Part 23
And the Tree beheld all the beauty of the flowers, and the freshness in the garden; he beheld himself, and wished he had remained in his dark corner in the loft: he thought of his first youth in the wood, of the Merry Christmas Eve, and of the little Mice who had listened with so much pleasure to the story of Humpy-Dumpy.
“’Tis over—’tis past!” said the poor Tree. “Had I but rejoiced when I had reason to do so! But now ’tis past, ’tis past!”
And the gardener’s boy chopped the Tree into small pieces; there was a whole heap lying there. The wood flamed up splendidly under the large brewing copper, and it sighed so deeply! Each sigh was like a shot.
The boys played about in the court, and the youngest wore the gold star on his breast which the Tree had had on the happiest evening of his life. However, that was over now—the Tree gone, the story at an end. All, all was over; every tale must end at last.
THE FLYING TRUNK
By Hans Christian Andersen
There was once a merchant, who was so rich that he could pave the whole street with gold, and almost have enough left for a little lane. But he did not do that; he knew how to employ his money differently. When he spent a shilling he got back a crown, such a clever merchant was he; and this continued till he died.
His son now got all this money; and he lived merrily, going to the masquerade every evening, making kites out of dollar notes, and playing at ducks and drakes on the seacoast with gold pieces instead of pebbles. In this way the money might soon be spent, and indeed it was so. At last he had no more than four shillings left, and no clothes to wear but a pair of slippers and an old dressing gown.
Now his friends did not trouble themselves any more about him as they could not walk with him in the street, but one of them, who was good-natured, sent him an old trunk, with the remark: “Pack up!” Yes, that was all very well, but he had nothing to pack, therefore he seated himself in the trunk.
That was a wonderful trunk. So soon as any one pressed the lock the trunk could fly. He pressed it, and whirr! away flew the trunk with him through the chimney and over the clouds farther and farther away. But as often as the bottom of the trunk cracked a little he was in great fear lest it might go to pieces, and then he would have flung a fine somersault! In that way he came to the land of the Turks. He hid the trunk in a wood under some dry leaves, and then went into the town. He could do that very well, for among the Turks all the people went about dressed like himself in dressing gown and slippers. Then he met a nurse with a little child.
“Here, you Turkish nurse,” he began, “what kind of a great castle is that close by the town, in which the windows are so high up?”
“There dwells the Sultan’s daughter,” replied she. “It is prophesied that she will be very unhappy respecting a lover; and therefore nobody may go near her, unless the Sultan and Sultana are there too.”
“Thank you!” said the Merchant’s Son; and he went out into the forest, seated himself in his trunk, flew on the roof, and crept through the window into the Princess’s room.
She was lying asleep on the sofa, and she was so beautiful that the Merchant’s Son was compelled to kiss her. Then she awoke, and was startled very much; but he said he was a Turkish angel who had come down to her through the air, and that pleased her.
They sat down side by side, and he told her stories about her eyes; and he told her they were the most glorious dark lakes, and that thoughts were swimming about in them like mermaids. And he told her about her forehead; that it was a snowy mountain with the most splendid halls and pictures. And he told her about the stork who brings the lovely little children.
Yes, those were fine histories! Then he asked the Princess if she would marry him, and she said, “Yes,” directly.
“But you must come here on Saturday,” said she. “Then the Sultan and Sultana will be here to tea. They will be very proud that I am to marry a Turkish angel. But take care that you know a very pretty story, for both my parents are very fond indeed of stories. My mother likes them high-flown and moral, but my father likes them merry, so that one can laugh.”
“Yes, I shall bring no marriage gift but a story,” said he; and so they parted. But the Princess gave him a saber, the sheath embroidered with gold pieces and that was very useful to him.
Now he flew away, bought a new dressing gown, and sat in the forest and made up a story; it was to be ready by Saturday, and that was not an easy thing.
By the time he had finished it Saturday had come. The Sultan and his wife and all the court were at the ‘Princess’s to tea. He was received very graciously.
“Will you relate us a story?” said the Sultana; “one that is deep and edifying.”
“Yes, but one that we can laugh at,” said the Sultan.
“Certainly,” he replied; and so began. And now listen well.
“There was once a bundle of Matches, and these Matches were
## particularly proud of their high descent. Their genealogical tree, that
is to say, the great fir tree of which each of them was a little splinter, had been a great old tree out in the forest. The Matches now lay between a Tinder-box and an old Iron Pot; and they were telling about the days of their youth. ‘Yes, when we were upon the green boughs,’ they said, ‘then we really were upon the green boughs! Every morning and evening there was diamond tea for us—I mean dew; we had sunshine all day long whenever the sun shone, and all the little birds had to tell stories. We could see very well that we were rich, for the other trees were only dressed out in summer, while our family had the means to wear green dresses in the winter as well. But then the woodcutter came, like a great revolution, and our family was broken up. The head of the family got an appointment as mainmast in a first-rate ship, which could sail round the world if necessary; the other branches went to other places, and now we have the office of kindling a light for the vulgar herd. That’s how we grand people came to be in the kitchen.’
“‘My fate was of different kind,’ said the Iron Pot, which stood next to the Matches. ‘From the beginning, ever since I came into the world, there has been a great deal of scouring and cooking done in me. I look after the practical part, and am the first here in the house. My only pleasure is to sit in my place after dinner, very clean and neat, and to carry on a sensible conversation with my comrades. But except the Waterpot, which is sometimes taken down into the courtyard, we always live within our four walls. Our only newsmonger is the Market Basket; but he speaks very uneasily about the government and the people. Yes, the other day there was an old pot that fell down, from fright, and burst. He’s liberal, I can tell you!’—‘Now you’re talking too much,’ the Tinder-box interrupted, and the steel struck against the flint, so that sparks flew out. ‘Shall we not have a merry evening?’
“‘Yes, let us talk about who is the grandest,’ said the Matches.
“‘No, I don’t like to talk about myself,’ retorted the Pot. ‘Let us get up an evening entertainment. I will begin. I will tell a story from real life, something that everyone has experienced, so that we can easily imagine the situation, and take pleasure in it. On the Baltic, by the Danish shore—’
“‘That’s a pretty beginning!’ cried all the Plates. ‘That will be a story we shall like.’
“‘Yes, it happened to me in my youth, when I lived in a family where the furniture was polished, the floors scoured, and new curtains were put up every fortnight.’
“‘What an interesting way you have of telling a story!’ said the Carpet Broom. ‘One can tell directly that a man is speaking who has been in woman’s society. There’s something pure runs through it.’
“And the Pot went on telling the story, and the end was as good as the beginning.
“All the Plates rattled with joy, and the Carpet Broom brought some green parsley out of the dust hole, and put it like a wreath on the Pot, for he knew that it would vex the others. ‘If I crown him to-day,’ it thought, ‘he will crown me tomorrow.’
“‘Now I’ll dance,’ said the Fire Tongs; and they danced. Preserve us! how that implement could lift up one leg! The old chair-cushion burst to see it. ‘Shall I be crowned too?’ thought the Tongs; and indeed a wreath was awarded.
“‘They’re only common people, after all!’ thought the Matches.
“Now the Tea Urn was to sing; but she said she had taken cold and could not sing unless she felt boiling within. But that was only affectation: she did not want to sing, except when she was in the parlor with the grand people.
“In the window sat an old Quill Pen, with which the maid generally wrote: there was nothing remarkable about this pen, except that it had been dipped too deep into the ink, but she was proud of that. ‘If the Tea Urn won’t sing,’ she said, ‘she may leave it alone. Outside hangs a nightingale in a cage, and he can sing. He hasn’t had any education, but this evening we’ll say nothing about that.’
“‘I think it very wrong,’ said the Teakettle—he was the kitchen singer, and half brother to the Tea Urn—‘that that rich and foreign bird should be listened to. Is that patriotic? Let the Market Basket decide.’
“‘I am vexed,’ said the Market Basket. ‘No one can imagine how much I am secretly vexed. Is that a proper way of spending the evening? Would it not be more sensible to put the house in order? Let each one go to his own place, and I will arrange the whole game. That would be quite another thing.’
‘Yes, let us make a disturbance, cried they all. Then the door opened, and the maid came in, and they all stood still; not one stirred. But there was not one pot among them who did not know what he could do and how grand he was. ‘Yes, if I had liked,’ each one thought, ‘it might have been a very merry evening.’
“The servant girl took the Matches and lighted the fire with them. mercy! how they sputtered and burst out into flame! ‘Now everyone can see,’ thought they, ‘that we are the first. How we shine! what a light!’—and they burned out.”
“That was a capital story,” said the Sultana. “I feel myself quite carried away to the kitchen, to the Matches. Yes, now thou shalt marry our daughter.”
“Yes, certainly,” said the Sultan, “thou shalt marry our daughter on Monday.”
And they called him thou, because he was to belong to the family.
The wedding was decided on, and on the evening before it the whole city was illuminated. Biscuits and cakes were thrown among the people, the street boys stood on their toes, called out “Hurrah!” and whistled on their fingers. It was uncommonly splendid.
“Yes, I shall have to give something as a treat,” thought the Merchant’s Son. So he bought rockets and crackers, and every imaginable sort of fire-work, put them all into his trunk, and flew up into the air.
“Crack!” how they went, and how they went off! All the Turks hopped up with such a start that their slippers flew about their ears; such a meteor they had never yet seen. Now they could understand that it must be a Turkish angel who was going to marry the Princess.
What stories people tell! Everyone whom he asked about it had seen it in a separate way; but one and all thought it fine.
“I saw the Turkish angel himself,” said one. “He had eyes like glowing stars, and a beard like foaming water.”
“He flew up in a fiery mantle,” said another; “the most lovely little cherub peeped forth from among the folds.”
Yes, they were wonderful things that he heard; and on the following day he was to be married.
Now he went back to the forest to rest himself in his trunk. But what had become of that? A spark from the fireworks had set fire to it, and the trunk was burned to ashes. He could not fly any more, and could not get to his bride.
She stood all day on the roof waiting; and most likely she is waiting still. But he wanders through the world, telling fairy tales; but they are not so merry as that one he told about the Matches.
THE DARNING NEEDLE
By Hans Christian Andersen
There was once a darning needle, who thought herself so fine, she imagined she was an embroidery needle.
“Take care, and mind you hold me tight!” she said to the Fingers that took her out. “Don’t let me fall! If I fall on the ground I shall certainly never be found again, for I am so fine!”
“That’s as it may be,” said the Fingers; and they grasped her round the body.
“See, I’m coming with a train!” said the Darning Needle, and she drew a long thread after her, but there was no knot in the thread.
The Fingers pointed the needle just at the cook’s slipper, in which the upper leather had burst, and was to be sewn together.
“That’s vulgar work,” said the Darning Needle. “I shall never get through. I’m breaking! I’m breaking!” And she really broke. “Did I not say so?” said the Darning Needle; “I’m too fine!”
“Now it’s quite useless,” said the Fingers; but they were obliged to hold her fast, all the same; for the cook dropped some sealing wax upon the needle, and pinned her handkerchief together with it in front.
“So, now I’m a breastpin!” said the Darning Needle. “I knew very well that I should come to honor: when one is something, one comes to something!”
And she laughed quietly to herself—and one can never see when a darning needle laughs. There she sat, as proud as if she was in a state coach, and looked all about her.
“May I be permitted to ask if you are of gold?” she inquired of the pin, her neighbor. “You have a very pretty appearance, and a peculiar head, but it is only little. You must take pains to grow, for it’s not everyone that has sealing wax dropped upon him.”
And the Darning Needle drew herself up so proudly that she fell out of the handkerchief right into the sink, which the cook was rinsing out.
“Now we’re going on a journey,” said the Darning Needle. “If I only don’t get lost!”
But she really was lost.
“I’m too fine for this world,” she observed, as she lay in the gutter. “But I know who I am, and there’s always something in that!”
So the Darning Needle kept her proud behavior, and did not lose her good humor. And things of many kinds swam over her, chips and straws and pieces of old newspapers.
“Only look how they sail!” said the Darning Needle. “They don’t know what is under them! I’m here, I remain firmly here. See, there goes a chip thinking of nothing in the world but of himself—of a chip! There’s a straw going by now. How he turns! how he twirls about! Don’t think only of yourself, you might easily run up against a stone. There swims a bit of newspaper. What’s written upon it has long been forgotten, and yet it gives itself airs. I sit quietly and patiently here. I know who I am, and I shall remain what I am.”
One day something lay close beside her that glittered splendidly; then the Darning Needle believed that it was a diamond; but it was a bit of broken bottle; and because it shone, the Darning Needle spoke to it, introducing herself as a breastpin.
“I suppose you are a diamond?” she observed.
“Why, yes, something of that kind.”
And then each believed the other to be a very valuable thing; and they began speaking about the world, and how very conceited it was.
“I have been in a lady’s box,” said the Darning Needle, “and this lady was a cook. She had five fingers on each hand, and I never saw anything so conceited as those five fingers. And yet they were only there that they might take me out of the box and put me back into it.”
“Were they of good birth?” asked the Bit of Bottle.
“No, indeed,” cried the Darning Needle, “but very haughty. There were five brothers, all of the finger family. They kept very proudly together, though they were of different lengths: the outermost, the thumbling, was short and fat; he walked out in front of the ranks, and only had one joint in his back, and could only make a single bow; but he said that if he were hacked off a man, that man was useless for service in war. Daintymouth, the second finger, thrust himself into sweet and sour, pointed to sun and moon, and gave the impression when they wrote. Longrnan, the third, looked at all the others over his shoulder. Goldborder, the fourth, went about with a golden belt round his waist; and little Playman did nothing at all, and was proud of it. There was nothing but bragging among them, and therefore I went away.”
“And now we sit here and glitter!” said the Bit of Bottle.
At that moment more water came into the gutter, so that it overflowed, and the Bit of Bottle was carried away.
“So he is disposed of,” observed the Darning Needle. “I remain here, I am too fine. But that’s my pride, and my pride is honorable.” And proudly she sat there, and had many great thoughts. “I could almost believe I had been born of a sunbeam, I’m so fine! It really appears as if the sunbeams were always seeking for me under the water. Ah! I’m so fine that my mother cannot find me. If I had my old eye, which broke off, I think I should cry; but, no, I should not do that: it’s not genteel to cry.”
One day a couple of street boys lay grubbing in the gutter where they sometimes find old nails, farthings, and similar treasures. It was dirty work, but they took great delight in it.
“Oh!” cried one, who had pricked himself with the Darning Needle, there’s a fellow for you!”
“I’m not a fellow; I’m a young lady!” said the Darning Needle.
But nobody listened to her. The sealing wax had come off, and she had turned black; but black makes one look slender, and she thought herself finer even than before.
“Here comes an eggshell sailing along!” said the boys; and they stuck the Darning Needle fast in the eggshell.
“White walls, and black myself! that looks well,” remarked the Darning Needle. “Now one can see me. I only hope I shall not be seasick!” But she was not seasick at all. “It is good against seasickness, if one has a steel stomach, and does not forget that one is a little more than an ordinary person! Now my seasickness is over. The finer one is, the more one can bear.”
“Crack!” went the eggshell, for a wagon went over her.
“Good heavens, how it crushes one!” said the Darning Needle. “I’m getting seasick now—I’m quite sick.”
But she was not really sick, though the wagon went over her; she lay there at full length, and there she may lie.
PEN AND INKSTAND
By Hans Christian Andersen
The following remark was made in a poet’s room, as the speaker looked at the inkstand that stood upon his table:
“It is marvelous all that can come out of that ink-stand! What will it produce next? Yes, it is marvelous!”
“So it is!” exclaimed the Inkstand. “It is incomprehensible! That is what I always say.” It was thus the Inkstand addressed itself to the Pen, and to everything else that could hear it on the table. “It is really astonishing all that can come from me! It is almost incredible! I positively do not know myself what the next thing may be, when a person begins to dip into me. One drop of me serves for half a side of paper; and what may not then appear upon it? I am certainly something extraordinary. From me proceed all the works of the poets. These animated beings, whom people think they recognize—these deep feelings, that gay humor, these charming descriptions of nature—I do not understand them myself, for I know nothing about nature; but still it is all in me. From me have gone forth, and still go forth, these warrior hosts, these lovely maidens, these bold knights on snorting steeds, those droll characters in humbler life. The fact is, however, that I do not know anything about them myself. I assure you they are not my ideas.”
“You are right there,” replied the Pen. “You have few ideas, and do not trouble yourself much with thinking, if you did exert yourself to think, you would perceive that you ought to give something that was not dry. You supply me with the means of committing to paper what I have in me; I write with that. It is the pen that writes. Mankind do not doubt that; and most men have about as much genius for poetry as an old inkstand.”
“You have but little experience,” said the ink-stand. “You have scarcely been a week in use, and you are already half worn out. Do you fancy that you are a poet? You are only a servant: and I have had many of your kind before you came—many of the goose family, and of English manufacture. I know both quill pens and steel pens. I have had a great many in my service, and I shall have many more still, when he, the man who stirs me up, comes and puts down what he takes from me. I should like very much to know what will be the next thing he will take from me.”
“Ink tub!” said the Pen.