THE EMPEROR’S NEW CLOTHES(Page 10)

And she pressed the thorn-bush to her breast, so firmly,
that it might be thoroughly warmed, and the thorns went
right into her flesh, and her blood flowed in large drops,
but the thornbush shot forth fresh green leaves, and there
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came flowers on it in the cold winter night, the heart of
the afflicted mother was so warm; and the thorn-bush told
her the way she should go.
She then came to a large lake, where there was neither
ship nor boat. The lake was not frozen sufficiently to bear
her; neither was it open, nor low enough that she could
wade through it; and across it she must go if she would
find her child! Then she lay down to drink up the lake,
and that was an impossibility for a human being, but the
afflicted mother thought that a miracle might happen
nevertheless.

‘Oh, what would I not give to come to my child!’ said
the weeping mother; and she wept still more, and her eyes
sunk down in the depths of the waters, and became two
precious pearls; but the water bore her up, as if she sat in a
swing, and she flew in the rocking waves to the shore on
the opposite side, where there stood a mile-broad, strange
house, one knew not if it were a mountain with forests
and caverns, or if it were built up; but the poor mother
could not see it; she had wept her eyes out.
‘Where shall I find Death, who took away my little
child?’ said she.
‘He has not come here yet!’ said the old grave woman,
who was appointed to look after Death’s great greenhouse!
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‘How have you been able to find the way hither? And
who has helped you?’
‘OUR LORD has helped me,’ said she. ‘He is
merciful, and you will also be so! Where shall I find my
little child?’
‘Nay, I know not,’ said the woman, ‘and you cannot
see! Many flowers and trees have withered this night;
Death will soon come and plant them over again! You
certainly know that every person has his or her life’s tree
or flower, just as everyone happens to be settled; they look
like other plants, but they have pulsations of the heart.
Children’s hearts can also beat; go after yours, perhaps you
may know your child’s; but what will you give me if I tell
you what you shall do more?’
‘I have nothing to give,’ said the afflicted mother, ‘but I
will go to the world’s end for you!’
‘Nay, I have nothing to do there!’ said the woman.
‘But you can give me your long black hair; you know
yourself that it is fine, and that I like! You shall have my
white hair instead, and that’s always something!’
‘Do you demand nothing else?’ said she. ‘That I will
gladly give you!’ And she gave her her fine black hair, and
got the old woman’s snow-white hair instead.
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So they went into Death’s great greenhouse, where
flowers and trees grew strangely into one another. There
stood fine hyacinths under glass bells, and there stood
strong-stemmed peonies; there grew water plants, some so
fresh, others half sick, the water-snakes lay down on them,
and black crabs pinched their stalks. There stood beautiful
palm-trees, oaks, and plantains; there stood parsley and
flowering thyme: every tree and every flower had its
name; each of them was a human life, the human frame
still lived—one in China, and another in Greenland—
round about in the world. There were large trees in small
pots, so that they stood so stunted in growth, and ready to
burst the pots; in other places, there was a little dull flower
in rich mould, with moss round about it, and it was so
petted and nursed. But the distressed mother bent down
over all the smallest plants, and heard within them how
the human heart beat; and amongst millions she knew her
child’s.
‘There it is!’ cried she, and stretched her hands out over
a little blue crocus, that hung quite sickly on one side.
‘Don’t touch the flower!’ said the old woman. ‘But
place yourself here, and when Death comes—I expect him
every moment—do not let him pluck the flower up, but
threaten him that you will do the same with the others.
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Then he will be afraid! He is responsible for them to
OUR LORD, and no one dares to pluck them up before
HE gives leave.’
All at once an icy cold rushed through the great hall,
and the blind mother could feel that it was Death that
came.
‘How hast thou been able to find thy way hither?’ he
asked. ‘How couldst thou come quicker than I?’
‘I am a mother,’ said she.
And Death stretched out his long hand towards the fine
little flower, but she held her hands fast around his, so
tight, and yet afraid that she should touch one of the
leaves. Then Death blew on her hands, and she felt that it
was colder than the cold wind, and her hands fell down
powerless.
‘Thou canst not do anything against me!’ said Death.
‘But OUR LORD can!’ said she.
‘I only do His bidding!’ said Death. ‘I am His gardener,
I take all His flowers and trees, and plant them out in the
great garden of Paradise, in the unknown land; but how
they grow there, and how it is there I dare not tell thee.’
‘Give me back my child!’ said the mother, and she
wept and prayed. At once she seized hold of two beautiful
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flowers close by, with each hand, and cried out to Death,
‘I will tear all thy flowers off, for I am in despair.’
‘Touch them not!’ said Death. ‘Thou say’st that thou
art so unhappy, and now thou wilt make another mother
equally unhappy.’
‘Another mother!’ said the poor woman, and directly
let go her hold of both the flowers.
‘There, thou hast thine eyes,’ said Death; ‘I fished them
up from the lake, they shone so bright; I knew not they
were thine. Take them again, they are now brighter than
before; now look down into the deep well close by; I shall
tell thee the names of the two flowers thou wouldst have
torn up, and thou wilt see their whole future life—their
whole human existence: and see what thou wast about to
disturb and destroy.’
And she looked down into the well; and it was a
happiness to see how the one became a blessing to the
world, to see how much happiness and joy were felt
everywhere. And she saw the other’s life, and it was
sorrow and distress, horror, and wretchedness.
‘Both of them are God’s will!’ said Death.
‘Which of them is Misfortune’s flower and which is
that of Happiness?’ asked she.
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‘That I will not tell thee,’ said Death; ‘but this thou
shalt know from me, that the one flower was thy own
child! it was thy child’s fate thou saw’st—thy own child’s
future life!’
Then the mother screamed with terror, ‘Which of
them was my child? Tell it me! Save the innocent! Save
my child from all that misery! Rather take it away! Take it
into God’s kingdom! Forget my tears, forget my prayers,
and all that I have done!’
‘I do not understand thee!’ said Death. ‘Wilt thou have
thy child again, or shall I go with it there, where thou dost
not know!’
Then the mother wrung her hands, fell on her knees,
and prayed to our Lord: ‘Oh, hear me not when I pray
against Thy will, which is the best! hear me not! hear me
not!’
And she bowed her head down in her lap, and Death
took her child and went with it into the unknown land.
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THE FALSE COLLAR
There was once a fine gentleman, all of whose
moveables were a boot-jack and a hair-comb: but he had
the finest false collars in the world; and it is about one of
these collars that we are now to hear a story.
It was so old, that it began to think of marriage; and it
happened that it came to be washed in company with a
garter.
‘Nay!’ said the collar. ‘I never did see anything so
slender and so fine, so soft and so neat. May I not ask your
name?’
‘That I shall not tell you!’ said the garter.
‘Where do you live?’ asked the collar.
But the garter was so bashful, so modest, and thought it
was a strange question to answer.
‘You are certainly a girdle,’ said the collar; ‘that is to say
an inside girdle. I see well that you are both for use and
ornament, my dear young lady.’
‘I will thank you not to speak to me,’ said the garter. ‘I
think I have not given the least occasion for it.’
‘Yes! When one is as handsome as you,’ said the collar,
‘that is occasion enough.’
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‘Don’t come so near me, I beg of you!’ said the garter.
‘You look so much like those men-folks.’
‘I am also a fine gentleman,’ said the collar. ‘I have a
bootjack and a hair-comb.’
But that was not true, for it was his master who had
them: but he boasted.
‘Don’t come so near me,’ said the garter: ‘I am not
accustomed to it.’
‘Prude!’ exclaimed the collar; and then it was taken out
of the washing-tub. It was starched, hung over the back of
a chair in the sunshine, and was then laid on the ironingblanket;
then came the warm box-iron. ‘Dear lady!’ said
the collar. ‘Dear widow-lady! I feel quite hot. I am quite
changed. I begin to unfold myself. You will burn a hole in
me. Oh! I offer you my hand.’
‘Rag!’ said the box-iron; and went proudly over the
collar: for she fancied she was a steam-engine, that would
go on the railroad and draw the waggons. ‘Rag!’ said the
box-iron.
The collar was a little jagged at the edge, and so came
the long scissors to cut off the jagged part. ‘Oh!’ said the
collar. ‘You are certainly the first opera dancer. How well
you can stretch your legs out! It is the most graceful
performance I have ever seen. No one can imitate you.’
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‘I know it,’ said the scissors.
‘You deserve to be a baroness,’ said the collar. ‘All that
I have, is, a fine gentleman, a boot-jack, and a hair-comb.
If I only had the barony!’
‘Do you seek my hand?’ said the scissors; for she was
angry; and without more ado, she CUT HIM, and then
he was condemned.
‘I shall now be obliged to ask the hair-comb. It is
surprising how well you preserve your teeth, Miss,’ said
the collar. ‘Have you never thought of being betrothed?’
‘Yes, of course! you may be sure of that,’ said the haircomb.
‘I AM betrothed—to the boot-jack!’
‘Betrothed!’ exclaimed the collar. Now there was no
other to court, and so he despised it.
A long time passed away, then the collar came into the
rag chest at the paper mill; there was a large company of
rags, the fine by themselves, and the coarse by themselves,
just as it should be. They all had much to say, but the
collar the most; for he was a real boaster.
‘I have had such an immense number of sweethearts!’
said the collar. ‘I could not be in peace! It is true, I was
always a fine starched-up gentleman! I had both a bootjack
and a hair-comb, which I never used! You should
have seen me then, you should have seen me when I lay
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down! I shall never forget MY FIRST LOVE—she was a
girdle, so fine, so soft, and so charming, she threw herself
into a tub of water for my sake! There was also a widow,
who became glowing hot, but I left her standing till she
got black again; there was also the first opera dancer, she
gave me that cut which I now go with, she was so
ferocious! My own hair-comb was in love with me, she
lost all her teeth from the heart-ache; yes, I have lived to
see much of that sort of thing; but I am extremely sorry
for the garter—I mean the girdle—that went into the
water-tub. I have much on my conscience, I want to
become white paper!’
And it became so, all the rags were turned into white
paper; but the collar came to be just this very piece of
white paper we here see, and on which the story is
printed; and that was because it boasted so terribly
afterwards of what had never happened to it. It would be
well for us to beware, that we may not act in a similar
manner, for we can never know if we may not, in the
course of time, also come into the rag chest, and be made
into white paper, and then have our whole life’s history
printed on it, even the most secret, and be obliged to run
about and tell it ourselves, just like this collar.
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THE SHADOW
It is in the hot lands that the sun burns, sure enough!
there the people become quite a mahogany brown, ay,
and in the HOTTEST lands they are burnt to Negroes.
But now it was only to the HOT lands that a learned man
had come from the cold; there he thought that he could
run about just as when at home, but he soon found out his
mistake.
He, and all sensible folks, were obliged to stay within
doors—the window-shutters and doors were closed the
whole day; it looked as if the whole house slept, or there
was no one at home.
The narrow street with the high houses, was built so
that the sunshine must fall there from morning till
evening—it was really not to be borne.
The learned man from the cold lands—he was a young
man, and seemed to be a clever man—sat in a glowing
oven; it took effect on him, he became quite meagre—
even his shadow shrunk in, for the sun had also an effect
on it. It was first towards evening when the sun was
down, that they began to freshen up again.
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In the warm lands every window has a balcony, and the
people came out on all the balconies in the street—for one
must have air, even if one be accustomed to be
mahogany!* It was lively both up and down the street.
Tailors, and shoemakers, and all the folks, moved out into
the street—chairs and tables were brought forth—and
candles burnt—yes, above a thousand lights were
burning—and the one talked and the other sung; and
people walked and church-bells rang, and asses went along
with a dingle-dingle-dong! for they too had bells on. The
street boys were screaming and hooting, and shouting and
shooting, with devils and detonating balls—and there
came corpse bearers and hood wearers—for there were
funerals with psalm and hymn—and then the din of
carriages driving and company arriving: yes, it was, in
truth, lively enough down in the street. Only in that single
house, which stood opposite that in which the learned
foreigner lived, it was quite still; and yet some one lived
there, for there stood flowers in the balcony—they grew
so well in the sun’s heat! and that they could not do unless
they were watered—and some one must water them—
there must be somebody there. The door opposite was
also opened late in the evening, but it was dark within, at
least in the front room; further in there was heard the
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sound of music. The learned foreigner thought it quite
marvellous, but now—it might be that he only imagined
it—for he found everything marvellous out there, in the
warm lands, if there had only been no sun. The stranger’s
landlord said that he didn’t know who had taken the
house opposite, one saw no person about, and as to the
music, it appeared to him to be extremely tiresome. ‘It is
as if some one sat there, and practised a piece that he could
not master—always the same piece. ‘I shall master it!’ says
he; but yet he cannot master it, however long he plays.’
* The word mahogany can be understood, in Danish,
as having two meanings. In general, it means the reddishbrown
wood itself; but in jest, it signifies ‘excessively fine,’
which arose from an anecdote of Nyboder, in
Copenhagen, (the seamen’s quarter.) A sailor’s wife, who
was always proud and fine, in her way, came to her
neighbor, and complained that she had got a splinter in
her finger. ‘What of?’ asked the neighbor’s wife. ‘It is a
mahogany splinter,’ said the other. ‘Mahogany! It cannot
be less with you!’ exclaimed the woman-and thence the
proverb, ‘It is so mahogany!’-(that is, so excessively fine)—
is derived.
One night the stranger awoke—he slept with the doors
of the balcony open—the curtain before it was raised by
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the wind, and he thought that a strange lustre came from
the opposite neighbor’s house; all the flowers shone like
flames, in the most beautiful colors, and in the midst of the
flowers stood a slender, graceful maiden—it was as if she
also shone; the light really hurt his eyes. He now opened
them quite wide—yes, he was quite awake; with one
spring he was on the floor; he crept gently behind the
curtain, but the maiden was gone; the flowers shone no
longer, but there they stood, fresh and blooming as ever;
the door was ajar, and, far within, the music sounded so
soft and delightful, one could really melt away in sweet
thoughts from it. Yet it was like a piece of enchantment.
And who lived there? Where was the actual entrance? The
whole of the ground-floor was a row of shops, and there
people could not always be running through.
One evening the stranger sat out on the balcony. The
light burnt in the room behind him; and thus it was quite
natural that his shadow should fall on his opposite
neighbor’s wall. Yes! there it sat, directly opposite,
between the flowers on the balcony; and when the
stranger moved, the shadow also moved: for that it always
does.
‘I think my shadow is the only living thing one sees
over there,’ said the learned man. ‘See, how nicely it sits
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between the flowers. The door stands half-open: now the
shadow should be cunning, and go into the room, look
about, and then come and tell me what it had seen. Come,
now! Be useful, and do me a service,’ said he, in jest.
‘Have the kindness to step in. Now! Art thou going?’ and
then he nodded to the shadow, and the shadow nodded
again. ‘Well then, go! But don’t stay away.’
The stranger rose, and his shadow on the opposite
neighbor’s balcony rose also; the stranger turned round
and the shadow also turned round. Yes! if anyone had paid
particular attention to it, they would have seen, quite
distinctly, that the shadow went in through the half-open
balcony-door of their opposite neighbor, just as the
stranger went into his own room, and let the long curtain
fall down after him.
Next morning, the learned man went out to drink
coffee and read the newspapers.
‘What is that?’ said he, as he came out into the
sunshine. ‘I have no shadow! So then, it has actually gone
last night, and not come again. It is really tiresome!’
This annoyed him: not so much because the shadow
was gone, but because he knew there was a story about a
man without a shadow.* It was known to everybody at
home, in the cold lands; and if the learned man now came
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there and told his story, they would say that he was
imitating it, and that he had no need to do. He would,
therefore, not talk about it at all; and that was wisely
thought.
*Peter Schlemihl, the shadowless man.
In the evening he went out again on the balcony. He
had placed the light directly behind him, for he knew that
the shadow would always have its master for a screen, but
he could not entice it. He made himself little; he made
himself great: but no shadow came again. He said, ‘Hem!
hem!’ but it was of no use.
It was vexatious; but in the warm lands everything
grows so quickly; and after the lapse of eight days he
observed, to his great joy, that a new shadow came in the
sunshine. In the course of three weeks he had a very fair
shadow, which, when he set out for his home in the
northern lands, grew more and more in the journey, so
that at last it was so long and so large, that it was more
than sufficient.
The learned man then came home, and he wrote books
about what was true in the world, and about what was
good and what was beautiful; and there passed days and
years—yes! many years passed away.
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One evening, as he was sitting in his room, there was a
gentle knocking at the door.
‘Come in!’ said he; but no one came in; so he opened
the door, and there stood before him such an extremely
lean man, that he felt quite strange. As to the rest, the man
was very finely dressed—he must be a gentleman.
‘Whom have I the honor of speaking?’ asked the
learned man.
‘Yes! I thought as much,’ said the fine man. ‘I thought
you would not know me. I have got so much body. I
have even got flesh and clothes. You certainly never
thought of seeing me so well off. Do you not know your
old shadow? You certainly thought I should never more
return. Things have gone on well with me since I was last
with you. I have, in all respects, become very well off.
Shall I purchase my freedom from service? If so, I can do
it"; and then he rattled a whole bunch of valuable seals
that hung to his watch, and he stuck his hand in the thick
gold chain he wore around his neck—nay! how all his
fingers glittered with diamond rings; and then all were
pure gems.
‘Nay; I cannot recover from my surprise!’ said the
learned man. ‘What is the meaning of all this?’
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‘Something common, is it not,’ said the shadow. ‘But
you yourself do not belong to the common order; and I,
as you know well, have from a child followed in your
footsteps. As soon as you found I was capable to go out
alone in the world, I went my own way. I am in the most
brilliant circumstances, but there came a sort of desire over
me to see you once more before you die; you will die, I
suppose? I also wished to see this land again—for you
know we always love our native land. I know you have
got another shadow again; have I anything to pay to it or
you? If so, you will oblige me by saying what it is.’
‘Nay, is it really thou?’ said the learned man. ‘It is most
remarkable: I never imagined that one’s old shadow could
come again as a man.’
‘Tell me what I have to pay,’ said the shadow; ‘for I
don’t like to be in any sort of debt.’
‘How canst thou talk so?’ said the learned man. ‘What
debt is there to talk about? Make thyself as free as anyone
else. I am extremely glad to hear of thy good fortune: sit
down, old friend, and tell me a little how it has gone with
thee, and what thou hast seen at our opposite neighbor’s
there—in the warm lands.’
‘Yes, I will tell you all about it,’ said the shadow, and
sat down: ‘but then you must also promise me, that,
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wherever you may meet me, you will never say to anyone
here in the town that I have been your shadow. I intend
to get betrothed, for I can provide for more than one
family.’
‘Be quite at thy ease about that,’ said the learned man;
‘I shall not say to anyone who thou actually art: here is my
hand—I promise it, and a man’s bond is his word.’
‘A word is a shadow,’ said the shadow, ‘and as such it
must speak.’
It was really quite astonishing how much of a man it
was. It was dressed entirely in black, and of the very finest
cloth; it had patent leather boots, and a hat that could be
folded together, so that it was bare crown and brim; not to
speak of what we already know it had—seals, gold neckchain,
and diamond rings; yes, the shadow was welldressed,
and it was just that which made it quite a man.
‘Now I shall tell you my adventures,’ said the shadow;
and then he sat, with the polished boots, as heavily as he
could, on the arm of the learned man’s new shadow,
which lay like a poodle-dog at his feet. Now this was
perhaps from arrogance; and the shadow on the ground
kept itself so still and quiet, that it might hear all that
passed: it wished to know how it could get free, and work
its way up, so as to become its own master.
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‘Do you know who lived in our opposite neighbor’s
house?’ said the shadow. ‘It was the most charming of all
beings, it was Poesy! I was there for three weeks, and that
has as much effect as if one had lived three thousand years,
and read all that was composed and written; that is what I
say, and it is right. I have seen everything and I know
everything!’
‘Poesy!’ cried the learned man. ‘Yes, yes, she often
dwells a recluse in large cities! Poesy! Yes, I have seen
her—a single short moment, but sleep came into my eyes!
She stood on the balcony and shone as the Aurora Borealis
shines. Go on, go on—thou wert on the balcony, and
went through the doorway, and then—‘
‘Then I was in the antechamber,’ said the shadow.
‘You always sat and looked over to the antechamber.
There was no light; there was a sort of twilight, but the
one door stood open directly opposite the other through a
long row of rooms and saloons, and there it was lighted
up. I should have been completely killed if I had gone
over to the maiden; but I was circumspect, I took time to
think, and that one must always do.’
‘And what didst thou then see?’ asked the learned man.
‘I saw everything, and I shall tell all to you: but—it is
no pride on my part—as a free man, and with the
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