles. “That pattern and those colors! I shall tell the Emperor right away how much I like it.”
“Ah, we are so glad that you like it,” the weavers replied, and they described the colors and extraordinary patterns in detail. The old minister listened attentively so that he would be able to repeat their description to the Emperor when he returned home—which he duly did.
The swindlers demanded more money, more silk, and more gold thread, which they insisted they needed to keep weaving. They stuffed it all in their own pockets—not a thread was put on the loom—while they went on weaving at the empty frames as before.
After a while, the Emperor sent a second respected official to see how the weaving was progressing and to find out when the cloth would be ready. What had happened to the first minister also happened to him. He looked as hard as he could, but since there was nothing there but an empty loom, he couldn’t see a thing.
“There, isn’t this a beautiful piece of cloth!” the swindlers declared, as they described the lovely design that didn’t exist at all.
“I’m not stupid,” thought the man. “This can only mean that I’m not fit for my position. That would be ridiculous, so I’d better not let on.” And so he praised the cloth he could not see and declared that he was delighted with its beautiful hues and lovely patterns. “Yes, it’s quite exquisite,” he said to the Emperor.
The splendid fabric soon became the talk of the town.
And now the Emperor wanted to see the cloth for himself while it was still on the loom. Accompanied by a select group of people, including the two stately old officials who had already been there, he went to visit the crafty swindlers, who were weaving for all they were worth without using a bit of yarn or thread.
“Look, isn’t it magnifique?” the two venerable officials exclaimed. “If Your Majesty will but take a look. What a design! What colors!” And they pointed at the empty loom, feeling sure that all the others could see the cloth.
“What on earth!” thought the Emperor. “I can’t see a thing! This is appalling! Am I stupid? Am I unfit to be Emperor? This is the most horrible thing I can imagine happening to me!”
“Oh, it’s very beautiful!” the Emperor said. “It has our most gracious approval.” And he gave a satisfied nod as he inspected the empty loom. He wasn’t about to say that he couldn’t see a thing. The courtiers who had come with him strained their eyes, but they couldn’t see any more than the others. Still, they all said exactly what the Emperor had said: “Oh, it’s very beautiful!” They advised him to wear his splendid new clothes for the first time in the grand parade that was about to take place. “It’s magnifique!” “Exquisite!” “Superb!”—that’s what you heard over and over again. Everyone was really pleased with the weaving. The Emperor knighted each of the two swindlers and gave them medals to wear in their buttonholes, along with the title Imperial Weaver.
On the eve of the parade, the rogues sat up all night with more than sixteen candles burning. Everyone could see how busy they were finishing the Emperor’s new clothes. They pretended to remove the cloth from the loom; they cut the air with big scissors; and they sewed with needles that had no thread. Then at last they announced: “There! The Emperor’s clothes are ready at last!”
The Emperor, with his most distinguished courtiers, went in person to the weavers, who each stretched out an arm as if holding something up and said: “Just look at these trousers! Here is the jacket! This is the cloak.” And so on. “They are all as light as spiderwebs. You can hardly tell you are wearing anything—that’s the virtue of this delicate cloth.”
“Yes, indeed,” the courtiers declared. But they were unable to see a thing, for there was absolutely nothing there.
“Now, would it please His Imperial Majesty to remove his clothes?” asked the swindlers. “Then we can fit you with the new ones, over there in front of the long mirror.”
And so the Emperor took off the clothes he was wearing, and the swindlers pretended to hand him each of the new garments they claimed to have made, and they held him at the waist as if they were attaching something … it was his train. And the Emperor twisted and turned in front of the mirror.
“Goodness! How splendid His Majesty looks in the new clothes. What a perfect fit!” they all exclaimed. “What patterns! What colors! What priceless attire!”
The master of ceremonies came in with an announcement. “The canopy for the parade is ready and waiting for Your Majesty.”
“I am quite ready,” said the Emperor. “The clothes suit me well, don’t they!” And he turned around one last time in front of the mirror, trying to look as if he were examining his fine new clothing.
The chamberlains who were supposed to carry the train groped around on the floor as if they were picking it up. As they walked, they held out their hands, not daring to let on that they couldn’t see anything.
The Emperor marched in the parade under the lovely canopy, and everyone in the streets and at the windows said: “Goodness! The Emperor’s new clothes are the finest he has ever worn. What a lovely train on his coat! What a perfect fit!” People were not willing to let on that there was nothing at all to see, because that would have meant they were either unfit for their posts or very stupid. Never had the Emperor’s clothes made such a great impression.
“But he isn’t wearing anything at all!” a little child dec
lared.
“Goodness gracious! Did you hear the voice of that innocent child!” cried the father. And the child’s remark was whispered from one person to the next.
“Yes, he isn’t wearing anything at all!” the crowd shouted at last. And the Emperor cringed, for he was beginning to suspect that everyone was right. But then he realized: “I must go through with it now, parade and all.” And he drew himself up even more proudly than before, while his chamberlains walked behind him carrying the train that was not there at all.
* * *
† From The Annotated Hans Christian Andersen, ed. Maria Tatar (New York: Norton, 2008), pp. 5–6, 8–10, 13. Copyright © 2008 by Maria Tatar. Used by permission of W. W. Norton & Company.
The Nightingale†
In China, as you may know, the Emperor is Chinese, and everyone there is also Chinese. This story took place many years ago, but that’s exactly why you should listen to it, before it’s forgotten.
The Emperor’s palace was the most magnificent in the world. It was made entirely of fine porcelain, so costly and delicate that you had to be careful when you touched it. In the garden you could find the most wondrous flowers. The most splendid among the flowers were trimmed with little silver bells that jingled, and you couldn’t walk by without noticing them. Yes, everything was arranged quite artfully in the Emperor’s garden, which stretched so far back that even the gardener could not say where it ended. If you kept on walking, you reached the loveliest forest with tall trees and deep lakes. The forest stretched all the way out to the deep, blue sea. Tall ships sailed right under the branches of the trees. In those branches lived a nightingale whose song was so enchanting that even a poor fisherman, who had many chores before him, would pause when taking his nets in at night to listen. “My God! That’s really beautiful,” he would say. But then he would return to his chores and forget all about the bird’s song. The next evening, when the fisherman was back at work, the bird would start singing again, and he would say the same thing: “My God! That’s really beautiful.”
The Classic Fairy Tales_Norton Critical Edition Page 47