“Yes, he’s first among our book publishers,” the man said. So the conversation went pretty well. One of the citizens talked about the terrible pestilence that had raged a couple of years before, meaning the one in 1484. The councilman thought he was talking about the cholera epidemic9 so the discussion went swimmingly. The Freebooters War of 1490 was so recent that it had to be mentioned. The English buccaneers had taken ships right in the harbor, they said, and the councilman, who was well versed on the events of 1801, blasted the English with relish. But the rest of the conversation didn’t go as well. There was very often a mutual incomprehensibility. The good scholar was much too ignorant, and the councilman’s most simple utterances struck him as being too audacious and fantastic. They looked at each other, and if it got too bad, the scholar spoke Latin because he thought he would be better understood, but it didn’t help at all.
“How are you doing?” asked the hostess, who pulled at the councilman’s arm. Then he came to his senses because, when he was talking, he had forgotten everything that had happened before.
“Dear God, where am I?” he said and felt dizzy at the thought.
“We’re going to drink claret! Mead and German beer!” yelled one of the men, “and you’ll drink with us!”
Two maids came in. One had two colors in her cap,10 and they poured and curtsied. The judge felt a shiver go down his spine.
“What is this? What is happening?!” he said, but he had to drink with them. They set to work on the poor man, and he was quite disconsolate. When one of them said that he was drunk, he didn’t doubt the man at all. He just asked them to call him a cab, a drosche, and then they thought that he was speaking Russian.
He had never been in such raw and simple company. You would think the country had fallen back into paganism. “This is the worst moment in my life!” he thought, but at the same time he got the idea that he could slip down under the table, crawl over to the door, and slip out. But when he reached the entrance, the others noticed what he was doing and grabbed him by the legs. Then, luckily for him, the galoshes slipped off, and with them, all the magic.
The councilman saw quite distinctly a clear light burning in front of him, and behind it was a large property. He recognized it and the property next to it. They were on East Street, such as we all know it. He headed for a gate, and next to it the watchman sat sleeping.
“Good God! Have I been lying here on the street dreaming?” he asked. “Of course, this is East Street, with its blessed light and color. It’s simply dreadful how that glass of punch affected me!”
Two minutes later he was sitting in a cab on his way to Christian’s Harbor. He thought about the fear and distress he had overcome and praised with all his heart the reality of our own time with all its defects, still so much better than where he had just been. And that was sensible of the councilman, of course.
3. THE WATCHMAN’S ADVENTURE
“Hm, there’s actually a pair of galoshes lying there!” said the watchman. “They must belong to the lieutenant who lives up above there. They’re lying right by the gate.”
The honest fellow would have rung the bell right away and delivered them since the lights were still on, but since he didn’t want to waken the others in the house he didn’t do it.
“It must be pretty comfortable to walk around with those things on,” he thought. “They are such soft leather.” They fit beautifully. “How strange the world is! The lieutenant could go to his warm bed, but he doesn’t do that; he’s pacing about. He’s a happy fellow, has neither a wife nor children, and goes to parties every night. I wish I were him, I’d be a happy man then!”
As he said that, the galoshes worked their magic. The watchman passed into the lieutenant’s person and thoughts. There he stood, up in the lieutenant’s room, holding between his fingers a little pink piece of paper with a poem on it, written by the lieutenant himself, for who has not at one time or another been inspired to write poetry? And if you write down the thoughts, then the poem is there. On the paper was written:
“I wish I were rich!”
“I wish I were rich!” That was my song
When I was barely a meter long.
“I wish I were rich. ” I joined the army,
Had a uniform, cap and saber on me.
With time a lieutenant I came to be.
But sorry to say nothing could I afford—
Help me Lord!
One eve as I sat young and gay,
A young girl kissed my lips to repay.
Rich in stories and tales I was willing,
Although in money I hadn’t a shilling.
But the child thought the stories were thrilling.
Rich I was then, but not in gold’s hoard—
Knows the Lord!
“I wish I were rich, ” still to God I pray.
That young girl is all grown up today.
So lovely, so clever and so good,
If she my heart’s story understood,
If she to me now would be as good—
Too poor to speak, silence I hoard—
So wills the Lord!
Oh were I rich in faith, my soul at rest,
My sorrow wouldn’t herein be expressed.
You whom I love, if me you understand,
Read this as a missive from a youthful hand.
It would be best you do not understand.
For I am poor, my future dark, abhorred—
But bless you will the Lord!
Yes, you write these kinds of lines when you’re in love, but a sensible man wouldn’t have them printed. A lieutenant, love and poverty: that’s a triangle, or just as good, you can say it’s the broken half of the square of happiness. The lieutenant felt that way, and that’s why he leaned his head against the windowsill and sighed deeply:
“That poor watchman out on the street is far happier than I am! He doesn’t want for anything. He has a home, a wife, and children, who cry with him in sorrow and are happy with his joys. If I were more fortunate than I am, I could trade places with him, because he is happier than I am.”
At that moment the watchman became the watchman again since it was through the magic galoshes that he had become the lieutenant. As we have seen, he felt much less satisfied, and wanted to be what he really was. So the watchman was the watchman again.
“That was a bad dream,” he said, “but diverting too. I thought I was the lieutenant up there, and it wasn’t fun at all. I missed my wife and the kids, who are always ready to smother me with kisses.”
He sat down again and nodded off. The dream wasn’t completely out of his mind. He was still wearing the galoshes. A falling star flew across the sky.
“There one fell!” he said, “but there are enough of them anyway. I would like to see those things closer up, especially the moon because then it wouldn’t disappear between two hands. The student that my wife washes for says that when we die, we fly from star to star. That’s a lie, but it would be rather fun anyway. I wish I could just make a little jump up there, and my body could just stay here on the steps.”
Yes, you write these kinds of lines when you’re in love.
You see, there are certain things in the world you have to be very careful in saying, but you should be even more careful when you are wearing the magic galoshes on your feet. Just listen to what happened to the watchman!
So far as we people are concerned, almost all of us know the speed of steam travel. We’ve tried it either on the railroad, or on a ship at sea. But even this pace is like the creeping of the sloth or the march of the snail compared to the speed of light. It flies nineteen million times faster than the best racer, but electricity is even faster. Death is an electric shock to the heart, and our released souls fly to heaven on the wings of electricity. Sunlight takes eight minutes and some seconds to travel a distance of over ninety-three million miles. With the speed of electricity, the soul needs fewer minutes to cover the same distance. For the soul the distance between worlds is no more tha
n that between our friends’ houses in the same town is for us, even if these are pretty close to each other. But this electric shock to the heart costs us our bodies, unless we are, like the watchman, wearing the magic galoshes.
Within a few seconds, the watchman had traveled the nearly 240,000 miles to the moon, which is, as you know, made of a material much lighter than our soil and as soft as newly fallen snow. He found himself on one of the innumerable craters that we know from Dr. Madler’s big moon map.11 You’re familiar with that, of course? On the interior the crater sides went steeply down like a pot for a whole Danish mile, and down there on the bottom was a town that looked like an egg white in a glass of water—just as soft and with the same kind of towers, domes and sail-shaped balconies, transparent and swaying in the thin air. Our world was hovering like a big fire-red ball above his head.
There were a lot of creatures, and all of them, I guess, what we would call human, but they looked a lot different than us. They also had a language, and no one could expect that the watchman’s soul could understand that, but nevertheless he could.
The watchman’s soul understood the residents of the moon very well. They were arguing about our world and doubted that it was inhabited. The air would have to be too thick for any reasonable moonie to live in. They thought that only the moon had living creatures, and that the moon was the original world where life originated.
But let’s go back down to East Street and see how the watchman’s body is getting along.
It was sitting lifeless on the steps. The night stick had fallen out of its hand, and the eyes were looking up at the moon towards the soul that was wandering around up there.
“What’s the time, watchman?” someone asked as he walked by. But the watchman didn’t answer. Then the man snapped his fingers slowly at the watchman’s nose, and the body lost its balance and lay there stretched out—the watchman was dead, after all. The fellow who had snapped his fingers was very upset, but the watchman was dead and stayed dead. The death was reported and discussed, and during the morning the body was carried to the hospital.
Now it would have been a nice kettle of fish for the soul if it had come back and most likely had looked for its body on East Street, but couldn’t find it. It would probably first run up to the police department, then to the Census Bureau so it could be looked for in lost-and-found, then finally to the hospital. But we can take comfort that the soul is most clever when it’s on its own. The body only dumbs it down.
As mentioned, the watchman’s body came to the hospital where it was brought into the morgue. Of course, the first thing they did was take off the galoshes so then the soul had to get back right away. It made a beeline for the body, and suddenly the man was alive again. He insisted that it had been the worst night of his life. He wouldn’t experience such sensations again for neither love nor money, but now it was over.
He was released the same day, but the galoshes remained at the hospital.
4. A HEADY MOMENT. A RECITAL. A MOST UNUSUAL TRIP.
Every resident of Copenhagen knows what the entrance to Frederiks Hospital in Copenhagen looks like, but since it’s likely that some non-residents also are reading this story, we must give a brief description.
The hospital is separated from the street by quite a tall grate, but the thick iron bars are far enough apart so that it’s said that very thin interns were able to squeeze through and in that way make little excursions outside. The part of the body that was most difficult to press through was the head. Here, as often in the world, those with the smallest heads were often the most fortunate. That’s enough of an introduction.
One of the young residents, who was pretty thick-headed in the purely physical sense, was on duty this particular evening. There was pouring rain, but despite these two obstacles, he had to get out for only fifteen minutes. He didn’t think it was anything worth mentioning to the gatekeeper since he could just squeeze through the bars. The galoshes that the watchman had forgotten were lying there, and it didn’t occur to him that they could be Good Fortune’s galoshes; he just thought they would be nice to have in this terrible weather. He put them on—now to see if he could squeeze himself through. He had never tried it before. He stood in front of the bars.
“I wish to God I had my head through,” he said, and right away, although it was very big and thick, it slid through easily, thanks to the galoshes. The body had to follow, but there he stood.
“Ugh, I’m too fat!” he said. “I would have thought my head would have been the hardest, but I can’t get through.”
He quickly tried to pull his head back, but it wouldn’t go. He could only manage to move his neck, but that was all. First he got angry, and then his spirits sank to below zero. The magic galoshes had brought him to this most dreadful position, but unfortunately it didn’t occur to him to wish himself free. No, he struggled but couldn’t budge from the spot. The rain was pouring down, and there wasn’t a soul to be seen on the street. He couldn’t reach the bell so how was he going to get loose? He foresaw that he might have to stay there until morning, and then they would have to get a smithy to saw through the bars. That would take a while. All the boys from the elementary school across the street would come to watch, and all the residents of the neighborhood would see him standing there in pillory. There would be large crowds, more than saw the giant agave12 last year. “Oh, the blood is rushing to my head, I’m going crazy!—Yes, I’m going crazy! Oh, I wish I were free again, then it would be all right.”
See, he should have said that a little sooner. As soon as he thought it, his head was free, and he rushed inside, very confused about the fright he had gotten from the magic galoshes.
We mustn’t think that it’s all over. Oh no, it gets worse.
The night passed, and also the following day, but no one called for the galoshes.
There was going to be a performance at the little theater in Canon Street that evening. The place was packed, and between the recital numbers a new poem was recited. We should hear it. The title was:
GRANDMA’S GLASSES
My Grandmother’s wisdom is popular lore,
She’d be burned at the stake in times of yore.
She knows all that occurs and even more,
Can see future events, that is for sure.
The following decades she can see
But she wouldn’t reveal her secrets to me.
What’ll happen next year? What wonders great?
Yes, I would gladly see my own fate!
My fate, the arts, the country and empire,
But Grandmother wouldn’t let me inquire.
I pestered then and it went very well,
First silence, and then she gave me hell.
Lectured me up and down, and yet
There is no doubt that I am her pet!
“For once, your wishes I’ll grant, ” she said
And she gave me the glasses from her head.
“Now hurry out and choose a place
Where flocks of people sit or pace,
Stand where you can see what passes
And look at the masses through my glasses.
Trust my word on this, you’ll at once be able
To see the crowd like cards on a table.
And from these cards you can foresee
The future that is meant to be. ”
“Thanks, ” I said and ran to see,
But then, where would most people be?
On Long Line? There one catches cold.
On East Street ? Bah! Dirt, filth and mold!
But in the theater? Ah, that’d be dandy,
Tonight’s entertainment was so handy-
Here I am, then! Myself I’ll introduce,
Permit me Grandma’s glasses to produce,
So I can see—No, don’t go away!
To see, if a playing card display
Truly can predict what Time will make.
Your silence for a “Yes” I’ll take;
For thanks, yo
u’ll be confirmed into the group,
All together here within the troupe.
I’ll predict for you, for me, for country and more,
And we’ll see what the cards can have in store.
(And then he put the glasses on.)
Yes, that’s right! Now I laugh! Hee hee,
Oh, if you could just come up and see!
Where here are many manly cards,
And a whole row of Queens of Hearts.
The black ones there—clubs, spades too,
Now soon I’ll have a perfect view.
The Queen of Spades with intense attack
Has turned her thoughts to Diamond Jack.
Oh yes, this view’s making me quite drunk
There’s lots of money in here sunk,
And strangers from afar return—
But that’s not what we want to learn.
Politicians? Let’s see! Yes, The Times!
We’ll read it later, save our dimes.
Slander now would harm the paper’s fate,
Let’s not take the best bone from the plate.
The theater then ? What news ? tone and taste?
The good graces of the director I can’t waste.
My own future? Yes, you know, one’s fate,
Lays on our hearts a heavy weight.
I see!—I cannot say just what I see,
But you will hear it immediately.
Who is the happiest in our sphere?
The happiest ? Easily I’ll find him here.
It is, of course,—No, that will disconcert,
And many surely will be hurt!
Who’ll live the longest? The lady there? That man?
No, revealing that is a worser plan!
About—? Yes, in the end, I myself don’t know; when,
Being shy and so embarrassed, it’s easy to offend.
Now I would know what you believe and think
I should with seer’s power offer you to drink?
You think? No, beg pardon, what?
Fairy Tales of Hans Christian Andersen Page 28