“Kai, what are you doing!” cried the little girl, and when he saw her alarm, he tore another rose off and ran through his window away from dear little Gerda.
When she came later with the picture book, he said it was for babies, and if Grandmother told stories, he always had a but-whenever he could he would walk behind her, put on glasses, and talk like her. It was a good imitation, and people laughed at him. Soon he was able to mimic the speech and walk of all the people in the street. Everything that was peculiar to them and unattractive, he was able to mimic, and people said, “That boy’s got a good head on him,” but it was because of the glass he had gotten in his eye, the glass that sat in his heart, and that was why he also made fun of little Gerda, who loved him with all her soul.
His games were now quite different than before. They were so rational. One winter day when the snowflakes were drifting around, he came with a big magnifying glass, held out the blue tail of his jacket and let the snowflakes fall on it.
“Look through the glass, Gerda,” he said, and every snowflake looked much bigger and looked like a magnificent flower or a ten pointed star. It was lovely to see.
“Do you see how intricate they are?” Kai asked, “It’s much more interesting than with real flowers! And they have no flaws at all. They’re quite perfect, if they just don’t melt.”
A little later Kai came wearing big gloves with his sled on his back, and he yelled right into Gerda’s ears: “I’m allowed to go sledding in the big square where the others play,” and off he ran.
In the square the boldest boys often tied their sleds to the farmer’s wagon and rode a good distance with it. It was the greatest fun. As they were playing, a big sleigh arrived. It was painted all white, and there was someone sitting in it wrapped in a wooly white fur and with a white wooly hat. The sleigh drove around the square twice, and Kai quickly got his little sled tied to it, and rode along. It went faster and faster, right into the next street. The one who was driving turned its head and nodded in such a friendly way to Kai; it was as if they knew each other. Every time Kai wanted to loosen his sled, the person nodded again, and so Kai stayed. They drove right out of the city gates. Then the snow started falling so hard that the little boy couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, but he rushed along. He quickly dropped the rope to get loose from the big sleigh, but it didn’t help; his little sled was stuck, and they rushed on as fast as the wind. He cried out loudly then, but no one heard him, and the snow drifted around, and the sleigh rushed on. Every now and then it gave a leap, and it was as if it rushed over furrows and fences. He was very scared and wanted to say the Lord’s Prayer, but he could only remember the multiplication tables.
The snow flakes became bigger and bigger; finally they looked like big white hens. Then they fell to the side, the big sleigh stopped, and the person driving it stood up. The coat and hat were made of snow. It was a woman, so tall and dignified, so shining white—it was the Snow Queen.
“We’re making good time,” she said, “but you’re freezing. Creep into my bearskin fur,” and she placed him in the sleigh with her, put the fur around him, and it was as if he sank into a snowdrift.
“Are you still cold?” she asked and then she kissed him on the forehead. Oh, it was colder than ice. It went right into his heart, which of course was partly a clump of ice. He felt like he was going to die—but only for a moment, then it felt good, and he didn’t notice the cold around him anymore.
“My sled! Don’t forget my sled!” was the first thing he thought of, and it was tied to one of the white hens, that flew after them with the sled on its back. The Snow Queen kissed Kai one more time, and by then he had forgotten little Gerda and Grandmother and all of them at home.
“Now you can’t have more kisses,” she said, “otherwise I’d kiss you to death!”
Kai looked at her. She was so beautiful, a wiser more lovely face he couldn’t imagine. She didn’t seem to be ice, like the time she sat outside his window and waved at him. To his eyes she was perfect, and he didn’t feel at all afraid. He told her that he could do math in his head, with fractions, knew the areas of countries, and how many inhabitants they had. She kept smiling at him, and then he felt that what he knew wasn’t enough. He looked up into the great high sky and she flew with him, flew high up to the black cloud, and the storm whistled and whined as if it were singing centuries-old songs. They flew over forests and lakes, over oceans and land. Under them roared the cold wind, the wolves howled, and black screaming crows flew over the sparkling snow. But above them the huge moon shone brightly, and Kai watched it the whole long, long winter night. In the daytime he slept by the Snow Queen’s feet.
Kai and the Snow Queen.
THIRD STORY
THE FLOWER GARDEN OF THE WOMAN WHO KNEW MAGIC
But how was little Gerda getting along now that Kai wasn’t there anymore? Where was he anyway?—No one knew, no one could tell. The boys could only tell that they had seen him tie his little sled to a magnificent big one that drove into the street and out the city gates. No one knew where he was. Many tears were shed, and little Gerda cried her eyes out. Then they said he was dead, drowned in the river that ran close by the city. Oh, what long dark winter days these were!
Then spring came with warmer sunshine.
“Kai is dead and gone,” little Gerda said.
“I don’t believe it,” said the sunshine.
“He’s dead and gone,” she said to the swallows.
“I don’t believe it,” they answered, and finally little Gerda didn’t believe it either.
“I’ll put on my new red shoes,” she said one morning, “the ones Kai has never seen, and go down to the river and ask about him.”
It was early. She kissed her old Grandmother, who was sleeping, put on her red shoes, and went by herself out of the gate to the river.
“Is it true that you’ve taken my little playmate? I’ll give you my red shoes if you’ll give him back to me!”
And she thought the waves nodded so strangely, so she took her red shoes, her most prized possession, and threw them out into the river, but they fell close by the bank, and the little waves brought them right back to her. It was as if the river didn’t want to take the dearest thing she had since it didn’t have little Kai. But she thought that she hadn’t thrown them out far enough so she climbed into a boat that lay in the rushes. She went to the farthest end of the boat and threw the shoes, but the boat was not tied firmly, and the motion she made caused it to glide away from shore. She noticed it and hurried to get out, but before she could, the boat was over a yard away from land and was moving more quickly still.
Little Gerda became very frightened and started to cry, but no one heard her except the little grey sparrows, and they couldn’t carry her to land. But they flew along the bank and sang as if to console her, “Here we are! Here we are!” The boat flowed with the current. Little Gerda sat quite still in her stocking feet. Her little red shoes were floating behind, but they couldn’t reach the boat, which was moving faster.
It was lovely along the banks, with beautiful flowers, old trees and slopes with sheep and cows, but there was not a person to be seen.
“Maybe the river will carry me to little Kai,” and that thought cheered her up. So Gerda stood up and looked for many hours at the lovely green banks. Then she came to a big cherry orchard where there was a little house with strange red and blue windows, a straw roof, and two wooden soldiers who saluted all who passed by.
Gerda called to them because she thought they were real, but of course they didn’t answer. She came quite close to them for the river was pushing the boat towards shore. Gerda shouted even louder and then an old, old woman came out of the house. She was leaning on a crooked cane, and she wore a big sun hat decorated with the most beautiful flowers.
“You poor little child,” said the old woman, “how did you get out there in that strong current, pulled along into the wide world?” and the old woman walked out into the water, hoo
ked the boat with her cane, pulled it ashore, and lifted little Gerda out.
“How did you get out there in that strong current, pulled along into the wide world?”
Gerda was glad to be on solid ground again, but a little bit afraid of the strange old woman.
“Come and tell me who you are, and how you got here,” she said.
And Gerda told her everything, and the old one shook her head and said, “Hm, hm.” When Gerda had told her everything, and asked her if she had seen little Kai, the woman said that he had not passed by, but he would surely come. Gerda shouldn’t be sad, but taste her cherries and look at her flowers, they were more beautiful than any picture book; each of them could tell a whole story. Then she took Gerda by the hand, and they went into the little house, and the old woman locked the door.
The windows were very high up, and the glass was red, blue, and yellow. The day light shone in so strangely with all the colors, but on the table stood the most lovely cherries, and Gerda ate as many as she wanted because she wasn’t afraid to do that. While she ate, the old woman combed her hair with a gold comb, and the hair curled and shone beautifully around the friendly little face that was so round and looked like a rose.
“I have really longed for such a sweet little girl,” said the old woman. “You’ll see, we’ll get along nicely together.” And as she was combing her hair, Gerda forgot more and more about her foster-brother Kai because the old woman could do magic, but she wasn’t an evil troll at all. She just did a little magic for her own pleasure, and now she wanted to keep little Gerda. So she went out into the garden, stretched her crooked cane out towards all the rose trees, and with their lovely blooms they sank down into the black earth, and you couldn’t see where they had been. The old woman was afraid that if Gerda saw the roses, she would think of her own roses, remember little Kai, and then run away.
She led Gerda out into the garden.—Oh, what scents and sights! All imaginable flowers, for every season, stood here in magnificent bloom. No picture book could be more colorful or beautiful. Gerda jumped with joy and played until the sun went down behind the big cherry trees. Then she was given a lovely bed with red silk comforters, filled with blue violets, and she slept and dreamed as beautifully as any queen on her wedding day.
The next day she played again with the flowers in the warm sunshine—and so passed many days. Gerda knew each flower, but despite how many there were, she seemed to feel that one was missing, but she didn’t know which one. Then one day she sat and looked at the old woman’s sun hat with the painted flowers, and the most beautiful one was a rose. The old woman had forgotten to remove it from the hat, when she conjured the others into the ground. But that’s what it’s like to be absent-minded ! “What!” said Gerda, “There aren’t any roses here!” and she ran through the flower beds, looked and looked, but there were none to be found. Then she sat down and cried, but her hot tears fell just where a rose tree had sunk, and when the warm tears watered the earth, the tree shot up at once, as full of blooms as when it sank, and Gerda embraced it, kissed the roses, and thought about the beautiful roses at home and with them of little Kai.
“Oh, I’ve been delayed too long!” said the little girl. “I was going to find Kai!—Don’t you know where he is?” she asked the roses. “Do you think he’s dead and gone?”
“Dead he’s not,” said the roses. “We’ve been in the earth where you can find the dead, and Kai wasn’t there.”
“Oh, thank you!” little Gerda said, and she went to the other flowers and looked into their cups and asked, “Don’t you know where little Kai is?”
But every flower stood in the sunlight and dreamed its own adventure or story, and Gerda heard so many of them, but no one knew anything about Kai.
And what did the tiger lily say?
“Do you hear the drum: boom boom! There are only two tones, always boom boom! Hear the women’s song of lament! Hear the priests’ shouts!—In her long red coat the Hindu wife stands on the pyre. The flames shoot up around her and her dead husband, but the Hindu wife is thinking of the living within the circle : he, whose eyes burn hotter than flames, the fire in whose eyes touches her heart more than the flames that soon will burn her body to ashes. Can the flame of the heart die in the flames of the bonfire?”
“I don’t understand that at all!” said little Gerda.
“That’s my tale,” said the tiger lily.
What does the morning glory say?
“Overhanging the narrow mountain road there’s an old feudal castle. Thick vinca minor grows up the old red walls, leaf upon leaf, up to the balcony. There’s a lovely girl standing there. She leans over the railing and looks down the road. No rose hangs more freshly from its branches than she does. No apple blossom, when the wind carries it from the tree, sways more lightly than she does. How the magnificent silk dress rustles. ‘Isn’t he coming?’”
“Do you mean Kai?” asked little Gerda.
“I am just talking about my own story, my dream,” answered the morning glory.
What does the little snowdrop say?
“Between the trees on a rope hangs a wide board. It’s a swing, and two lovely little girls—dresses as white as snow, long green silk ribbons waving from their hats—are swinging. Their brother, who’s bigger than they are, stands up on the swing. He has his arm around the rope to hold on, but in one hand he has a little saucer, in the other a little clay pipe. He’s blowing soap bubbles. The swing is swinging, and the bubbles fly with lovely changing colors—the last is still hanging at the pipe bowl and bends with the wind. The swing is swinging. The little black dog, as light as the bubbles, stands up on its hind legs and wants to get on the swing. It swings by. The dog falls, barks, and is angry. It’s being teased, the bubbles burst—a swinging board, a leaping lathering picture is my song!”
It is possible that it’s really lovely, what you’re talking about, but you tell it so sadly and you don’t mention Kai at all.”
What do the hyacinths say?
“There were three lovely sisters, so transparent and delicate. One had a red dress, the second one’s was blue, and the third’s quite white. They danced hand in hand by a quiet lake in the clear moonlight. They weren’t fairies; they were human beings. There was a wonderful sweet fragrance, and the girls disappeared into the woods. The scent grew stronger—three coffins, in which the lovely girls lay, glided out from the edge of the forest over the lake. Shining glowworms flew around like small wavering lights. Are the dancing girls sleeping or are they dead? The flower fragrance says they’re corpses—the evening bell rings for the dead!”
“You make me really sad,” said little Gerda. “Your scent is so strong that I have to think of dead girls! Oh, is little Kai really dead? The roses have been in the ground, and they say he’s not!”
“Ding, dong,” rang the hyacinth bells. “We aren’t ringing for little Kai; we don’t know him. We’re just singing our song, the only one we know!”
So Gerda went to the buttercup, shining out from between glistening green leaves.
“You’re a clear little sun!” Gerda said, “Tell me if you know where I can find my playmate?”
And the buttercup shone so beautifully and looked at Gerda again. What song could the buttercup sing? It wasn’t about Kai either.
In a little yard God’s sun shone so warmly the very first day of spring. The rays slid down the neighbor’s white wall, close by grew the first yellow flowers, shining gold in the warm rays of the sun. Old grandmother was sitting out in her chair. Her granddaughter, a poor pretty servant girl, came home for a short visit; she kissed her grandmother. There was gold, the heart’s gold, in the blessed kiss. Gold on the lips, gold on the ground, gold in the morning hours all around!
“See, that’s my little story,” said the buttercup.”
“My poor old grandmother!” sighed Gerda. “I’m sure she’s longing for me and is sad about me, like she was for little Kai. But I’ll soon be home again, and I’ll bring Kai with me.
It’s no use asking the flowers, they only know their own songs, and can’t tell me anything.” And then she tied up her little dress so she could run faster, but the narcissus hit her in the leg as she jumped over it so she stopped, looked at the tall yellow flower, and asked, “Do you perhaps know something?” She bent right down to the narcissus, and what did it say?
“I can see myself! I can see myself!” said the narcissus. “Oh, how I smell!—In the little garret room, partly dressed, is a little dancer. First she stands on one leg, then on two, she kicks at the whole world. She’s only an optical illusion. She pours water from a teapot onto a piece of fabric that she’s holding. It’s her girdle—Cleanliness is next to Godliness! The white dress hangs on a hook. It’s also washed in the teapot and dried on the roof. She puts it on; the saffron yellow scarf around her neck makes the dress shine whiter. One leg lifts! Look how she stands tall on one stem! I can see myself! I can see myself!”
“I don’t care about that at all,” said Gerda. “That’s nothing to tell me!” And then she ran to the edge of the garden.
The door was closed, but she wiggled the rusty metal hook so it came loose, and the door flew open allowing little Gerda to run out into the wide world in her bare feet. She looked back three times, but no one was coming after her. After a while she couldn’t run any more and sat down on a big rock, and when she looked around, the summer was over. It was late in the autumn. You couldn’t notice that inside the beautiful garden, where there was always sunshine and the flowers of all seasons.
“God, I’ve wasted so much time!” said little Gerda. “It’s autumn already! So I dare not rest!” And she got up to go.
Fairy Tales of Hans Christian Andersen Page 41