On the shop counter lay two gingerbread cakes. One was the shape of a man
with a hat, the other of a maiden without a bonnet. Both their faces were
on the side that was turned up, for they were to be looked at on that
side, and not on the other. On the left the man wore a bitter almond—that
was his heart. The maiden was honey-cake all over.
As they were only samples, they stayed on the counter a long time. And,
at last, they fell in love with each other. But neither told the other,
as should have been done, if anything was to come of it.
“He is a man and must speak first,” thought she. But she was happy, for
she knew he loved her.
His thoughts were far more extravagant; that is the way with men. He
dreamed that he was a real street boy, and that he had four pennies of
his own, and that he bought the sweet maiden and ate her up.
So they lay on the counter for weeks and weeks, and grew dry and hard.
But the thoughts of the maiden became ever more gentle and maidenly. “It
is enough for me that I have lived on the same table with him,” she said,
and—crack! she broke in two.
“If she had only known of my love,” thought he, “she would have kept
together a little longer.”
* * * * *
“And that is their story, and here they are, both of them,” said the
baker, for it was he who was telling the story. “They are remarkable for
their curious history, and for their silent love, which never came to
anything. There they are for you.” So saying, he gave the man, who was
yet whole, to Joanna, and the broken maiden to Knud.
But the children were so impressed with the story that they could only
look at them, they could not eat them up just yet.
—HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN