were not unwilling to consent. But Christina, in her heart, often
thought of Ib, and knew how much he thought of her; so she felt
inclined to refuse this good fortune, added the boatman. At first Ib
said not a word, but he became as white as the wall, and shook his
head gently, and then he spoke,- "Christina must not refuse this
good fortune."
"Then will you write a few words to her?" said the boatman.
Ib sat down to write, but he could not get on at all. The words
were not what he wished to say, so he tore up the page. The
following morning, however, a letter lay ready to be sent to
Christina, and the following is what he wrote:-
"The letter written by you to your father I have read, and see
from it that you are prosperous in everything, and that still better
fortune is in store for you. Ask your own heart, Christina, and
think over carefully what awaits you if you take me for your
husband, for I possess very little in the world. Do not think of me or
of my position; think only of your own welfare. You are bound to me by
no promises; and if in your heart you have given me one, I release you
from it. May every blessing and happiness be poured out upon you,
Christina. Heaven will give me the heart's consolation.
Ever your sincere friend, IB."
This letter was sent, and Christina received it in due time. In
the course of the following November, her banns were published in
the church on the heath, and also in Copenhagen, where the
bridegroom lived. She was taken to Copenhagen under the protection
of her future mother-in-law, because the bridegroom could not spare
time from his numerous occupations for a journey so far into
Jutland. On the journey, Christina met her father at one of the
villages through which they passed, and here he took leave of her.
Very little was said about the matter to Ib, and he did not refer to
it; his mother, however, noticed that he had grown very silent and
pensive. Thinking as he did of old times, no wonder the three nuts
came into his mind which the gypsy woman had given him when a child,
and of the two which he had given to Christina. These wishing nuts,
after all, had proved true fortune-tellers. One had contained a gilded
carriage and noble horses, and the other beautiful clothes; all of
these Christina would now have in her new home at Copenhagen. Her part
had come true. And for him the nut had contained only black earth. The
gypsy woman had said it was the best for him. Perhaps it was, and this
also would be fulfilled. He understood the gypsy woman's meaning
now. The black earth- the dark grave- was the best thing for him now.
Again years passed away; not many, but they seemed long years to
Ib. The old innkeeper and his wife died one after the other; and the
whole of their property, many thousand dollars, was inherited by their
son. Christina could have the golden carriage now, and plenty of
fine clothes. During the two long years which followed, no letter came
from Christina to her father; and when at last her father received one
from her, it did not speak of prosperity or happiness. Poor Christina!
Neither she nor her husband understood how to economize or save, and
the riches brought no blessing with them, because they had not asked
for it.
Years passed; and for many summers the heath was covered with
bloom; in winter the snow rested upon it, and the rough winds blew
across the ridge under which stood Ib's sheltered home. One spring day
the sun shone brightly, and he was guiding the plough across his
field. The ploughshare struck against something which he fancied was a
firestone, and then he saw glittering in the earth a splinter of
shining metal which the plough had cut from something which gleamed
brightly in the furrow. He searched, and found a large golden armlet
of superior workmanship, and it was evident that the plough had
disturbed a Hun's grave. He searched further, and found more
valuable treasures, which Ib showed to the clergyman, who explained
their value to him. Then he went to the magistrate, who informed the
president of the museum of the discovery, and advised Ib to take the
treasures himself to the president.
"You have found in the earth the best thing you could find,"
said the magistrate.
"The best thing," thought Ib; "the very best thing for me,- and
found in the earth! Well, if it really is so, then the gypsy woman was
right in her prophecy."
So Ib went in the ferry-boat from Aarhus to Copenhagen. To him who
had only sailed once or twice on the river near his own home, this
seemed like a voyage on the ocean; and at length he arrived at
Copenhagen. The value of the gold he had found was paid to him; it was
a large sum- six hundred dollars. Then Ib of the heath went out, and
wandered about in the great city.
On the evening before the day he had settled to return with the
captain of the passage-boat, Ib lost himself in the streets, and
took quite a different turning to the one he wished to follow. He
wandered on till he found himself in a poor street of the suburb
called Christian's Haven. Not a creature could be seen. At last a very
little girl came out of one of the wretched-looking houses, and Ib
asked her to tell him the way to the street he wanted; she looked up
timidly at him, and began to cry bitterly. He asked her what was the
matter; but what she said he could not understand. So he went along
the street with her; and as they passed under a lamp, the light fell
on the little girl's face. A strange sensation came over Ib, as he
caught sight of it. The living, breathing embodiment of Little
Christina stood before him, just as he remembered her in the days of
her childhood. He followed the child to the wretched house, and
ascended the narrow, crazy staircase which led to a little garret in
the roof. The air in the room was heavy and stifling, no light was
burning, and from one corner came sounds of moaning and sighing. It
was the mother of the child who lay there on a miserable bed. With the
help of a match, Ib struck a light, and approached her.
"Can I be of any service to you?" he asked. "This little girl
brought me up here; but I am a stranger in this city. Are there no
neighbors or any one whom I can call?"
Then he raised the head of the sick woman, and smoothed her
pillow. He started as he did so. It was Christina of the heath! No one
had mentioned her name to Ib for years; it would have disturbed his
peace of mind, especially as the reports respecting her were not good.
The wealth which her husband had inherited from his parents had made
him proud and arrogant. He had given up his certain appointment, and
travelled for six months in foreign lands, and, on his return, had
lived in great style, and got into terrible debt. For a time he had
trembled on the high pedestal on which he had placed himself, till
at last he toppled over, and ruin came. His numerous merry companions,
and the visitors at his table, said it served him right, for he had
kept house like a madman. One morning his corpse was found in the
canal. The cold hand of death had already touched the heart of
Christina. Her youngest child, looked for in the midst of
prosperity, had sunk into the grave when only a few weeks old; and
at last Christina herself became sick unto death, and lay, forsaken
and dying, in a miserable room, amid poverty she might have borne in
her younger days, but which was now more painful to her from the
luxuries to which she had lately been accustomed. It was her eldest
child, also a Little Christina, whom Ib had followed to her home,
where she suffered hunger and poverty with her mother.
It makes me unhappy to think that I shall die, and leave this poor
child," sighed she. "Oh, what will become of her?" She could say no
more.
Then Ib brought out another match, and lighted a piece of candle
which he found in the room, and it threw a glimmering light over the
wretched dwelling. Ib looked at the little girl, and thought of
Christina in her young days. For her sake, could he not love this
child, who was a stranger to him? As he thus reflected, the dying
woman opened her eyes, and gazed at him. Did she recognize him? He
never knew; for not another word escaped her lips.
* * * * * * *
In the forest by the river Gudenau, not far from the heath, and
beneath the ridge of land, stood the little farm, newly painted and
whitewashed. The air was heavy and dark; there were no blossoms on the
heath; the autumn winds whirled the yellow leaves towards the
boatman's hut, in which strangers dwelt; but the little farm stood
safely sheltered beneath the tall trees and the high ridge. The turf
blazed brightly on the hearth, and within was sunlight, the
sparkling light from the sunny eyes of a child; the birdlike tones
from the rosy lips ringing like the song of a lark in spring. All
was life and joy. Little Christina sat on Ib's knee. Ib was to her
both father and mother; her own parents had vanished from her
memory, as a dream-picture vanishes alike from childhood and age. Ib's
house was well and prettily furnished; for he was a prosperous man
now, while the mother of the little girl rested in the churchyard at
Copenhagen, where she had died in poverty. Ib had money now- money
which had come to him out of the black earth; and he had Christina for
his own, after all.
THE END
.
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
IN A THOUSAND YEARS
by Hans Christian Andersen
YES, in a thousand years people will fly on the wings of steam
through the air, over the ocean! The young inhabitants of America will
become visitors of old Europe. They will come over to see the
monuments and the great cities, which will then be in ruins, just as
we in our time make pilgrimages to the tottering splendors of Southern
Asia. In a thousand years they will come!
The Thames, the Danube, and the Rhine still roll their course,
Mont Blanc stands firm with its snow-capped summit, and the Northern
Lights gleam over the land of the North; but generation after
generation has become dust, whole rows of the mighty of the moment are
forgotten, like those who already slumber under the hill on which
the rich trader, whose ground it is, has built a bench, on which he
can sit and look out across his waving corn fields.
"To Europe!" cry the young sons of America; "to the land of our
ancestors, the glorious land of monuments and fancy- to Europe!"
The ship of the air comes. It is crowded with passengers, for
the transit is quicker than by sea. The electro-magnetic wire under
the ocean has already telegraphed the number of the aerial caravan.
Europe is in sight. It is the coast of Ireland that they see, but
the passengers are still asleep; they will not be called till they are
exactly over England. There they will first step on European shore, in
the land of Shakespeare, as the educated call it; in the land of
politics, the land of machines, as it is called by others.
Here they stay a whole day. That is all the time the busy race can
devote to the whole of England and Scotland. Then the journey is
continued through the tunnel under the English Channel, to France, the
land of Charlemagne and Napoleon. Moliere is named, the learned men
talk of the classic school of remote antiquity. There is rejoicing and
shouting for the names of heroes, poets, and men of science, whom
our time does not know, but who will be born after our time in
Paris, the centre of Europe, and elsewhere.
The air steamboat flies over the country whence Columbus went
forth, where Cortez was born, and where Calderon sang dramas in
sounding verse. Beautiful black-eyed women live still in the
blooming valleys, and the oldest songs speak of the Cid and the
Alhambra.
Then through the air, over the sea, to Italy, where once lay
old, everlasting Rome. It has vanished! The Campagna lies desert. A
single ruined wall is shown as the remains of St. Peter's, but there
is a doubt if this ruin be genuine.
Next to Greece, to sleep a night in the grand hotel at the top
of Mount Olympus, to say that they have been there; and the journey is
continued to the Bosphorus, to rest there a few hours, and see the
place where Byzantium lay; and where the legend tells that the harem
stood in the time of the Turks, poor fishermen are now spreading their
nets.
Over the remains of mighty cities on the broad Danube, cities
which we in our time know not, the travellers pass; but here and
there, on the rich sites of those that time shall bring forth, the
caravan sometimes descends, and departs thence again.
Down below lies Germany, that was once covered with a close net of
railway and canals, the region where Luther spoke, where Goethe
sang, and Mozart once held the sceptre of harmony. Great names shine
there, in science and in art, names that are unknown to us. One day
devoted to seeing Germany, and one for the North, the country of
Oersted and Linnaeus, and for Norway, the land of the old heroes and
the young Normans. Iceland is visited on the journey home. The geysers
burn no more, Hecla is an extinct volcano, but the rocky island is
still fixed in the midst of the foaming sea, a continual monument of
legend and poetry.
"There is really a great deal to be seen in Europe," says the
young American, "and we have seen it in a week, according to the
directions of the great traveller" (and here he mentions the name of
one of his contemporaries) "in his celebrated work, 'How to See All
Europe in a Week.'"
THE END
.
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
