I fancy you do not say the Lord's Prayer in the evening. There is
plenty here to write poems about, and to tell of, for any one who
knows the way. You can read it in the fruits of the earth, you can
draw it from the flowing and the standing water; but you must
understand how- you must understand how to catch a sunbeam. Now just
you try my spectacles on, and put my ear-trumpet to your ear, and then
pray to God, and leave off thinking of yourself"
The last was a very difficult thing to do- more than a wise
woman ought to ask.
He received the spectacles and the ear-trumpet, and was posted
in the middle of the potato-field. She put a great potato into his
hand. Sounds came from within it; there came a song with words, the
history of the potato, an every-day story in ten parts, an interesting
story. And ten lines were enough to tell it in.
And what did the potato sing?
She sang of herself and of her family, of the arrival of the
potato in Europe, of the misrepresentation to which she had been
exposed before she was acknowledged, as she is now, to be a greater
treasure than a lump of gold.
"We were distributed, by the King's command, from the
council-houses through the various towns, and proclamation was made of
our great value; but no one believed in it, or even understood how
to plant us. One man dug a hole in the earth and threw in his whole
bushel of potatoes; another put one potato here and another there in
the ground, and expected that each was to come up a perfect tree, from
which he might shake down potatoes. And they certainly grew, and
produced flowers and green watery fruit, but it all withered away.
Nobody thought of what was in the ground- the blessing- the potato.
Yes, we have endured and suffered, that is to say, our forefathers
have; they and we, it is all one."
What a story it was!
"Well, and that will do," said the woman. "Now look at the sloe
bush."
"We have also some near relations in the home of the potatoes, but
higher towards the north than they grew," said the Sloes. "There
were Northmen, from Norway, who steered westward through mist and
storm to an unknown land, where, behind ice and snow, they found
plants and green meadows, and bushes with blue-black grapes- sloe
bushes. The grapes were ripened by the frost just as we are. And
they called the land 'wine-land,' that is, 'Groenland,' or
'Sloeland.'"
"That is quite a romantic story," said the young man.
"Yes, certainly. But now come with me," said the wise woman, and
she led him to the bee-hive.
He looked into it. What life and labor! There were bees standing
in all the passages, waving their wings, so that a wholesome draught
of air might blow through the great manufactory; that was their
business. Then there came in bees from without, who had been born with
little baskets on their feet; they brought flower-dust, which was
poured out, sorted, and manufactured into honey and wax. They flew
in and out. The queen-bee wanted to fly out, but then all the other
bees must have gone with her. It was not yet the time for that, but
still she wanted to fly out; so the others bit off her majesty's
wings, and she had to stay where she was.
"Now get upon the earth bank," said the wise woman. "Come and look
out over the highway, where you can see the people."
"What a crowd it is!" said the young man. "One story after
another. It whirls and whirls! It's quite a confusion before my
eyes. I shall go out at the back."
"No, go straight forward," said the woman. "Go straight into the
crowd of people; look at them in the right way. Have an ear to hear
and the right heart to feel, and you will soon invent something.
But, before you go away, you must give me my spectacles and my
ear-trumpet again."
And so saying, she took both from him.
"Now I do not see the smallest thing," said the young man, "and
now I don't hear anything more."
"Why, then, you can't be a poet by Easter," said the wise woman.
"But, by what time can I be one?" asked he.
"Neither by Easter nor by Whitsuntide! You will not learn how to
invent anything."
"What must I do to earn my bread by poetry?"
"You can do that before Shrove Tuesday. Hunt the poets! Kill their
writings and thus you will kill them. Don't be put out of countenance.
Strike at them boldly, and you'll have carnival cake, on which you can
support yourself and your wife too."
"What one can invent!" cried the young man. And so he hit out
boldly at every second poet, because he could not be a poet himself.
We have it from the wise woman. She knows WHAT ONE CAN INVENT.
THE END
.
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
WHAT THE MOON SAW
by Hans Christian Andersen
INTRODUCTION
INTRODUCTION
IT is a strange thing, when I feel most fervently and most deeply,
my hands and my tongue seem alike tied, so that I cannot rightly
describe or accurately portray the thoughts that are rising within me;
and yet I am a painter; my eye tells me as much as that, and all my
friends who have seen my sketches and fancies say the same.
I am a poor lad, and live in one of the narrowest of lanes; but
I do not want for light, as my room is high up in the house, with an
extensive prospect over the neighbouring roofs. During the first few
days I went to live in the town, I felt low-spirited and solitary
enough. Instead of the forest and the green hills of former days, I
had here only a forest of chimney-pots to look out upon. And then I
had not a single friend; not one familiar face greeted me.
So one evening I sat at the window, in a desponding mood; and
presently I opened the casement and looked out. Oh, how my heart
leaped up with joy! Here was a well-known face at last- a round,
friendly countenance, the face of a good friend I had known at home.
In, fact, it was the MOON that looked in upon me. He was quite
unchanged, the dear old Moon, and had the same face exactly that he
used to show when he peered down upon me through the willow trees on
the moor. I kissed my hand to him over and over again, as he shone far
into my little room; and he, for his part, promised me that every
evening, when he came abroad, he would look in upon me for a few
moments. This promise he has faithfully kept. It is a pity that he can
only stay such a short time when he comes. Whenever he appears, he
tells me of one thing or another that he has seen on the previous
night, or on that same evening. "Just paint the scenes I describe to
you"- this is what he said to me- "and you will have a very pretty
picture-book." I have followed his injunction for many evenings. I
could make up a new "Thousand and One Nights," in my own way, out of
these pictures, but the number might be too great, after all. The
pictures I have here given have not been chosen at random, but
follow in their proper order, just as they were described to me.
Some great gifted painter, or some poet or musician, may make
something more of them if he likes; what I have given here are only
hasty sketches, hurriedly put upon the paper, with some of my own
thoughts, interspersed; for the Moon did not come to me every evening-
a cloud sometimes hid his face from me.
FIRST EVENING
"Last night"- I am quoting the Moon's own words- "last night I was
gliding through the cloudless Indian sky. My face was mirrored in
the waters of the Ganges, and my beams strove to pierce through the
thick intertwining boughs of the bananas, arching beneath me like
the tortoise's shell. Forth from the thicket tripped a Hindoo maid,
light as a gazelle, beautiful as Eve. Airy and etherial as a vision,
and yet sharply defined amid the surrounding shadows, stood this
daughter of Hindostan: I could read on her delicate brow the thought
that had brought her hither. The thorny creeping plants tore her
sandals, but for all that she came rapidly forward. The deer that
had come down to the river to quench her thirst, sprang by with a
startled bound, for in her hand the maiden bore a lighted lamp. I
could see the blood in her delicate finger tips, as she spread them
for a screen before the dancing flame. She came down to the stream,
and set the lamp upon the water, and let it float away. The flame
flickered to and fro, and seemed ready to expire; but still the lamp
burned on, and the girl's black sparkling eyes, half veiled behind
their long silken lashes, followed it with a gaze of earnest
intensity. She knew that if the lamp continued to burn so long as
she could keep it in sight, her betrothed was still alive; but if
the lamp was suddenly extinguished, he was dead. And the lamp burned
bravely on, and she fell on her knees, and prayed. Near her in the
grass lay a speckled snake, but she heeded it not- she thought only of
Bramah and of her betrothed. 'He lives!' she shouted joyfully, 'he
lives!' And from the mountains the echo came back upon her, 'he
lives!"
SECOND EVENING
"Yesterday," said the Moon to me, "I looked down upon a small
courtyard surrounded on all sides by houses. In the courtyard sat a
clucking hen with eleven chickens; and a pretty little girl was
running and jumping around them. The hen was frightened, and screamed,
and spread out her wings over the little brood. Then the girl's father
came out and scolded her; and I glided away and thought no more of the
matter.
"But this evening, only a few minutes ago, I looked down into
the same courtyard. Everything was quiet. But presently the little
girl came forth again, crept quietly to the hen-house, pushed back the
bolt, and slipped into the apartment of the hen and chickens. They
cried out loudly, and came fluttering down from their perches, and ran
about in dismay, and the little girl ran after them. I saw it quite
plainly, for I looked through a hole in the hen-house wall. I was
angry with the willful child, and felt glad when her father came out
and scolded her more violently than yesterday, holding her roughly
by the arm; she held down her head, and her blue eyes were full of
large tears. 'What are you about here?' he asked. She wept and said,
'I wanted to kiss the hen and beg her pardon for frightening her
yesterday; but I was afraid to tell you.'
"And the father kissed the innocent child's forehead, and I kissed
her on the mouth and eyes."
THIRD EVENING
"In the narrow street round the corner yonder- it is so narrow
that my beams can only glide for a minute along the walls of the
house, but in that minute I see enough to learn what the world is made
of- in that narrow street I saw a woman. Sixteen years ago that
woman was a child, playing in the garden of the old parsonage, in
the country. The hedges of rose-bush were old, and the flowers were
faded. They straggled wild over the paths, and the ragged branches
grew up among the boughs of the apple trees; here and there were a few
roses still in bloom- not so fair as the queen of flowers generally
appears, but still they had colour and scent too. The clergyman's
little daughter appeared to me a far lovelier rose, as she sat on
her stool under the straggling hedge, hugging and caressing her doll
with the battered pasteboard cheeks.
"Ten years afterwards I saw her again. I beheld her in a
splendid ballroom: she was the beautiful bride of a rich merchant. I
rejoiced at her happiness, and sought her on calm quiet evenings-
ah, nobody thinks of my clear eye and my silent glance! Alas! my
rose ran wild, like the rose bushes in the garden of the parsonage.
There are tragedies in every-day life, and tonight I saw the last
act of one.
"She was lying in bed in a house in that narrow street: she was
sick unto death, and the cruel landlord came up, and tore away the
thin coverlet, her only protection against the cold. 'Get up!' said
he; 'your face is enough to frighten one. Get up and dress yourself,
give me money, or I'll turn you out into the street! Quick- get up!'
She answered, 'Alas! death is gnawing at my heart. Let me rest.' But
he forced her to get up and bathe her face, and put a wreath of
roses in her hair; and he placed her in a chair at the window, with
a candle burning beside her, and went away.
"I looked at her, and she was sitting motionless, with her hands
in her lap. The wind caught the open window and shut it with a
crash, so that a pane came clattering down in fragments; but still she
never moved. The curtain caught fire, and the flames played about
her face; and I saw that she was dead. There at the open window sat
the dead woman, preaching a sermon against sin- my poor faded rose out
of the parsonage garden!"
FOURTH EVENING
"This evening I saw a German play acted," said the Moon. "It was
in a little town. A stable had been turned into a theatre; that is
to say, the stable had been left standing, and had been turned into
private boxes, and all the timber work had been covered with
coloured paper. A little iron chandelier hung beneath the ceiling, and
that it might be made to disappear into the ceiling, as it does in
great theatres, when the ting-ting of the prompter's bell is heard,
a great inverted tub has been placed just above it.
"'Ting-ting!' and the little iron chandelier suddenly rose at
least half a yard and disappeared in the tub; and that was the sign
