In his stories we meet with beginnings like this: "Any one might
have supposed that something very extraordinary had happened in the
duck-pond, there was such a commotion. All the ducks--some swimming,
some standing in the pond with their heads downward--suddenly jumped
on land, leaving the traces of their feet in the wet clay, and sending
forth a loud, startled cry," or like the following: "Now, then, let
us begin. When we are at the end of the story, we shall know more
than we know now: but to begin. Once upon a time there was a wicked
sprite, indeed, he was the most mischievous of all sprites!" The
construction, the position of the words in individual sentences, the
entire arrangement, is at variance with the simplest rules of syntax.
"This is not the way people write." That is true; but it is the way
they speak. To grown people? No, but to children; and why should it not
be proper to commit the words to writing in the same order in which
they are spoken to children? In such a case the usual form is simply
exchanged for another; not the rules of abstract written language, but
the power of comprehension of the child is here the determining factor;
there is method in this disorder, as there is method in the grammatical
blunder of the child when it makes use of a regular imperfect for an
irregular verb. To replace the accepted written language with the
free, unrestrained language of familiar conversation, to exchange the
more rigid form of expression of grown people for such as a child
uses and understands, becomes the true goal of the author as soon as
he embraces the resolution to tell nursery stories for children? He
has the bold intention to employ oral speech in a printed work, he
will not write but speak, and he will gladly write as a school-child
writes, if he can thus avoid speaking as a book speaks. The written
word is poor and insufficient, the oral has a host of allies in the
expression of the mouth that imitates the object to which the discourse
relates, in the movement of the hand that describes it, in the length
or shortness of the tone of the voice, in its sharp or gentle, grave
or droll character, in the entire play of the features, and in the
whole bearing. The nearer to a state of nature the being addressed,
the greater aids to comprehension are these auxiliaries. Whoever tells
a story to a child, involuntarily accompanies the narrative with many
gestures and grimaces, for the child sees the story quite as much as
it hears it, paying heed, almost in the same way as the dog, rather to
the tender or irritated intonation, than to whether the words express
friendliness or wrath. Whoever, therefore, addresses himself in writing
to a child must have at his command the changeful cadence, the sudden
pauses, the descriptive gesticulations, the awe-inspiring mien, the
smile which betrays the happy turn of affairs, the jest, the caress,
and the appeal to rouse the flagging attention--all these he must
endeavor to weave into his diction, and as he cannot directly sing,
paint, or dance the occurrences to the child, he must imprison within
his prose the song, the picture, and the pantomimic movements, that
they may lie there like forces in bonds, and rise up in their might
as soon as the book is opened. In the first place, no circumlocution;
everything must be spoken fresh from the lips of the narrator, aye,
more than spoken, growled, buzzed, and blown as from a trumpet: "There
came a soldier marching along the high-road--_one, two! one, two!_"
"And the carved trumpeters blew, 'Trateratra! there is the little boy!
Trateratra!'"--"Listen how it is drumming on the burdock-leaves,
rum-dum-dum! ram-dum-dum!' said the Father Snail." At one time he
begins, as in "The Daisy," with a "Now you shall hear!" which at once
arrests the attention; and again he jests after the fashion of a
child: "So the soldier cut the witch's head off. There she lay!" We
can hear the laughter of the child that follows this brief, not very
sympathetic, yet extremely clear presentation of the destruction of an
imposter. Often he breaks into a sentimental tone, as for instance:
"The sun shone on the Flax, and the rain-clouds moistened it, and this
was just as good for it as it is for little children when they are
washed, and afterward get a kiss from their mother; they become much
prettier, and so did the Flax." That at this passage a pause should be
made in the narrative, in order to give the child the kiss mentioned
in the text, is something to which every mother will agree, and which
seems to be a matter of course; the kiss is really given in the book.
This regard for the young reader may be carried still farther, inasmuch
as the poet, by virtue of his ready sympathy, so wholly identifies
himself with the child and enters so fully into the sphere of its
conceptions, into its mode of contemplation, indeed, into the range
of its purely bodily vision, that a sentence like the following may
readily flow from his pen: "The biggest leaf here in the country is
certainly the burdock-leaf. Put one in front of your waist, and it is
just like an apron, and if you lay it upon your head, it is almost as
good as an umbrella, for it is quite remarkably large." These are words
which a child, and every child, can understand.
Happy, indeed, is Andersen! What author has such a public as he? What
is, in comparison, the success of a man of science, especially of one
who writes within a limited territory for a public that neither reads
nor values him, and who is read by four or five--rivals and opponents!
A poet is, generally speaking, more favorably situated; but although
it is a piece of good fortune to be read by men, and although it is an
enviable lot to know that the leaves of our books are turned by dainty
fingers which have employed silken threads as book-marks, nevertheless
no one can boast of so fresh and eager a circle of readers as Andersen
is sure of finding. His stories are numbered among the books which we
have deciphered syllable by syllable, and which we still read to-day.
There are some among them whose letters even now, seem to us larger,
whose words appear to have more value than all others, because we
first made their acquaintance letter by letter and word by word. And
what a delight it must have been for Andersen to see in his dreams
this swarm of children's faces by the thousands about his lamp, this
throng of blooming, rosy-cheeked little curly-pates, as in the clouds
of a Catholic altar-piece, flaxen-haired Danish boys, tender English
babies, black-eyed Hindoo maidens,--rich and poor, spelling, reading,
listening, in all lands, in all tongues, now healthy and merry, weary
from sport, now sickly, pale, with transparent skin, after one of
the numberless illnesses with which the children of this earth are
visited,--and to see them eagerly stretch forth this confusion of white
and swarthy little hands after each new leaf that is ready! Such devout
believers, such an attentive, such an indefatigable public, none other
has. None other either has such a reverend one, for even old age is not
so reverend and sacred as childhood. In considering this public we can
conjure up a whole series of peaceful and idyllic scenes: yonder some
one is reading aloud while the children are listening devoutly, or a
little one is sitting absorbed in its reading, with both elbows resting
on the table, while its mother, in passing by, pauses that she too may
read over the child's shoulder. Does it not bring its own reward to
write for such a circle of auditors? Is there, indeed, one that has a
more unspotted and ready fancy?
There is none, and it is only needful to study the imagination of
the audience, in order to become acquainted with that of the author.
The starting-point for this art is the child's play that makes
everything out of everything; in conformity with this, the sportive
mood of the artist transforms playthings into natural creations, into
supernatural beings, into heroes, and, _vice versa,_ uses everything
natural and everything supernatural--heroes, sprites, and fairies--for
playthings, that is to say, for artistic means which through each
artistic combination are remodelled and freshly stamped. The nerve
and sinew of this art is the imagination of the child, which invests
everything with a soul, and endows everything with personality; thus,
a piece of household furniture is as readily animated with life as
a plant, a flower as well as a bird or a cat, and the animal in the
same manner as the doll, the portrait, the cloud, the sunbeam, the
wind, and the seasons. Even the leap-frog, made of the breastbone of
a goose, becomes thus for the child a living whole, a thinking being
endowed with a will. The prototype of such poesy is the dream of a
child, in which the childish conceptions shift more rapidly and with
still bolder transformations than in play; therefore, the poet (as in
"Little Ida's Flowers," "Ole Shut Eye," "Little Tuk," "The Elder-Tree
Mother") likes to seek refuge in dreams as in an arsenal; therefore,
it is, when he busies his fancy with childish dreams, such as fill and
trouble the mind of childhood, there often come to him his wittiest
inspirations, as, for instance, when little Hjalmar hears in his
dream the lamentation of the crooked letters that had tumbled down
in his copy-book: "'See, this is how you should hold yourselves,'
said the Copy. 'Look, sloping in this way, with a powerful swing!'
'Oh, we should be very glad to do that,' replied Hjalmar's letters,
'but we cannot; we are too weakly.' 'Then you must take medicine,'
said Ole Shut Eye. 'Oh no,' cried they; and they immediately stood
up so gracefully that it was beautiful to behold." This is the way a
child dreams, and this is the way a poet depicts to us the dream of
a child. The soul of this poetry, however, is neither the dream nor
the play; it is a peculiar, ever-childlike, yet at the same time a
more than childlike faculty, not only for putting one thing in the
place of another (thus, for making constant exchange, or for causing
one thing to live in another, thus for animating all things), but
also a faculty for being swiftly and readily reminded by one thing of
another, for regaining one thing in another, for generalizing, for
moulding an image into a symbol, for exalting a dream into a myth,
and, through an artistic process, for transforming single fictitious
traits into a focus for the whole of life. Such a fancy does not
penetrate far into the innermost recesses of things; it occupies
itself with trifles; it sees ugly faults, not great ones; it strikes,
but not deeply; it wounds, but not dangerously; it flutters around
like a winged butterfly from spot to spot, lingering about the most
dissimilar places, and, like a wise insect, it spins its delicate web
from many starting-points, until it is united in one complete whole.
What it produces is neither a picture of the soul nor a direct human
representation; but it is a work that with all its artistic perfection
was already indicated by the unlovely and confusing arabesques in "The
Foot Journey to Amager." Now while the nursery story, through its
contents, reminds us of the ancient myths ("The Elder-Tree Mother,"
"The Snow Queen"), of the folk-lore tale, on whose foundation it
constructs itself at times, of proverbs and fables of antiquity,
indeed, sometimes of the parables of the New Testament (the buckwheat
is punished as well as the fig-tree); while it is continually united
by an idea, it may, so far as its form is concerned, be compared with
the fantastic Pompeian decorative paintings, in which peculiarly
conventional plants, animated flowers, doves, peacocks, and human
forms are entwined together and blend into one another. A form that
for any one else would be a circuitous route to the goal, a hindrance
and a disguise, becomes for Andersen a mask behind which alone he
feels truly free, truly happy and secure. His childlike genius, like
the well-known child forms of antiquity, plays with the mask, elicits
laughter, awakens delight and terror. Thus the nursery story's mode
of expression, which with all its frankness is masked, becomes the
natural, indeed, the classic cadence of his voice, that but very rarely
becomes overstrained or out of tune. The only disturbing occurrence
is that now and then a draught of whey is obtained instead of the
pure milk of the nursery story, that the tone occasionally becomes
too sentimental and sickly sweet ("Poor John," "The Poor Bird," "Poor
Thumbling"), which, however, is rarely the case in materials taken from
folk-lore tales, as "The Tinder-Box," "Little Claus and Big Claus,"
etc., where the naïve joviality, freshness, and roughness of the
narrative, which announces crimes and murders without the slightest
sympathetic or tearful phrase, stand Andersen in good stead, and invest
his figures with increased sturdiness. Less classic, on the other hand,
is the tone of the lyric effusions interwoven with some of the nursery
stories, in which the poet, in a stirring, pathetic prose gives a
bird's-eye view of some great period of history ("The Thorny Path of
Honor," "The Swans' Nest"). In these stories there seems to me to be
a certain wild flight of fancy, a certain forced inspiration in the
prevailing tone, wholly disproportionate to the not very significant
thought of the contents; for thought and diction are like a pair of
lovers. Thought may be somewhat larger, somewhat loftier, than diction,
even as the man is taller than the woman; in the opposite case there
is something unlovely in the relation. With the few exceptions just
indicated, the narrative style of Andersen's nursery stories is a model
of its kind.
Let us, in order to know them thoroughly, watch the poet at his
work. Let us, by studying his manner of procedure, gain a deeper
comprehension of the result. There is one instance wherein his method
may be clearly followed, and that is when he remodels anything. We do
not need, in such a case, merely to observe and to praise in vague
generalities, by making comparison with a different mode of narrative;
we can sharply and definitely declare, point for point, what he has
omitted, what he has rendered prominent, and thus see his individual
production grow up under our eyes. One day, in turning over the leaves
of Don Manuel's "Count Lucanor," Andersen became charmed by the homely
wisdom, of the old Spanish story, with the delicate flavor of the
Middle Ages pervading it, and he lingered over Chapter VII., which
treats of how a king was served by three rogues.
"Count Lucanor spoke one day with Patronio, his counsellor, and said
to him, There is a man who has come to me and addressed me on a very
important subject. He gives me to understand that it would conduce
in the highest degree to my advantage. But he says that no man in
the world, however highly I may esteem him, must be allowed to know
anything about it, and he so earnestly enjoins upon me to keep the
secret that he even assures me all my possessions and my life itself
will be imperilled if I reveal it to any one. And as I know that
nothing can come to your knowledge that you cannot determine whether it
be meant for a blessing or with deceitful intent, I beg of you to tell
me how this matter strikes you. Sir Count, replied Patronio, in order
that you may be able to comprehend what should, in my opinion, be done
in this matter, I beg of you to hearken unto how a king was served by
three rogues, who sought his presence. The count asked what it was that
took place." This introduction resembles a programme; we first learn
the bold question to which the story following is to be the answer, and
we feel that the story owes its existence solely to the question. We
are not permitted to draw for ourselves from the narrative the moral
that it seems to us to contain; it must be directed with a violent
effort to the question concerning the amount of confidence that is due
people who are shrouded in mystery. Such a method of telling a story
is the practical, not the poetic one; it places undue limits on the
pleasure the reader takes in discovering the hidden moral for himself.
True, the fancy is gratified to find its work made easy, for it does
not really desire to exert itself; but neither does it like to have its
easy activity anticipated; like old people who are permitted to keep up
a semblance of work, it does not wish to be reminded that its work is
mere play. Nature pleases when it resembles art, says Kant; art, when
it resembles nature. Why? Because the veiled purpose gives pleasure.
But no matter, let us read further in the book.
"Sir Count, said Patronio, there once came three rogues to a king
and stated that they were most superior masters in the manufacture
of cloth, and that they especially understood how to weave a certain
stuff which was visible to everyone who was actually the son of the
father whom all the world supposed to be his, but which was invisible
to him who was not the son of his supposed father. This pleased the
king greatly, for he thought that with the aid of this fabric he could
learn which men in his kingdom were the sons of those who were legally
accredited to be their fathers, and which were not, and that in this
way he could adjust many things in his kingdom; for the Moors do not
inherit from their fathers if they be not truly their children. So he
gave orders to have the men conducted to his palace in which they could
work."
The beginning is delightful, there is humor in the story; but Andersen
thinks that if it is to be rendered available for Denmark, another
pretext must be chosen, one better adapted to children, and to the
well-known northern innocence. And, besides, this king in the story is
merely like a figure on the chess-board. Why was it that the rogues
came to him? What sort of character does he possess? Is he fond of
show? Is he vain? He does not stand out distinctly before the reader's
eye. It would be better if he were an absolute fool of a king. He ought
in some way to be characterized, to be stamped by a word, a phrase.
"And they told him that, in order to be sure they were not deceiving
him, he might lock them up in the palace until the fabric was finished,
and this pleased the king vastly!" They now receive gifts of gold,
silver, and silk, spread abroad the tidings that the weaving has begun,
and through their bold indication of pattern and colors cause the
king's messengers to declare the fabric admirable, and thus succeed in
obtaining a visit from the king, who, as he sees nothing, "is overcome
by a deathly terror, for he believes that he cannot be the son of the
king whom he has considered his father." He therefore praises the
fabric beyond measure, and every one follows his example, until one
day on the occasion of a great festival he puts on the invisible
garment; he rides through the city, "and it was well for him that it
was summer." No one could see the fabric, although every one feared
to confess his inability to do so, lest he should be ruined and
dishonored. "Thus this secret was preserved, and no one dared reveal
it, until a negro who tended the king's horse, and had nothing to lose,
went to the king" and affirmed the truth.
"Who bids you keep a secret from a faithful friend,
Will cheat you too as surely as he has a chance."
The moral to this neat little story is most ludicrous and at the same
time but poorly indicated. Andersen forgets the moral, puts aside, with
a sparing hand, the clumsy precept which causes the story to deviate
from the point which is its true centre, and then tells, with dramatic
vivacity, in the form of a dialogue, his admirable story about the
vain emperor, of whom it was said in the city, "The Emperor is in the
wardrobe." He brings the narrative quite home to us. There is nothing
whose existence people are afraid to deny for fear of passing for a
bastard, but there is much concerning which people dare not speak the
truth, through cowardice, through fear of acting otherwise than "all
the world," through anxiety lest they should appear stupid. And this
story is eternally new and it never ends. It has its grave side, but
just because of its endlessness it has also its humorous side. "'But
he has nothing on!' said the whole people at length. That touched the
Emperor, for it seemed to him that they were right; but he thought
within himself, 'I must go through with the procession.' _And so he
held himself a little higher,_ and the chamberlains held on tighter
than ever, and carried the train which did not exist at all." It was
Andersen who made the narrative comic.
But we can enter still more closely into relation with Andersen's
method of story-telling; we have seen him place before us in a new form
a foreign tale; we can now also see how he remodels his own attempts.
In the year 1830 Andersen published in a volume of poetry, "The
Dead Man, a Folk-lore Tale from Fünen," the same which he remoulded
later under the tide of "The Travelling Companion." The narrative,
in its original form, is aristocratic and dignified; it begins in
the following way: "About a mile from Bogensee may be found, on the
field in the vicinity of Elvedgaard, a hawthorn so remarkable for its
size that it can even be seen from the coast of Jutland." Here there
are pretty, rural descriptions of nature, here may be detected the
masterly hand of a skilful author. "The first night he _quartered_ on a
haystack in the field, and slept there like a _Persian_ prince in his
resplendent chamber." A Persian prince! This is an idea quite foreign
to little children. Suppose we put in its place: "The first night he
slept on a haystack, out in the fields, for there was no other bed for
him; but it seemed to him so nice and comfortable that even a king
need not wish for a better." This is intelligible. "The moon hung,
like an _Argantine_ lamp, from the vaulted ceiling, and burned with a
perpetual flame." Is not the tone a more familiar one when we say: "The
moon, like a large lamp, hung high up in the blue ceiling, and he had
no fear of its setting fire to his curtains." The story of the doll's
comedy is rewritten; it is sufficient when we know that the piece
treats of a king and a queen; Ahasuerus, Esther, Mordecai, who were
named in the original, are too learned names for children. If we hit
upon a life-like stroke, we hold fast to it. "The queen threw herself
on her knees, took _off_ her beautiful crown, and, holding it in her
hand, cried: 'Take this from me, but do rub (with healing ointment) my
husband and his courtiers.'" Such a passage is one of those in which
the nursery story tone penetrates the polished form; one of those in
which the style that says "thou" to the reader thrusts aside the one
that says "you." In illustration, a whole swarm of comparisons throng
upon us. "From the host our travellers learned that they were in the
realm of the King of Hearts, an excellent ruler, and nearly related to
the King of Diamonds, Silvio, who is sufficiently well known through
Carlo Gozzi's dramatic folk-lore tale, 'The Three Pomegranates.'" The
princess is compared with Turandot, and of John it is said: "It would
seem as though he had recently read Werther and Siegwart; he could
only love and die." A shrill discord for the nursery tale style. The
words are not those of the child's treasury of language; the tone is
elegant, and the illustrations are abstract. "John spake, but he knew
not himself what he was saying, for the princess bestowed on him so
blessed a smile, and graciously extended her white hand for him to
kiss; his lips burned, an _electric_ current ran through him; he could
enjoy nothing of the _refreshments_ the pages offered him, he saw only
the beautiful vision of his dreams." Let us once hearken to this in the
style so familiar to us all: "She looked wonderfully fair and lovely
when she offered her hand to John, and he loved her more than ever. How
could she be a wicked witch, as all the people asserted? He accompanied
her into the hall, and the little pages offered them gingerbread nuts
and sweetmeats; but the old king was so unhappy, he could eat nothing,
and, besides, gingerbread nuts were too hard for him."
In his youth, Andersen, who then took Musæus for his model, had not
advanced far enough to understand how to mingle jest and earnest in his
diction; they were always at variance; scarcely was utterance given to
a sentiment before the disturbing parody made its appearance. John says
a few words, in which he expresses his love, and the author adds: "O,
it was so touching to hear! The poor young man, who was at other times
so natural, so amiable, now spoke quite like one of Clauren's books;
but then, what will not love do?" On this point, with this pedantic
frivolity, Andersen still persisted in 1830; but five years later the
transformation process is at an end; his talent has shed its skin; his
courage has grown; he dares speak his own language.
The determining element in this mode of speech was from the outset
the childlike. In order to be understood by such youthful readers as
those to whom he addressed himself, he was obliged to use the simplest
possible words, to return to the simplest possible conceptions, to
avoid everything abstract, to supply the place of indirect with direct
language; but in thus seeking simplicity, he finds poetic beauty, and
in attaining the childlike he proves that this childlike spirit is
essential to true poetry; for that form of expression which is naïve
and adapted to the general comprehension is more poetic than that which
reminds the reader of industry, of history, of literature; the concrete
fact is at once more life-like and more transparent than that which is
presented as proof of a proposition, and the language which proceeds
directly from the lips is more characteristic than the pale paraphrase
with a "that."[2]
To linger over this language, to become absorbed in its word-treasury,
its syntax, its intonation, is no proof of a petty spirit, and does
not take place merely through love of the vocables or the idiom.
True, language is but the surface of a work of poetic fancy; but if
the finger be placed upon the skin, we may feel the throbbing pulse
which indicates the heart-beats of the inner being. Genius is like a
clock; the visible index is guided by the invisible spring. Genius is
like a tangled skein, inextricable and knotted, as it may seem, it is
nevertheless inseparably one in its inner coherence. If we but get hold
of the outer end of the thread, we may slowly and cautiously endeavor
to unravel even the most tangled skein from its coil. It is not harmed
by the effort.