which had been driven from its old dwelling-place by a fresh one, here
and there a young bird gave a soft chirp when its mother squeezed it
in the nest; and from time to time a gnat hummed for a minute or two
in the curtain, till a spider crept on tiptoe along its web, and gave
him such a gripe in the windpipe as soon spoiled his trumpeting. And
the deeper the silence became, the more intently did the child listen,
and at last the slightest sound thrilled him from head to foot. At
length, all was still as death in the wood; and the world seemed as if
it never would wake again. The child bent forward to see whether it
were as dark abroad as in the cave, but he saw nothing save the pitch
dark night, who had wrapped everything in her thick veil. Yet as he
looked upwards his eyes met the friendly glance of two or three stars;
and this was a most joyful surprise to him, for he felt himself no
longer so entirely alone. The stars were indeed far, far away, but yet
he knew them, and they knew him; for they looked into his eyes.
The child's whole soul was fixed in his gaze; and it seemed to him as
if he must needs fly out of the darksome cave thither, where the stars
were beaming with such pure and serene light; and he felt how poor and
lowly he was when he thought of their brilliancy; and how cramped and
fettered, when he thought of their free unbounded course along the
heavens.
XI.
But the stars went on their course, and left their glittering picture
only a little while before the child's eyes. Even this faded, and then
vanished quite away. And he was beginning to feel tired, and to wish
to lay himself down again, when a flickering will-o'-the-wisp appeared
from behind a bush,--so that the child thought, at first, one of the
stars had wandered out of its way and had come to visit him, and to
take him with it. And the child breathed quick with joy and surprise,
and then the will-o'-the-wisp came nearer, and set himself down on a
damp mossy stone in front of the cave, and another fluttered quickly
after him, and sat down over against him, and sighed deeply, "Thank
God, then, that I can rest at last!" "Yes," said the other, "for that
you may thank the innocent child who sleeps there within; it was his
pure breath that freed us." "Are you, then," said the child,
hesitatingly, "not of yon stars which wander so brightly there above?"
"O, if we were stars," replied the first, "we should pursue our
tranquil path through the pure element, and should leave this wood and
the whole darksome earth to itself." "And not," said the other, "sit
brooding on the face of the shallow pool."
The child was curious to know who these could be who shone so
beautifully and yet seemed so discontented. Then the first began to
relate how he had been a child too, and how, as he grew up, it had
always been his greatest delight to deceive people and play them
tricks, to show his wit and cleverness. He had always, he said, poured
such a stream of smooth words over people, and encompassed himself
with such a shining mist, that men had been attracted by it to their
own hurt.
But once on a time there appeared a plain man who only spoke two or
three simple words, and suddenly the bright mist vanished, and left
him naked and deformed, to the scorn and mockery of the whole world.
But the man had turned away his face from him in pity, while he was
almost dead with shame and anger. And when he came to himself again,
he knew not what had befallen him, till at length he found that it was
his fate to hover, without rest or change, over the surface of the bog
as a will-o'-the-wisp.
"With me it fell out quite otherwise," said the first; "instead of
giving light without warmth, as I now do, I burned without shining.
When I was only a child, people gave way to me in everything, so that
I was intoxicated with self-love. If I saw any one shine, I longed to
put out his light; and the more intensely I wished this, the more did
my own small glimmering turn back upon myself, and inwardly burn
fiercely while all without was darker than ever. But if any one who
shone more brightly would have kindly given me of his light, then did
my inward flame burst forth to destroy him. But the flame passed
through the light and harmed it not: it shone only the more brightly,
while I was withered and exhausted. And once upon a time I met a
little smiling child, who played with a cross of palm branches, and
wore a beaming coronet around his golden locks. He took me kindly by
the hand, and said, 'My friend, you are now very gloomy and sad, but
if you will become a child again, even as I am, you will have a bright
circlet such as I have.' When I heard that, I was so angry with myself
and with the child that I was scorched by my inward fire. Now would I
fain fly up to the sun to fetch rays from him, but the rays drove me
back with these words: 'Return thither whence thou camest, thou dark
fire of envy, for the sun lightens only in love; the greedy earth,
indeed, sometimes turns his mild light into scorching fire. Fly back,
then, for with thy like alone must thou dwell!' I fell, and when I
recovered myself I was glimmering coldly above the stagnant waters."
While they were talking, the child had fallen asleep; for he knew
nothing of the world, nor of men, and he could make nothing of their
stories. Weariness had spoken a more intelligible language to him;
_that_ he understood, and had fallen asleep.
XII.
Softly and soundly he slept till the rosy morning clouds stood upon
the mountain, and announced the coming of their lord the sun. But as
soon as the tidings spread over field and wood, the thousand-voiced
echo awoke, and sleep was no more to be thought of. And soon did the
royal sun himself arise; at first his dazzling diadem alone appeared
above the mountains; at length he stood upon their summit in the full
majesty of his beauty, in all the charms of eternal youth, bright and
glorious, his kindly glance embracing every creature of earth, from
the stately oak to the blade of grass bending under the foot of the
wayfaring man.
Then arose from every breast, from every throat, the joyous song of
praise; and it was as if the whole plain and wood were become a
temple, whose roof was the heaven, whose altar the mountain, whose
congregation all creatures, whose priest the sun.
But the child walked forth and was glad; for the birds sang sweetly,
and it seemed to him as if everything sported and danced out of mere
joy to be alive. Here flew two finches through the thicket, and,
twittering, pursued each other; there the young buds burst asunder,
and the tender leaves peeped out, and expanded themselves in the warm
sun, as if they would abide in his glance forever; here a dew-drop
trembled, sparkling and twinkling on a blade of grass, and knew not
that beneath him stood a little moss who was thirsting after him;
there troops of flies flew aloft, as if they would soar far over the
wood; and so all was life and motion, and the child's heart joyed to
see it.
He sat down on a little smooth plot of turf, shaded by the branches of
a nut-bush, and thought he should now sip the cup of his delight drop
by drop. And first he plucked down some brambles which threatened him
with their prickles; then he bent aside some branches which concealed
the view; then he removed the stones, so that he might stretch out his
feet at full length on the soft turf; and when he had done all this,
he bethought himself what was yet to do; and as he found nothing he
stood up to look for his acquaintance, the dragon-fly, and to beg her
to guide him once more out of the wood into the open field. About
midway he met her, and she began to excuse herself for having fallen
asleep in the night. The child thought not of the past, were it even
but a minute ago, so earnestly did he now wish to get out from among
the thick and close trees; for his heart beat high, and he felt as if
he should breathe freer in the open ground. The dragon-fly flew on
before, and showed him the way as far as the outermost verge of the
wood, whence the child could espy his own little hut, and then flew
away to her playfellows.
XIII.
The child walked forth alone upon the fresh dewy cornfield. A thousand
little suns glittered in his eyes, and a lark soared, warbling, above
his head. And the lark proclaimed the joys of the coming year, and
awakened endless hopes, while she soared circling higher and higher,
till at length her song was like the soft whisper of an angel holding
converse with the spring under the blue arch of heaven.
The child had seen the earth-colored little bird rise up before him,
and it seemed to him as if the earth had sent her forth from her bosom
as a messenger to carry her joy and her thanks up to the sun, because
he had turned his beaming countenance again upon her in love and
bounty. And the lark hung poised above the hope-giving field, and
warbled her clear and joyous song.
She sang of the loveliness of the rosy dawn, and the fresh brilliancy
of the earliest sunbeams; of the gladsome springing of the young
flowers, and the vigorous shooting of the corn; and her song pleased
the child beyond measure. But the lark wheeled in higher and higher
circles, and her song sounded softer and sweeter.
And now she sang of the first delights of early love, of wanderings
together on the sunny fresh hill-tops, and of the sweet pictures and
visions that arise out of the blue and misty distance. The child
understood not rightly what he heard, and fain would he have
understood, for he thought that even in such visions must be wondrous
delight. He gazed aloft after the unwearied bird, but she had
disappeared in the morning mist.
Then the child leaned his head on one shoulder to listen if he could
no longer hear the little messenger of spring; and he could just catch
the distant and quivering notes in which she sang of the fervent
longing after the clear element of freedom; after the pure all-present
light; and of the blessed foretaste of this desired enfranchisement,
of this blending in the sea of celestial happiness.
Yet longer did he listen, for the tones of her song carried him there,
where, as yet, his thoughts had never reached, and he felt himself
happier in this short and imperfect flight than ever he had felt
before. But the lark now dropped suddenly to the earth, for her little
body was too heavy for the ambient ether, and her wings were not large
nor strong enough for the pure element.
Then the red corn-poppies laughed at the homely-looking bird, and
cried to one another and to the surrounding blades of corn in a shrill
voice, "Now, indeed, you may see what comes of flying so high, and
striving and straining after mere air; people only lose their time,
and bring back nothing but weary wings and an empty stomach. That
vulgar-looking, ill-dressed little creature would fain raise herself
above us all, and has kept up a mighty noise. And now, there she lies
on the ground, and can hardly breathe, while we have stood still where
we are, sure of a good meal, and have stayed like people of sense
where there is something substantial to be had; and in the time she
has been fluttering and singing, we have grown a good deal taller and
fatter."
The other little red-caps chattered and screamed their assent so loud
that the child's ears tingled, and he wished he could chastise them
for their spiteful jeers; when a cyane said, in a soft voice, to her
younger playmates, "Dear friends, be not led astray by outward show,
nor by discourse which regards only outward show. The lark is indeed
weary, and the space into which she has soared is void; but the void
is not what the lark sought, nor is the seeker returned empty home.
She strove after light and freedom, and light and freedom has she
proclaimed. She left the earth and its enjoyments, but she has drunk
of the pure air of heaven, and has seen that it is not the earth, but
the sun, that is steadfast. And if earth has called her back, it can
keep nothing of her but what is its own. Her sweet voice and her
soaring wings belong to the sun, and will enter into light and freedom
long after the foolish prater shall have sunk and been buried in the
dark prison of the earth."
And the lark heard her wise and friendly discourse, and, with renewed
strength, she sprang once more into the clear and beautiful blue.
Then the child clapped his little hands for joy that the sweet bird
had flown up again, and that the red-caps must hold their tongues for
shame.
XIV.
And the child was become happy and joyful, and breathed freely again,
and thought no more of returning to his hut; for he saw that nothing
returned inwards, but rather that all strove outwards into the free
air,--the rosy apple-blossoms from their narrow buds, and the gurgling
notes from the narrow breast of the lark. The germs burst open the
folding doors of the seeds, and broke through the heavy pressure of
the earth in order to get at the light; the grasses tore asunder their
bands and their slender blades sprang upward. Even the rocks were
become gentle, and allowed little mosses to peep out from their sides,
as a sign that they would not remain impenetrably closed forever. And
the flowers sent out color and fragrance into the whole world, for
they kept not their best for themselves, but would imitate the sun and
the stars, which poured their warmth and radiance over the spring. And
many a little gnat and beetle burst the narrow cell in which it was
inclosed, and crept out slowly, and, half asleep, unfolded and shook
its tender wings, and soon gained strength, and flew off to untried
delights. And as the butterflies came forth from their chrysalids in
all their gayety and splendor, so did every humbled and suppressed
aspiration and hope free itself, and boldly launch into the open and
flowing sea of spring.
_German of Carove._
[Illustration]
MEMORIES OF CHILD LIFE.
MEMORIES OF CHILD LIFE.
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN,
POET AND NOVELIST OF DENMARK.
My life is a lovely story, happy and full of incident. If, when I was
a boy, and went forth into the world poor and friendless, a good fairy
had met me and said, "Choose now thy own course through life, and the
object for which thou wilt strive, and then, according to the
development of thy mind, and as reason requires, I will guide and
defend thee to its attainment," my fate could not, even then, have
been directed more happily, more prudently, or better. The history of
my life will say to the world what it says to me,--There is a loving
God, who directs all things for the best.
In the year 1805 there lived at Odense, in a small mean room, a young
married couple, who were extremely attached to each other; he was a
shoemaker, scarcely twenty-two years old, a man of a richly gifted and
truly poetical mind. His wife, a few years older than himself, was
ignorant of life and of the world, but possessed a heart full of love.
The young man had himself made his shoemaking bench, and the bedstead
with which he began housekeeping; this bedstead he had made out of the
wooden frame which had borne only a short time before the coffin of
the deceased Count Trampe, as he lay in state, and the remnants of the
black cloth on the wood-work kept the fact still in remembrance.
Instead of a noble corpse, surrounded by crape and waxlights, here
lay, on the 2d of April, 1805, a living and weeping child,--that was
myself, Hans Christian Andersen. During the first day of my existence
my father is said to have sat by the bed and read aloud in Holberg,
but I cried all the time. "Wilt thou go to sleep, or listen quietly?"
it is reported that my father asked in joke; but I still cried on; and
even in the church, when I was taken to be baptized, I cried so loudly
that the preacher, who was a passionate man, said, "The young one
screams like a cat!" which words my mother never forgot. A poor
emigrant, Gomar, who stood as godfather, consoled her in the mean time
by saying that, the louder I cried as a child, all the more
beautifully should I sing when I grew older.
Our little room, which was almost filled with the shoemaker's bench,
the bed, and my crib, was the abode of my childhood; the walls,
however, were covered with pictures, and over the workbench was a
cupboard containing books and songs; the little kitchen was full of
shining plates and metal pans, and by means of a ladder it was
possible to go out on the roof, where, in the gutters between it and
the neighbor's house, there stood a great chest filled with soil, my
mother's sole garden, and where she grew her vegetables. In my story
of the "Snow Queen" that garden still blooms.
I was the only child, and was extremely spoiled; but I continually
heard from my mother how very much happier I was than she had been,
and that I was brought up like a nobleman's child. She, as a child,
had been driven out by her parents to beg; and once, when she was not
able to do it, she had sat for a whole day under a bridge and wept.
My father gratified me in all my wishes. I possessed his whole heart;
he lived for me. On Sundays he made me perspective-glasses, theatres,
and pictures which could be changed; he read to me from Holberg's
plays and the "Arabian Tales"; it was only in such moments as these
that I can remember to have seen him really cheerful, for he never
felt himself happy in his life and as a handicraftsman. His parents
had been country people in good circumstances, but upon whom many
misfortunes had fallen,--the cattle had died; the farm-house had been
burned down; and, lastly, the husband had lost his reason. On this the
wife had removed with him to Odense, and there put her son, whose mind
was full of intelligence, apprentice to a shoemaker; it could not be
otherwise, although it was his ardent wish to attend the grammar
school, where he might learn Latin. A few well-to-do citizens had at
one time spoken of this, of clubbing together to raise a sufficient
sum to pay for his board and education, and thus giving him a start in
life; but it never went beyond words. My poor father saw his dearest
wish unfulfilled; and he never lost the remembrance of it. I recollect
that once, as a child, I saw tears in his eyes, and it was when a
youth from the grammar school came to our house to be measured for a
new pair of boots, and showed us his books and told us what he
learned.
"That was the path upon which I ought to have gone!" said my father,
kissed me passionately, and was silent the whole evening.
He very seldom associated with his equals. He went out into the woods
on Sundays, when he took me with him; he did not talk much when he was
out, but would sit silently, sunk in deep thought, whilst I ran about
and strung strawberries on a bent, or bound garlands. Only twice in
the year, and that in the month of May, when the woods were arrayed in
their earliest green, did my mother go with us; and then she wore a
cotton gown, which she put on only on these occasions and when she
partook of the Lord's Supper, and which, as long as I can remember,
was her holiday gown. She always took home with her from the wood a
great many fresh beech boughs, which were then planted behind the
polished stone. Later in the year sprigs of St. John's wort were stuck
into the chinks of the beams, and we considered their growth as omens
whether our lives would be long or short. Green branches and pictures
ornamented our little room, which my mother always kept neat and
clean; she took great pride in always having the bed linen and the
curtains very white.
One of my first recollections, although very slight in itself, had
for me a good deal of importance, from the power by which the fancy of
a child impressed it upon my soul; it was a family festival, and can
you guess where? In that very place in Odense, in that house which I
had always looked on with fear and trembling, just as boys in Paris
may have looked at the Bastile,--in the Odense house of correction.
My parents were acquainted with the jailer, who invited them to a
family dinner, and I was to go with them. I was at that time still so
small that I was carried when we returned home.
The House of Correction was for me a great storehouse of stories about
robbers and thieves; often I had stood, but always at a safe distance,
and listened to the singing of the men within and of the women
spinning at their wheels.
I went with my parents to the jailer's; the heavy iron-bolted gate was
opened and again locked with the key from the rattling bunch; we
mounted a steep staircase,--we ate and drank, and two of the prisoners
waited at the table; they could not induce me to taste of anything,
the sweetest things I pushed away; my mother told them I was sick, and
I was laid on a bed, where I heard the spinning-wheels humming near by
and merry singing, whether in my own fancy or in reality I cannot
tell; but I know that I was afraid, and was kept on the stretch all
the time; and yet I was in a pleasant humor, making up stories of how
I had entered a castle full of robbers. Late in the night my parents
went home, carrying me; the rain, for it was rough weather, dashing
against my face.
Odense was in my childhood quite another town from what it is now,
when it has shot ahead of Copenhagen, with its water carried through
the town, and I know not what else! Then it was a hundred years behind
the times; many customs and manners prevailed which long since
disappeared from the capital. When the guilds removed their signs,
they went in procession with flying banners and with lemons dressed in
ribbons stuck on their swords. A harlequin with bells and a wooden
sword ran at the head; one of them, an old fellow, Hans Struh, made a
great hit by his merry chatter and his face, which was painted black,
except the nose, that kept its genuine red color. My mother was so
pleased with him that she tried to find out if he was in any way
related to us; but I remember very well that I, with all the pride of
an aristocrat, protested against any relationship with the "fool."
In my sixth year came the great comet of 1811; and my mother told me
that it would destroy the earth, or that other horrible things
threatened us. I listened to all these stories and fully believed
them. With my mother and some of the neighboring women I stood in St.
Canut's Churchyard and looked at the frightful and mighty fire-ball
with its large shining tail.
All talked about the signs of evil and the day of doom. My father
joined us, but he was not of the others' opinion at all, and gave them
a correct and sound explanation; then my mother sighed, the women
shook their heads, my father laughed and went away. I caught the idea
that my father was not of our faith, and that threw me into a great
fright. In the evening my mother and my old grandmother talked
together, and I do not know how she explained it; but I sat in her
lap, looked into her mild eyes, and expected every moment that the
comet would rush down, and the day of judgment come.
The mother of my father came daily to our house, were it only for a
moment, in order to see her little grandson. I was her joy and her
delight. She was a quiet and most amiable old woman, with mild blue
eyes and a fine figure, which life had severely tried. From having
been the wife of a countryman in easy circumstances she had now fallen
into great poverty, and dwelt with her feeble-minded husband in a
little house, which was the last poor remains of their property. I
never saw her shed a tear; but it made all the deeper impression upon
me when she quietly sighed, and told me about her own mother's
mother,--how she had been a rich, noble lady, in the city of Cassel,
and that she had married a "comedy-player,"--that was as she expressed
it,--and run away from parents and home, for all of which her
posterity had now to do penance. I never can recollect that I heard
her mention the family name of her grandmother; but her own maiden
name was Nommesen. She was employed to take care of the garden
belonging to a lunatic asylum; and every Sunday evening she brought us
some flowers, which they gave her permission to take home with her.
These flowers adorned my mother's cupboard; but still they were mine,
and to me it was allowed to put them in the glass of water. How great
was this pleasure! She brought them all to me; she loved me with her
whole soul. I knew it, and I understood it.
She burned, twice in the year, the green rubbish of the garden; on
such occasions she took me with her to the asylum, and I lay upon the
great heaps of green leaves and pea-straw; I had many flowers to play
with, and--which was a circumstance upon which I set great
importance--I had here better food to eat than I could expect at home.