of my beak unawares."
The Portuguese did not listen to him, but began eating as fast
as she could, and made a good meal. When she had finished, she lay
down again, and the little bird, who wished to be amiable, began to
sing,-
"Chirp and twitter,
The dew-drops glitter,
In the hours of sunny spring,
I'll sing my best,
Till I go to rest,
With my head behind my wing."
"Now I want rest after my dinner," said the Portuguese; "you
must conform to the rules of the house while you are here. I want to
sleep now."
The little bird was quite taken aback, for he meant it kindly.
When madam awoke afterwards, there he stood before her with a little
corn he had found, and laid it at her feet; but as she had not slept
well, she was naturally in a bad temper. "Give that to a chicken," she
said, "and don't be always standing in my way."
"Why are you angry with me?" replied the little singing-bird,
"what have I done?"
"Done!" repeated the Portuguese duck, "your mode of expressing
yourself is not very polite. I must call your attention to that fact."
"It was sunshine here yesterday," said the little bird, "but
to-day it is cloudy and the air is close."
"You know very little about the weather, I fancy," she retorted,
"the day is not over yet. Don't stand there, looking so stupid."
"But you are looking at me just as the wicked eyes looked when I
fell into the yard yesterday."
"Impertinent creature!" exclaimed the Portuguese duck: "would
you compare me with the cat- that beast of prey? There's not a drop of
malicious blood in me. I've taken your part, and now I'll teach you
better manners." So saying, she made a bite at the little
singing-bird's head, and he fell dead on the ground. "Now whatever
is the meaning of this?" "she said; "could he not bear even such a
little peck as I gave him? Then certainly he was not made for this
world. I've been like a mother to him, I know that, for I've a good
heart."
Then the cock from the neighboring yard stuck his head in, and
crowed with steam-engine power.
"You'll kill me with your crowing," she cried, "it's all your
fault. He's lost his life, and I'm very near losing mine."
"There's not much of him lying there," observed the cock.
"Speak of him with respect," said the Portuguese duck, "for he had
manners and education, and he could sing. He was affectionate and
gentle, and that is as rare a quality in animals as in those who
call themselves human beings."
Then all the ducks came crowding round the little dead bird. Ducks
have strong passions, whether they feel envy or pity. There was
nothing to envy here, so they all showed a great deal of pity, even
the two Chinese. "We shall never have another singing-bird again
amongst us; he was almost a Chinese," they whispered, and then they
wept with such a noisy, clucking sound, that all the other fowls
clucked too, but the ducks went about with redder eyes afterwards. "We
have hearts of our own," they said, "nobody can deny that."
"Hearts!" repeated the Portuguese, "indeed you have, almost as
tender as the ducks in Portugal."
"Let us think of getting something to satisfy our hunger," said
the drake, that's the most important business. If one of our toys is
broken, why we have plenty more."
THE END
.
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
THE PRINCESS AND THE PEA
by Hans Christian Andersen
ONCE upon a time there was a prince who wanted to marry a
princess; but she would have to be a real princess. He travelled all
over the world to find one, but nowhere could he get what he wanted.
There were princesses enough, but it was difficult to find out whether
they were real ones. There was always something about them that was
not as it should be. So he came home again and was sad, for he would
have liked very much to have a real princess.
One evening a terrible storm came on; there was thunder and
lightning, and the rain poured down in torrents. Suddenly a knocking
was heard at the city gate, and the old king went to open it.
It was a princess standing out there in front of the gate. But,
good gracious! what a sight the rain and the wind had made her look.
The water ran down from her hair and clothes; it ran down into the
toes of her shoes and out again at the heels. And yet she said that
she was a real princess.
"Well, we'll soon find that out," thought the old queen. But she
said nothing, went into the bed-room, took all the bedding off the
bedstead, and laid a pea on the bottom; then she took twenty
mattresses and laid them on the pea, and then twenty eider-down beds
on top of the mattresses.
On this the princess had to lie all night. In the morning she
was asked how she had slept.
"Oh, very badly!" said she. "I have scarcely closed my eyes all
night. Heaven only knows what was in the bed, but I was lying on
something hard, so that I am black and blue all over my body. It's
horrible!"
Now they knew that she was a real princess because she had felt
the pea right through the twenty mattresses and the twenty
eider-down beds.
Nobody but a real princess could be as sensitive as that.
So the prince took her for his wife, for now he knew that he had a
real princess; and the pea was put in the museum, where it may still
be seen, if no one has stolen it.
There, that is a true story.
THE END
.
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
THE PSYCHE
by Hans Christian Andersen
IN the fresh morning dawn, in the rosy air gleams a great Star,
the brightest Star of the morning. His rays tremble on the white wall,
as if he wished to write down on it what he can tell, what he has seen
there and elsewhere during thousands of years in our rolling world.
Let us hear one of his stories.
"A short time ago"- the Star's "short time ago" is called among
men "centuries ago"- "my rays followed a young artist. It was in the
city of the Popes, in the world-city, Rome. Much has been changed
there in the course of time, but the changes have not come so
quickly as the change from youth to old age. Then already the palace
of the Caesars was a ruin, as it is now; fig trees and laurels grew
among the fallen marble columns, and in the desolate bathing-halls,
where the gilding still clings to the wall; the Coliseum was a
gigantic ruin; the church bells sounded, the incense sent up its
fragrant cloud, and through the streets marched processions with
flaming tapers and glowing canopies. Holy Church was there, and art
was held as a high and holy thing. In Rome lived the greatest
painter in the world, Raphael; there also dwelt the first of
sculptors, Michael Angelo. Even the Pope paid homage to these two, and
honored them with a visit. Art was recognized and honored, and was
rewarded also. But, for all that, everything great and splendid was
not seen and known.
"In a narrow lane stood an old house. Once it had been a temple; a
young sculptor now dwelt there. He was young and quite unknown. He
certainly had friends, young artists, like himself, young in spirit,
young in hopes and thoughts; they told him he was rich in talent,
and an artist, but that he was foolish for having no faith in his
own power; for he always broke what he had fashioned out of clay,
and never completed anything; and a work must be completed if it is to
be seen and to bring money.
"'You are a dreamer,' they went on to say to him, 'and that's your
misfortune. But the reason of this is, that you have never lived,
you have never tasted life, you have never enjoyed it in great
wholesome draughts, as it ought to be enjoyed. In youth one must
mingle one's own personality with life, that they may become one. Look
at the great master Raphael, whom the Pope honors and the world
admires. He's no despiser of wine and bread.'
"'And he even appreciates the baker's daughter, the pretty
Fornarina,' added Angelo, one of the merriest of the young friends.
"Yes, they said a good many things of the kind, according to their
age and their reason. They wanted to draw the young artist out with
them into the merry wild life, the mad life as it might also be
called; and at certain times he felt an inclination for it. He had
warm blood, a strong imagination, and could take part in the merry
chat, and laugh aloud with the rest; but what they called 'Raphael's
merry life' disappeared before him like a vapor when he saw the divine
radiance that beamed forth from the pictures of the great master;
and when he stood in the Vatican, before the forms of beauty which the
masters had hewn out of marble thousands of years since, his breast
swelled, and he felt within himself something high, something holy,
something elevating, great and good, and he wished that he could
produce similar forms from the blocks of marble. He wished to make a
picture of that which was within him, stirring upward from his heart
to the realms of the Infinite; but how, and in what form? The soft
clay was fashioned under his fingers into forms of beauty, but the
next day he broke what he had fashioned, according to his wont.
"One day he walked past one of those rich palaces of which Rome
has many to show. He stopped before the great open portal, and
beheld a garden surrounded by cloistered walks. The garden bloomed
with a goodly show of the fairest roses. Great white lilies with green
juicy leaves shot upward from the marble basin in which the clear
water was splashing; and a form glided past, the daughter of the
princely house, graceful, delicate, and wonderfully fair. Such a
form of female loveliness he had never before beheld- yet stay: he had
seen it, painted by Raphael, painted as a Psyche, in one of the
Roman palaces. Yes, there it had been painted; but here it passed by
him in living reality.
"The remembrance lived in his thoughts, in his heart. He went home
to his humble room, and modelled a Psyche of clay. It was the rich
young Roman girl, the noble maiden; and for the first time he looked
at his work with satisfaction. It had a meaning for him, for it was
she. And the friends who saw his work shouted aloud for joy; they
declared that this work was a manifestation of his artistic power,
of which they had long been aware, and that now the world should be
made aware of it too.
"The clay figure was lifelike and beautiful, but it had not the
whiteness or the durability of marble. So they declared that the
Psyche must henceforth live in marble. He already possessed a costly
block of that stone. It had been lying for years, the property of
his parents, in the courtyard. Fragments of glass, climbing weeds, and
remains of artichokes had gathered about it and sullied its purity;
but under the surface the block was as white as the mountain snow; and
from this block the Psyche was to arise."
Now, it happened one morning- the bright Star tells nothing
about this, but we know it occurred- that a noble Roman company came
into the narrow lane. The carriage stopped at the top of the lane, and
the company proceeded on foot towards the house, to inspect the
young sculptor's work, for they had heard him spoken of by chance. And
who were these distinguished guests? Poor young man! or fortunate
young man he might be called. The noble young lady stood in the room
and smiled radiantly when her father said to her, "It is your living
image." That smile could not be copied, any more than the look could
be reproduced, the wonderful look which she cast upon the young
artist. It was a fiery look, that seemed at once to elevate and to
crush him.
"The Psyche must be executed in marble," said the wealthy
patrician. And those were words of life for the dead clay and the
heavy block of marble, and words of life likewise for the deeply-moved
artist. "When the work is finished I will purchase it," continued
the rich noble.
A new era seemed to have arisen in the poor studio. Life and
cheerfulness gleamed there, and busy industry plied its work. The
beaming Morning Star beheld how the work progressed. The clay itself
seemed inspired since she had been there, and moulded itself, in
heightened beauty, to a likeness of the well-known features.
"Now I know what life is," cried the artist rejoicingly; "it is
Love! It is the lofty abandonment of self for the dawning of the
beautiful in the soul! What my friends call life and enjoyment is a
passing shadow; it is like bubbles among seething dregs, not the
pure heavenly wine that consecrates us to life."
The marble block was reared in its place. The chisel struck
great fragments from it; the measurements were taken, points and lines
were made, the mechanical part was executed, till gradually the
stone assumed a human female form, a shape of beauty, and became
converted into the Psyche, fair and glorious- a divine being in
human shape. The heavy stone appeared as a gliding, dancing, airy
Psyche, with the heavenly innocent smile- the smile that had
mirrored itself in the soul of the young artist.
The Star of the roseate dawn beheld and understood what was
