sumptuous banquet was served up, and the loveliest maidens danced round
the bride; she was led through fragrant gardens into magnificent halls,
but not a smile was seen to play upon her lips or beam from her eyes.
The King then opened a small room next her sleeping apartment; it was
adorned with costly green tapestry, and exactly resembled the cave in
which she had been found; upon the ground lay the bundle of yarn which
she had spun from the nettles, and by the wall hung the shirt she had
completed. One of the hunters had brought all this, thinking there must
be something wonderful in it.
‘Here thou mayest dream of thy former home,’ said the King; ‘here is the
work which employed thee; amidst all thy present splendour it may
sometimes give thee pleasure to fancy thyself there again.’
When Elise saw what was so dear to her heart, she smiled, and the blood
returned to her cheeks; she thought her brothers might still be
released, and she kissed the King’s hand; he pressed her to his heart
and ordered the bells of all the churches in the city to be rung, to
announce the celebration of their wedding. The beautiful dumb maiden of
the wood was to become Queen of the land.
The Archbishop whispered evil words in the King’s ear, but they made no
impression upon him; the marriage was solemnised, and the Archbishop
himself was obliged to put the crown upon her head. In his rage he
pressed the narrow rim so firmly on her forehead that it hurt her; but a
heavier weight (sorrow for her brothers) lay upon her heart, she did not
feel bodily pain. She was still silent, a single word would have killed
her brothers; her eyes, however, beamed with heartfelt love to the King,
so good and handsome, who had done so much to make her happy. She became
more warmly attached to him every day. Oh, how much she wished she might
confide to him all her sorrows! but she was forced to remain silent,
she could not speak until her work was completed. To this end she stole
away every night, and went into the little room that was fitted up in
imitation of the cave; there she worked at her shirts, but by the time
she had begun the seventh all her yarn was spent.
She knew that the nettles she needed grew in the church-yard, but she
must gather them herself; how was she to get them?
‘Oh, what is the pain in my fingers compared to the anguish my heart
suffers?’ thought she. ‘I must venture to the church-yard; the good God
will not withdraw His protection from me!’
Fearful as though she were about to do something wrong, one moonlight
night she crept down to the garden, and through the long avenues got
into the lonely road leading to the church-yard. She saw sitting on one
of the broadest tombstones a number of ugly old witches. They took off
their ragged clothes as if they were going to bathe, and digging with
their long lean fingers into the fresh grass, drew up the dead bodies
and devoured the flesh. Elise was obliged to pass close by them, and the
witches fixed their wicked eyes upon her; but she repeated her prayer,
gathered the stinging-nettles, and took them back with her into the
palace. One person only had seen her; it was the Archbishop, he was
awake when others slept; now he was convinced that all was not right
about the Queen: she must be a witch, who had through her enchantments
infatuated the King, and all the people.
In the Confessional he told the King what he had seen, and what he
feared; and when the slanderous words came from his lips, the sculptured
images of the saints shook their heads as though they would say, ‘It is
untrue, Elise is innocent!’ But the Archbishop explained the omen quite
otherwise; he thought it was a testimony against her that the holy
images shook their heads at hearing of her sin.
Two large tears rolled down the King’s cheeks. He returned home in
doubt; he pretended to sleep at night, though sleep never visited him;
and he noticed that Elise rose from her bed every night, and every time
he followed her secretly and saw her enter her little room.
His countenance became darker every day; Elise perceived it, though she
knew not the cause. She was much pained, and besides, what did she not
suffer in her heart for her brothers! Her bitter tears ran down on the
royal velvet and purple; they looked like bright diamonds, and all who
saw the magnificence that surrounded her, wished themselves in her
place. She had now nearly finished her work, only one shirt was wanting;
unfortunately, yarn was wanting also, she had not a single nettle left.
Once more, only this one time, she must go to the church-yard and gather
a few handfuls. She shuddered when she thought of the solitary walk and
of the horrid witches, but her resolution was as firm as her trust in
God.
Elise went; the King and the Archbishop followed her; they saw her
disappear at the church-yard door, and when they came nearer, they saw
the witches sitting on the tombstones as Elise had seen them, and the
King turned away, for he believed her whose head had rested on his bosom
that very evening to be amongst them. ‘Let the people judge her!’ said
he. And the people condemned her to be burnt.
She was now dragged from the King’s sumptuous apartments into a dark,
damp prison, where the wind whistled through the grated window. Instead
of velvet and silk, they gave her the bundle of nettles she had
gathered; on that must she lay her head, the shirts she had woven must
serve her as mattress and counterpane;--but they could not have given
her anything she valued so much; and she continued her work, at the same
time praying earnestly to her God. The boys sang scandalous songs about
her in front of her prison; not a soul comforted her with one word of
love.
[Illustration: I MUST VENTURE TO THE CHURCH-YARD]
Towards evening she heard the rustling of Swans’ wings at the grating.
It was the youngest of her brothers, who had at last found his sister,
and she sobbed aloud for joy, although she knew that the coming night
would probably be the last of her life; but then her work was almost
finished and her brother was near.
The Archbishop came in order to spend the last hour with her; he had
promised the King he would; but she shook her head and entreated him
with her eyes and gestures to go--this night she must finish her work,
or all she had suffered, her pain, her anxiety, her sleepless nights,
would be in vain. The Archbishop went away with many angry words, but
the unfortunate Elise knew herself to be perfectly innocent, and went on
with her work.
Little mice ran busily about and dragged the nettles to her feet,
wishing to help her; and the thrush perched on the iron bars of the
window, and sang all night as merrily as he could, that Elise might not
lose courage.
It was still twilight, just one hour before sunrise, when the eleven
brothers stood before the palace gates, requesting an audience with the
King; but it could not be, they were told, it was still night, the King
was asleep, and they dared not wake him. They entreated, they
threatened, the guard came up, the King himself at last stepped out to
ask what was the matter,--at that moment the sun rose, the brothers
could be seen no longer, and eleven white Swans flew away over the
palace.
The people poured forth from the gates of the city; they wished to see
the witch burnt. One wretched horse drew the cart in which Elise was
placed; a coarse frock of sackcloth had been put on her, her beautiful
long hair hung loosely over her shoulders, her cheeks were of a deadly
paleness, her lips moved gently, and her fingers wove the green yarn:
even on her way to her cruel death she did not give up her work; the ten
shirts lay at her feet, she was now labouring to complete the eleventh.
The rabble insulted her.
‘Look at the witch, how she mutters! She has not a hymn-book in her
hand, no, there she sits with her accursed hocus-pocus. Tear it from
her, tear it into a thousand pieces!’
And they all crowded about her, and were on the point of snatching away
the shirts, when eleven white Swans came flying towards the cart; they
settled all round her, and flapped their wings. The crowd gave way in
terror.
‘It is a sign from Heaven! she is certainly innocent!’ whispered some;
they dared not say so aloud.
The Sheriff now seized her by the hand--in a moment she threw the eleven
shirts over the Swans, and eleven handsome Princes appeared in their
place. The youngest had, however, only one arm, and a wing instead of
the other, for one sleeve was deficient in his shirt, it had not been
quite finished.
‘Now I may speak,’ said she: ‘I am innocent!’
And the people who had seen what had happened bowed before her as before
a saint. She, however, sank lifeless in her brothers’ arms; suspense,
fear, and grief had quite exhausted her.
‘Yes, she is innocent,’ said her eldest brother, and he now related
their wonderful history. Whilst he spoke a fragrance as delicious as
though it proceeded from millions of roses, diffused itself around, for
every piece of wood in the funeral pile had taken root and sent forth
branches, a hedge of blooming red roses surrounded Elise, and above all
the others blossomed a flower of dazzling white colour, bright as a
star; the King plucked it and laid it on Elise’s bosom, whereupon she
awoke from her trance with peace and joy in her heart.
And all the church-bells began to ring of their own accord, and birds
flew to the spot in swarms, and there was a festive procession back to
the palace, such as no King has ever seen equalled.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: I HAVE SCARCELY CLOSED MY EYES THE WHOLE NIGHT THROUGH]
THE REAL PRINCESS
There was once a Prince who wished to marry a Princess; but then she
must be a real Princess. He travelled all over the world in hopes of
finding such a lady; but there was always something wrong. Princesses he
found in plenty; but whether they were real Princesses it was impossible
for him to decide, for now one thing, now another, seemed to him not
quite right about the ladies. At last he returned to his palace quite
cast down, because he wished so much to have a real Princess for his
wife.
One evening a fearful tempest arose; it thundered and lightened, and the
rain poured down from the sky in torrents; besides, it was as dark as
pitch. All at once there was heard a violent knocking at the door, and
the old King, the Prince’s father, went out himself to open it.
It was a Princess who was standing outside the door. What with the rain
and the wind, she was in a sad condition: the water trickled down from
her hair, and her clothes clung to her body. She said she was a real
Princess.
‘Ah, we shall soon see that!’ thought the old Queen-mother; however, she
said not a word of what she was going to do, but went quietly into the
bedroom, took all the bedclothes off the bed, and put three little peas
on the bedstead. She then laid twenty mattresses one upon another over
the three peas, and put twenty feather-beds over the mattresses.
Upon this bed the Princess was to pass the night.
[Illustration]
The next morning she was asked how she had slept. ‘Oh, very badly
indeed!’ she replied. ‘I have scarcely closed my eyes the whole night
through. I do not know what was in my bed, but I had something hard
under me, and am all over black and blue. It has hurt me so much!’
[Illustration: THE OLD KING HIMSELF WENT OUT TO OPEN IT]
Now it was plain that the lady must be a real Princess, since she had
been able to feel the three little peas through the twenty mattresses
and twenty feather-beds. None but a real Princess could have had such a
delicate sense of feeling.
[Illustration: THE PEAS WERE PRESERVED IN THE CABINET OF CURIOSITIES]
The Prince accordingly made her his wife, being now convinced that he
had found a real Princess. The three peas were, however, put into the
cabinet of curiosities, where they are still to be seen, provided they
are not lost.
Was not this a lady of real delicacy?
[Illustration: KAREN]
THE RED SHOES
There was once a little girl, very pretty and delicate, but so poor that
in summer-time she always went barefoot, and in winter wore large wooden
shoes, so that her little ankles grew quite red and sore.
In the village dwelt the shoemaker’s mother. She sat down one day and
made out of some old pieces of red cloth a pair of little shoes; they
were clumsy enough, certainly, but they fitted the little girl tolerably
well, and she gave them to her. The little girl’s name was Karen.
It was the day of her mother’s funeral when the red shoes were given to
Karen; they were not at all suitable for mourning, but she had no
others, and in them she walked with bare legs behind the miserable straw
bier.
Just then a large old carriage rolled by; in it sat a large old lady;
she looked at the little girl and pitied her, and she said to the
priest, ‘Give me the little girl and I will take care of her.’
And Karen thought it was all for the sake of the red shoes that the old
lady had taken this fancy to her, but the old lady said they were
frightful, and they were burnt. And Karen was dressed very neatly; she
was taught to read and to work; and people told her she was pretty--but
the mirror said, ‘Thou art more than pretty, thou art beautiful!’
It happened one day that the Queen travelled through that part of the
country with her little daughter, the Princess; and all the people,
Karen amongst them, crowded in front of
[Illustration]
the palace, whilst the little Princess stood, dressed in white, at a
window, for every one to see her. She wore neither train nor gold crown;
but on her feet were pretty red morocco shoes, much prettier ones indeed
than those the shoemaker’s mother had made for little Karen. Nothing in
the world could be compared to these red shoes!
Karen was now old enough to be confirmed, she was to have both new frock
and new shoes. The rich shoemaker in the town took the measure of her
little foot. Large glass cases full of neat shoes and shining boots were
fixed round the room; however, the old lady’s sight was not very good,
and, naturally enough, she had not so much pleasure in looking at them
as Karen had. Amongst the shoes was a pair of red ones, just like those
worn by the Princess. How gay they were! and the shoemaker said they had
been made for a count’s daughter, but had not quite fitted her.
‘They are of polished leather,’ said the old lady, ‘see how they shine!’
‘Yes, they shine beautifully!’ exclaimed Karen. And as the shoes fitted
her, they were bought; but the old lady did not know that they were red,
for she would never have suffered Karen to go to confirmation in red
shoes. But Karen did so. Everybody looked at her feet, and as she walked
up the nave to the chancel, it seemed to her that even the antique
sculptured figures on the monuments, with their stiff ruffs and long
black robes, fixed their eyes on her red shoes. Of them only she thought
when the Bishop laid his hand on her head, when he spoke of Holy
Baptism, of her covenant with God, and how that she must now be a
full-grown Christian. The organ sent forth its deep, solemn tones, the
children’s sweet voices mingled with those of the choristers, but Karen
still thought only of her red shoes.
[Illustration: AND KAREN WAS DRESSED VERY NEATLY]
That afternoon, when the old lady was told that Karen had worn red shoes
at her confirmation, she was much vexed, and told Karen that they were
quite unsuitable, and that, henceforward, whenever she went to church,
she must wear black shoes, were they ever so old.
Next Sunday was the communion day. Karen looked first at the red shoes,
then at the black ones, then at the red again, and--put them on.
It was beautiful sunshiny weather; Karen and the old lady walked to
church through the corn-fields; the path was very dusty.
At the church door stood an old soldier; he was leaning on crutches, and
had a marvellously long beard, not white, but reddish-hued, and he bowed
almost to the earth, and asked the old lady if he might wipe the dust
off her shoes. And Karen put out her little foot also. ‘Oh, what pretty
dancing-shoes!’ quoth the old soldier; ‘take care, and mind you do not
let them slip off when you dance’; and he passed his hands over them.
The old lady gave the soldier a halfpenny, and then went with Karen into
church.
And every one looked at Karen’s red shoes; and all the carved figures,
too, bent their gaze upon them; and when Karen knelt before the altar,
the red shoes still floated before her eyes; she thought of them and of
them only, and she forgot to join in the hymn of praise--she forgot to
repeat ‘Our Father.’
At last all the people came out of church, and the old lady got into her
carriage. Karen was just lifting her foot to follow her, when the old
soldier standing in the porch exclaimed, ‘Only look, what pretty
dancing-shoes!’ And Karen could not help it, she felt she must make a
few of her dancing steps; and after she had once begun, her feet
continued to move, just as though the shoes had received power over
them; she danced round the church-yard, she could not stop. The coachman
was obliged to run after her; he took hold of her and lifted her into
the carriage, but the feet still continued to dance, so as to kick the
good old lady most cruelly. At last the shoes were taken off, and the
feet had rest.
[Illustration: KAREN AND THE OLD LADY WALKED TO CHURCH]
And now the shoes were put away in a press, but Karen could not help
going to look at them every now and then.
The old lady lay ill in bed; the doctor said she could not live much
longer. She certainly needed careful nursing, and who should be her
nurse and constant attendant but Karen? But there was to be a grand ball
in the town. Karen was invited; she looked at the old lady who was
almost dying--she looked at the red shoes--she put them on, there could
be no harm in doing that, at least; she went to the ball, and began to
dance. But when she wanted to move to the right, the shoes bore her to
the left; and when she would dance up the room, the shoes danced down
the room, danced down the stairs, through the streets, and through the
gates of the town. Dance she did, and dance she must, straight out into
the dark wood.
Something all at once shone through the trees. She thought at first it
must be the moon’s bright face, shining blood-red through the night
mists; but no, it was the old soldier with the red beard--he sat there,
nodding at her, and repeating, ‘Only look, what pretty dancing-shoes!’
She was very much frightened, and tried to throw off her red shoes, but
could not unclasp them. She hastily tore off her stockings; but the
shoes she could not get rid of--they had, it seemed, grown on to her
feet. Dance she did, and dance she must, over field and meadow, in rain
and in sunshine, by night and by day. By night! that was most horrible!
She danced into the lonely church-yard, but the dead there danced not,
they were at rest. She would fain have sat down on the poor man’s grave,
where the bitter tansy grew, but for her there was neither rest nor
respite. She danced past the open church door; there she saw an angel,
clad in long white robes, and with wings that reached from his shoulders
to the earth; his countenance was grave and stern, and in his hand he
held a broad glittering sword.
‘Dance thou shalt,’ said he; ‘dance on, in thy red shoes, till thou art
pale and cold, and thy skin shrinks and crumples up like a skeleton’s!
Dance thou shalt still, from door to door, and wherever proud, vain
children live thou shalt knock, so that they may hear thee and fear!
Dance shalt thou, dance on----’
‘Mercy!’ cried Karen; but she heard not the angel’s answer, for the
shoes carried her through the gate, into the fields, along highways and
by-ways, and still she must dance.
One morning she danced past a door she knew well; she heard
psalm-singing from within, and presently a coffin, strewn with flowers,
was borne out. Then Karen knew that the good old lady was dead, and she
felt herself a thing forsaken by all mankind, and accursed by the Angel
of God.
[Illustration: HE SAT THERE NODDING AT HER]
Dance she did, and dance she must, even through the dark night; the
shoes bore her continually over thorns and briars, till her limbs were
torn and bleeding. Away she danced over the heath to a little solitary
house; she knew that the headsman dwelt there, and she tapped with her
fingers against the panes, crying--
‘Come out! come out!--I cannot come in to you, I am dancing.’
And the headsman replied, ‘Surely thou knowest not who I am. I cut off
the heads of wicked men, and my axe is very sharp and keen.’
‘Cut not off my head!’ said Karen; ‘for then I could not live to repent
of my sin; but cut off my feet with the red shoes.’
And then she confessed to him all her sin, and the headsman cut off her
feet with the red shoes on them; but even after this the shoes still
danced away with those little feet over the fields, and into the deep
forests.
And the headsman made her a pair of wooden feet and hewed down some
boughs to serve her as crutches, and he taught her the psalm which is
always repeated by criminals, and she kissed the hand that had guided
the axe, and went her way over the heath. ‘Now I have certainly suffered
quite enough through the red shoes,’ thought Karen, ‘I will go to church
and let people see me once more!’ and she went as fast as she could to
the church-porch, but as she approached it, the red shoes danced before
her and she was frightened and turned her back.
All that week through she endured the keenest anguish and shed many
bitter tears; however, when Sunday came, she said to herself, ‘Well, I
must have suffered and striven enough by this time, I dare say I am
quite as good as many of those who are holding their heads so high in
church.’ So she took courage and went there, but she had not passed the
churchyard gate before she saw the red shoes again dancing before her,
and in great terror she again turned back, and more deeply than ever
bewailed her sin.
She then went to the pastor’s house, and begged that some employment
might be given her, promising to work diligently and do all she could;
she did not wish for any wages, she said, she only wanted a roof to
shelter her, and to dwell with good people. And the pastor’s wife had
pity on her, and took her into her service. And Karen was grateful and
industrious.
Every evening she sat silently listening to the pastor, while he read
the Holy Scriptures aloud. All the children loved her, but when she
heard them talk about dress and finery, and about being as beautiful as
a queen, she would sorrowfully shake her head.
[Illustration: DANCE SHE MUST, OVER FIELD AND MEADOW]
Again Sunday came, all the pastor’s household went to church, and they
asked her if she would not go too, but she sighed and looked with tears
in her eyes upon her crutches.
When they were all gone, she went into her own little, lowly chamber--it
was but just large enough to contain a bed and chair--and there she sat
down with her psalm-book in her hand, and whilst she was meekly and
devoutly reading in it, the wind wafted the tones of the organ from the
church into her room, and she lifted up her face to heaven and prayed,
with tears, ‘O God, help me!’
Then the sun shone brightly, so brightly!--and behold! close before her
stood the white-robed Angel of God, the same whom she had seen on that
night of horror at the church-porch, but his hand wielded not now, as
then, a sharp, threatening sword--he held a lovely green bough, full of
roses. With this he touched the ceiling, which immediately rose to a
great height, a bright gold star spangling in the spot where the Angel’s
green bough had touched it. And he touched the walls, whereupon the room
widened, and Karen saw the organ, the old monuments, and the
congregation all sitting in their richly carved seats and singing from
their psalm-books.
For the church had come home to the poor girl in her narrow chamber, or
rather the chamber had grown, as it were, into the church; she sat with
the rest of the pastor’s household, and, when the psalm was ended, they
looked up and nodded to her, saying, ‘Thou didst well to come, Karen!’
‘This is mercy!’ said she.
And the organ played again, and the children’s voices in the choir
mingled so sweetly and plaintively with it! The bright sunbeams streamed
warmly through the windows upon Karen’s seat; her heart was so full of
sunshine, of peace and gladness, that it broke; her soul flew upon a
sunbeam to her Father in heaven, where not a look of reproach awaited
her, not a word was breathed of the red shoes.
[Illustration: TWO ROGUES CALLING THEMSELVES WEAVERS MADE THEIR
APPEARANCE]
THE EMPEROR’S NEW CLOTHES