No More Learning

It was not till he arrived at the glorious old town of
Nuremberg that he gained the mastery over himself, and rested his
weary feet; and here he remained.

Nuremberg is a wonderful old city, and looks as if it had been cut
out of an old picture-book. The streets seem to have arranged
themselves according to their own fancy, and as if the houses objected
to stand in rows or rank and file. Gables, with little towers,
ornamented columns, and statues, can be seen even to the city gate;
and from the singular-shaped roofs, waterspouts, formed like
dragons, or long lean dogs, extend far across to the middle of the
street. Here, in the market-place, stood Knud, with his knapsack on
his back, close to one of the old fountains which are so beautifully
adorned with figures, scriptural and historical, and which spring up
between the sparkling jets of water. A pretty servant-maid was just
filling her pails, and she gave Knud a refreshing draught; she had a
handful of roses, and she gave him one, which appeared to him like a
good omen for the future. From a neighboring church came the sounds of
music, and the familiar tones reminded him of the organ at home at
Kjoge; so he passed into the great cathedral. The sunshine streamed
through the painted glass windows, and between two lofty slender
pillars. His thoughts became prayerful, and calm peace rested on his
soul. He next sought and found a good master in Nuremberg, with whom
he stayed and learnt the German language.

The old moat round the town had been converted into a number of
little kitchen gardens; but the high walls, with their heavy-looking
towers, are still standing. Inside these walls the ropemaker twisted
his ropes along a walk built like a gallery, and in the cracks and
crevices of the walls elderbushes grow and stretch their green
boughs over the small houses which stand below. In one of these houses
lived the master for whom Knud worked; and over the little garret
window where he sat, the elder-tree waved its branches. Here he
dwelt through one summer and winter, but when spring came again, he
could endure it no longer. The elder was in blossom, and its fragrance
was so homelike, that he fancied himself back again in the gardens
of Kjoge. So Knud left his master, and went to work for another who
lived farther in the town, where no elder grew. His workshop was quite
close to one of the old stone bridges, near to a water-mill, round
which the roaring stream rushed and foamed always, yet restrained by
the neighboring houses, whose old, decayed balconies hung over, and
seemed ready to fall into the water. Here grew no elder; here was
not even a flower-pot, with its little green plant; but just
opposite the workshop stood a great willow-tree, which seemed to
hold fast to the house for fear of being carried away by the water. It
stretched its branches over the stream just as those of the
willow-tree in the garden at Kjoge had spread over the river. Yes,
he had indeed gone from elder-mother to willow-father. There was a
something about the tree here, especially in the moonlight nights,
that went direct to his heart; yet it was not in reality the
moonlight, but the old tree itself. However, he could not endure it:
and why? Ask the willow, ask the blossoming elder! At all events, he
bade farewell to Nuremberg and journeyed onwards. He never spoke of
Joanna to any one; his sorrow was hidden in his heart. The old
childish story of the two cakes had a deep meaning for him. He
understood now why the gingerbread man had a bitter almond in his left
side; his was the feeling of bitterness, and Joanna, so mild and
friendly, was represented by the honeycake maiden. As he thought
upon all this, the strap of his knapsack pressed across his chest so
that he could hardly breathe; he loosened it, but gained no relief. He
saw but half the world around him; the other half he carried with
him in his inward thoughts; and this is the condition in which he left
Nuremberg. Not till he caught sight of the lofty mountains did the
world appear more free to him; his thoughts were attracted to outer
objects, and tears came into his eyes. The Alps appeared to him like
the wings of earth folded together; unfolded, they would display the
variegated pictures of dark woods, foaming waters, spreading clouds,
and masses of snow. "At the last day," thought he, "the earth will
unfold its great wings, and soar upwards to the skies, there to
burst like a soap-bubble in the radiant glance of the Deity. Oh,"
sighed he, "that the last day were come! "

Silently he wandered on through the country of the Alps, which
seemed to him like a fruit garden, covered with soft turf. From the
wooden balconies of the houses the young lacemakers nodded as he
passed. The summits of the mountains glowed in the red evening sunset,
and the green lakes beneath the dark trees reflected the glow. Then he
thought of the sea coast by the bay Kjoge, with a longing in his heart
that was, however, without pain. There, where the Rhine rolls onward
like a great billow, and dissolves itself into snowflakes, where
glistening clouds are ever changing as if here was the place of
their creation, while the rainbow flutters about them like a
many-colored ribbon, there did Knud think of the water-mill at
Kjoge, with its rushing, foaming waters. Gladly would he have remained
in the quiet Rhenish town, but there were too many elders and
willow-trees.

So he travelled onwards, over a grand, lofty chain of mountains,
over rugged,--rocky precipices, and along roads that hung on the
mountain's side like a swallow's nest. The waters foamed in the depths
below him. The clouds lay beneath him. He wandered on, treading upon
Alpine roses, thistles, and snow, with the summer sun shining upon
him, till at length he bid farewell to the lands of the north. Then he
passed on under the shade of blooming chestnut-trees, through
vineyards, and fields of Indian corn, till conscious that the
mountains were as a wall between him and his early recollections;
and he wished it to be so.

Before him lay a large and splendid city, called Milan, and here
he found a German master who engaged him as a workman. The master
and his wife, in whose workshop he was employed, were an old, pious
couple; and the two old people became quite fond of the quiet
journeyman, who spoke but little, but worked more, and led a pious,
Christian life; and even to himself it seemed as if God had removed
the heavy burden from his heart. His greatest pleasure was to climb,
now and then, to the roof of the noble church, which was built of
white marble. The pointed towers, the decorated and open cloisters,
the stately columns, the white statues which smiled upon him from
every corner and porch and arch,--all, even the church itself,
seemed to him to have been formed from the snow of his native land.
Above him was the blue sky; below him, the city and the wide-spreading
plains of Lombardy; and towards the north, the lofty mountains,
covered with perpetual snow. And then he thought of the church of
Kjoge, with its red, ivy-clad walls, but he had no longing to go
there; here, beyond the mountains, he would die and be buried.

Three years had passed away since he left his home; one year of
that time he had dwelt at Milan.

One day his master took him into the town; not to the circus in
which riders performed, but to the opera, a large building, itself a
sight well worth seeing. The seven tiers of boxes, which reached
from the ground to a dizzy height, near the ceiling, were hung with
rich, silken curtains; and in them were seated elegantly-dressed
ladies, with bouquets of flowers in their hands. The gentlemen were
also in full dress, and many of them wore decorations of gold and
silver. The place was so brilliantly lighted that it seemed like
sunshine, and glorious music rolled through the building. Everything
looked more beautiful than in the theatre at Copenhagen, but then
Joanna had been there, and--could it be? Yes--it was like magic,--she
was here also: for, when the curtain rose, there stood Joanna,
dressed in silk and gold, and with a golden crown upon her head. She
sang, he thought, as only an angel could sing; and then she stepped
forward to the front and smiled, as only Joanna could smile, and
looked directly at Knud. Poor Knud! he seized his master's hand, and
cried out loud, "Joanna," but no one heard him, excepting his
master, for the music sounded above everything.

"Yes, yes, it is Joanna," said his master; and he drew forth a
printed bill, and pointed to her name, which was there in full. Then
it was not a dream. All the audience applauded her, and threw
wreaths of flowers at her; and every time she went away they called
for her again, so that she was always coming and going. In the
street the people crowded round her carriage, and drew it away
themselves without the horses. Knud was in the foremost row, and
shouted as joyously as the rest; and when the carriage stopped
before a brilliantly lighted house, Knud placed himself close to the
door of her carriage. It flew open, and she stepped out; the light
fell upon her dear face, and he could see that she smiled as she
thanked them, and appeared quite overcome. Knud looked straight in her
face, and she looked at him, but she did not recognize him. A man,
with a glittering star on his breast, gave her his arm, and people
said the two were engaged to be married. Then Knud went home and
packed up his knapsack; he felt he must return to the home of his
childhood, to the elder-tree and the willow. "Ah, under that
willow-tree! " A man may live a whole life in one single hour.

The old couple begged him to remain, but words were useless. In
vain they reminded him that winter was coming, and that the snow had
already fallen on the mountains. He said he could easily follow the
track of the closely-moving carriages, for which a path must be kept
clear, and with nothing but his knapsack on his back, and leaning on
his stick, he could step along briskly. So he turned his steps to
the mountains, ascended one side and descended the other, still
going northward till his strength began to fail, and not a house or
village could be seen. The stars shone in the sky above him, and
down in the valley lights glittered like stars, as if another sky were
beneath him; but his head was dizzy and his feet stumbled, and he felt
ill. The lights in the valley grew brighter and brighter, and more
numerous, and he could see them moving to and fro, and then he
understood that there must be a village in the distance; so he exerted
his failing strength to reach it, and at length obtained shelter in
a humble lodging. He remained there that night and the whole of the
following day, for his body required rest and refreshment, and in
the valley there was rain and a thaw. But early in the morning of
the third day, a man came with an organ and played one of the melodies
of home; and after that Knud could remain there no longer, so he
started again on his journey toward the north. He travelled for many
days with hasty steps, as if he were trying to reach home before all
whom he remembered should die; but he spoke to no one of this longing.
No one would have believed or understood this sorrow of his heart, the
deepest that can be felt by human nature. Such grief is not for the
world; it is not entertaining even to friends, and poor Knud had no
friends; he was a stranger, wandering through strange lands to his
home in the north.

He was walking one evening through the public roads, the country
around him was flatter, with fields and meadows, the air had a
frosty feeling. A willow-tree grew by the roadside, everything
reminded him of home. He felt very tired; so he sat down under the
tree, and very soon began to nod, then his eyes closed in sleep. Yet
still he seemed conscious that the willow-tree was stretching its
branches over him; in his dreaming state the tree appeared like a
strong, old man--the "willow-father" himself, who had taken his
tired son up in his arms to carry him back to the land of home, to the
garden of his childhood, on the bleak open shores of Kjoge. And then
he dreamed that it was really the willow-tree itself from Kjoge, which
had travelled out in the world to seek him, and now had found him
and carried him back into the little garden on the banks of the
streamlet; and there stood Joanna, in all her splendor, with the
golden crown on her head, as he had last seen her, to welcome him
back. And then there appeared before him two remarkable shapes,
which looked much more like human beings than when he had seen them in
his childhood; they were changed, but he remembered that they were the
two gingerbread cakes, the man and the woman, who had shown their best
sides to the world and looked so good.

"We thank you," they said to Knud, "for you have loosened our
tongues; we have learnt from you that thoughts should be spoken
freely, or nothing will come of them; and now something has come of
our thoughts, for we are engaged to be married. " Then they walked
away, hand-in-hand, through the streets of Kjoge, looking very
respectable on the best side, which they were quite right to show.
They turned their steps to the church, and Knud and Joanna followed
them, also walking hand-in-hand; there stood the church, as of old,
with its red walls, on which the green ivy grew.

The great church door flew open wide, and as they walked up the
broad aisle, soft tones of music sounded from the organ. "Our master
first," said the gingerbread pair, making room for Knud and Joanna. As
they knelt at the altar, Joanna bent her head over him, and cold,
icy tears fell on his face from her eyes. They were indeed tears of
ice, for her heart was melting towards him through his strong love,
and as her tears fell on his burning cheeks he awoke. He was still
sitting under the willow-tree in a strange land, on a cold winter
evening, with snow and hail falling from the clouds, and beating
upon his face.

"That was the most delightful hour of my life," said he, "although
it was only a dream. Oh, let me dream again. " Then he closed his
eyes once more, and slept and dreamed.

Towards morning there was a great fall of snow; the wind drifted
it over him, but he still slept on. The villagers came forth to go
to church; by the roadside they found a workman seated, but he was
dead! frozen to death under a willow-tree.




IN THE UTTERMOST PARTS OF THE SEA

Some years ago, large ships were sent towards the north pole, to
explore the distant coasts, and to try how far men could penetrate
into those unknown regions. For more than a year one of these ships
had been pushing its way northward, amid snow and ice, and the sailors
had endured many hardships; till at length winter set in, and the
sun entirely disappeared; for many weeks there would be constant
night. All around, as far as the eye could reach, nothing could be
seen but fields of ice, in which the ship remained stuck fast. The
snow lay piled up in great heaps, and of these the sailors made
huts, in the form of bee-hives, some of them as large and spacious
as one of the "Huns' graves," and others only containing room enough
to hold three or four men. It was not quite dark; the northern
lights shot forth red and blue flames, like continuous fireworks,
and the snow glittered, and reflected back the light, so that the
night here was one long twilight. When the moon was brightest, the
natives came in crowds to see the sailors. They had a very singular
appearance in their rough, hairy dresses of fur, and riding in sledges
over the ice. They brought with them furs and skins in great
abundance, so that the snow-houses were soon provided with warm
carpets, and the furs also served for the sailors to wrap themselves
in, when they slept under the roofs of snow, while outside it was
freezing with a cold far more severe than in the winter with us. In
our country it was still autumn, though late in the season; and they
thought of that in their distant exile, and often pictured to
themselves the yellow leaves on the trees at home. Their watches
pointed to the hours of evening, and time to go to sleep, although
in these regions it was now always night.

In one of the huts, two of the men laid themselves down to rest.
The younger of these men had brought with him from home his best,
his dearest treasure--a Bible, which his grandmother had given him
on his departure. Every night the sacred volume rested under his head,
and he had known from his childhood what was written in it. Every
day he read in the book, and while stretched on his cold couch, the
holy words he had learnt would come into his mind: "If I take the
wings of the morning, and fly to the uttermost parts of the sea,
even there Thou art with me, and Thy right hand shall uphold me;"
and under the influence of that faith which these holy words inspired,
sleep came upon him, and dreams, which are the manifestations of God
to the spirit. The soul lives and acts, while the body is at rest.
He felt this life in him, and it was as if he heard the sound of dear,
well-known melodies, as if the breezes of summer floated around him;
and over his couch shone a ray of brightness, as if it were shining
through the covering of his snow-roof. He lifted his head, and saw
that the bright gleaming was not the reflection of the glittering
snow, but the dazzling brightness of the pinions of a mighty angel,
into whose beaming face he was gazing. As from the cup of a lily,
the angel rose from amidst the leaves of the Bible; and, stretching
out his arm, the walls of the hut sunk down, as though they had been
formed of a light, airy veil of mist, and the green hills and
meadows of home, with its ruddy woods, lay spread around him in the
quiet sunshine of a lovely autumn day. The nest of the stork was
empty, but ripe fruit still hung on the wild apple-tree, although
the leaves had fallen. The red hips gleamed on the hedges, and the
starling which hung in the green cage outside the window of the
peasant's hut, which was his home, whistled the tune which he had
taught him. His grandmother hung green birds'-food around the cage, as
he, her grandson, had been accustomed to do. The daughter of the
village blacksmith, who was young and fair, stood at the well, drawing
water. She nodded to the grandmother, and the old woman nodded to her,
and pointed to a letter which had come from a long way off. That
very morning the letter had arrived from the cold regions of the
north; there, where the absent one was sweetly sleeping under the
protecting hand of God. They laughed and wept over the letter; and he,
far away, amid ice and snow, under the shadow of the angel's wings,
wept and smiled with them in spirit; for he saw and heard it all in
his dream. From the letter they read aloud the words of Holy Writ: "In
the uttermost parts of the sea, Thy right hand shall uphold me. " And
as the angel spread his wings like a veil over the sleeper, there
was the sound of beautiful music and a hymn. Then the vision fled.
It was dark again in the snow-hut: but the Bible still rested
beneath his head, and faith and hope dwelt in his heart. God was
with him, and he carried home in his heart, even "in the uttermost
parts of the sea. "




WHAT ONE CAN INVENT

There was once a young man who was studying to be a poet. He
wanted to become one by Easter, and to marry, and to live by poetry.
To write poems, he knew, only consists in being able to invent
something; but he could not invent anything. He had been born too
late--everything had been taken up before he came into the world,
and everything had been written and told about.

"Happy people who were born a thousand years ago! " said he. "It
was an easy matter for them to become immortal. Happy even was he
who was born a hundred years ago, for then there was still something
about which a poem could be written. Now the world is written out, and
what can I write poetry about? "

Then he studied till he became ill and wretched, the wretched man!
No doctor could help him, but perhaps the wise woman could. She
lived in the little house by the wayside, where the gate is that she
opened for those who rode and drove. But she could do more than unlock
the gate. She was wiser than the doctor who drives in his own carriage
and pays tax for his rank.

"I must go to her," said the young man.

The house in which she dwelt was small and neat, but dreary to
behold, for there were no flowers near it--no trees. By the door stood
a bee-hive, which was very useful. There was also a little
potato-field, very useful, and an earth bank, with sloe bushes upon
it, which had done blossoming, and now bore fruit, sloes, that draw
one's mouth together if one tastes them before the frost has touched
them.

"That's a true picture of our poetryless time, that I see before
me now," thought the young man; and that was at least a thought, a
grain of gold that he found by the door of the wise woman.

"Write that down! " said she. "Even crumbs are bread. I know why
you come hither. You cannot invent anything, and yet you want to be
a poet by Easter. "

"Everything has been written down," said he. "Our time is not
the old time. "

"No," said the woman. "In the old time wise women were burnt,
and poets went about with empty stomachs, and very much out at elbows.
The present time is good, it is the best of times; but you have not
the right way of looking at it. Your ear is not sharpened to hear, and
I fancy you do not say the Lord's Prayer in the evening. There is
plenty here to write poems about, and to tell of, for any one who
knows the way. You can read it in the fruits of the earth, you can
draw it from the flowing and the standing water; but you must
understand how--you must understand how to catch a sunbeam. Now just
you try my spectacles on, and put my ear-trumpet to your ear, and then
pray to God, and leave off thinking of yourself. "

The last was a very difficult thing to do--more than a wise
woman ought to ask.

He received the spectacles and the ear-trumpet, and was posted
in the middle of the potato-field. She put a great potato into his
hand. Sounds came from within it; there came a song with words, the
history of the potato, an every-day story in ten parts, an interesting
story. And ten lines were enough to tell it in.

And what did the potato sing?

She sang of herself and of her family, of the arrival of the
potato in Europe, of the misrepresentation to which she had been
exposed before she was acknowledged, as she is now, to be a greater
treasure than a lump of gold.

"We were distributed, by the King's command, from the
council-houses through the various towns, and proclamation was made of
our great value; but no one believed in it, or even understood how
to plant us. One man dug a hole in the earth and threw in his whole
bushel of potatoes; another put one potato here and another there in
the ground, and expected that each was to come up a perfect tree, from
which he might shake down potatoes. And they certainly grew, and
produced flowers and green watery fruit, but it all withered away.
Nobody thought of what was in the ground--the blessing--the potato.
Yes, we have endured and suffered, that is to say, our forefathers
have; they and we, it is all one. "

What a story it was!

"Well, and that will do," said the woman. "Now look at the sloe
bush. "

"We have also some near relations in the home of the potatoes, but
higher towards the north than they grew," said the Sloes. "There
were Northmen, from Norway, who steered westward through mist and
storm to an unknown land, where, behind ice and snow, they found
plants and green meadows, and bushes with blue-black grapes--sloe
bushes. The grapes were ripened by the frost just as we are. And
they called the land 'wine-land,' that is, 'Groenland,' or
'Sloeland. '"

"That is quite a romantic story," said the young man.

"Yes, certainly. But now come with me," said the wise woman, and
she led him to the bee-hive.

He looked into it. What life and labor! There were bees standing
in all the passages, waving their wings, so that a wholesome draught
of air might blow through the great manufactory; that was their
business. Then there came in bees from without, who had been born with
little baskets on their feet; they brought flower-dust, which was
poured out, sorted, and manufactured into honey and wax. They flew
in and out. The queen-bee wanted to fly out, but then all the other
bees must have gone with her. It was not yet the time for that, but
still she wanted to fly out; so the others bit off her majesty's
wings, and she had to stay where she was.

"Now get upon the earth bank," said the wise woman. "Come and look
out over the highway, where you can see the people. "

"What a crowd it is! " said the young man. "One story after
another. It whirls and whirls!
It's quite a confusion before my
eyes. I shall go out at the back. "

"No, go straight forward," said the woman. "Go straight into the
crowd of people; look at them in the right way. Have an ear to hear
and the right heart to feel, and you will soon invent something.
But, before you go away, you must give me my spectacles and my
ear-trumpet again. "

And so saying, she took both from him.

"Now I do not see the smallest thing," said the young man, "and
now I don't hear anything more. "

"Why, then, you can't be a poet by Easter," said the wise woman.

"But, by what time can I be one? " asked he.

"Neither by Easter nor by Whitsuntide! You will not learn how to
invent anything. "

"What must I do to earn my bread by poetry? "

"You can do that before Shrove Tuesday. Hunt the poets! Kill their
writings and thus you will kill them. Don't be put out of countenance.
Strike at them boldly, and you'll have carnival cake, on which you can
support yourself and your wife too. "

"What one can invent! " cried the young man. And so he hit out
boldly at every second poet, because he could not be a poet himself.

We have it from the wise woman. She knows WHAT ONE CAN INVENT.




THE WICKED PRINCE

There lived once upon a time a wicked prince whose heart and
mind were set upon conquering all the countries of the world, and on
frightening the people; he devastated their countries with fire and
sword, and his soldiers trod down the crops in the fields and
destroyed the peasants' huts by fire, so that the flames licked the
green leaves off the branches, and the fruit hung dried up on the
singed black trees. Many a poor mother fled, her naked baby in her
arms, behind the still smoking walls of her cottage; but also there
the soldiers followed her, and when they found her, she served as
new nourishment to their diabolical enjoyments; demons could not
possibly have done worse things than these soldiers! The prince was of
opinion that all this was right, and that it was only the natural
course which things ought to take. His power increased day by day, his
name was feared by all, and fortune favoured his deeds.

He brought enormous wealth home from the conquered towns, and
gradually accumulated in his residence riches which could nowhere be
equalled. He erected magnificent palaces, churches, and halls, and all
who saw these splendid buildings and great treasures exclaimed
admiringly: "What a mighty prince! " But they did not know what endless
misery he had brought upon other countries, nor did they hear the
sighs and lamentations which rose up from the debris of the
destroyed cities.

The prince often looked with delight upon his gold and his
magnificent edifices, and thought, like the crowd: "What a mighty
prince! But I must have more--much more. No power on earth must
equal mine, far less exceed it. "

He made war with all his neighbours, and defeated them. The
conquered kings were chained up with golden fetters to his chariot
when he drove through the streets of his city. These kings had to
kneel at his and his courtiers' feet when they sat at table, and
live on the morsels which they left. At last the prince had his own
statue erected on the public places and fixed on the royal palaces;
nay, he even wished it to be placed in the churches, on the altars,
but in this the priests opposed him, saying: "Prince, you are mighty
indeed, but God's power is much greater than yours; we dare not obey
your orders. "

"Well," said the prince. "Then I will conquer God too. " And in his
haughtiness and foolish presumption he ordered a magnificent ship to
be constructed, with which he could sail through the air; it was
gorgeously fitted out and of many colours; like the tail of a peacock,
it was covered with thousands of eyes, but each eye was the barrel
of a gun. The prince sat in the centre of the ship, and had only to
touch a spring in order to make thousands of bullets fly out in all
directions, while the guns were at once loaded again. Hundreds of
eagles were attached to this ship, and it rose with the swiftness of
an arrow up towards the sun. The earth was soon left far below, and
looked, with its mountains and woods, like a cornfield where the
plough had made furrows which separated green meadows; soon it
looked only like a map with indistinct lines upon it; and at last it
entirely disappeared in mist and clouds. Higher and higher rose the
eagles up into the air; then God sent one of his numberless angels
against the ship. The wicked prince showered thousands of bullets upon
him, but they rebounded from his shining wings and fell down like
ordinary hailstones. One drop of blood, one single drop, came out of
the white feathers of the angel's wings and fell upon the ship in
which the prince sat, burnt into it, and weighed upon it like
thousands of hundredweights, dragging it rapidly down to the earth
again; the strong wings of the eagles gave way, the wind roared
round the prince's head, and the clouds around--were they formed by
the smoke rising up from the burnt cities? --took strange shapes,
like crabs many, many miles long, which stretched their claws out
after him, and rose up like enormous rocks, from which rolling
masses dashed down, and became fire-spitting dragons.

The prince was lying half-dead in his ship, when it sank at last
with a terrible shock into the branches of a large tree in the wood.

"I will conquer God! " said the prince. "I have sworn it: my will
must be done! "

And he spent seven years in the construction of wonderful ships to
sail through the air, and had darts cast from the hardest steel to
break the walls of heaven with. He gathered warriors from all
countries, so many that when they were placed side by side they
covered the space of several miles. They entered the ships and the
prince was approaching his own, when God sent a swarm of gnats--one
swarm of little gnats. They buzzed round the prince and stung his face
and hands; angrily he drew his sword and brandished it, but he only
touched the air and did not hit the gnats. Then he ordered his
servants to bring costly coverings and wrap him in them, that the
gnats might no longer be able to reach him. The servants carried out
his orders, but one single gnat had placed itself inside one of the
coverings, crept into the prince's ear and stung him. The place
burnt like fire, and the poison entered into his blood. Mad with pain,
he tore off the coverings and his clothes too, flinging them far away,
and danced about before the eyes of his ferocious soldiers, who now
mocked at him, the mad prince, who wished to make war with God, and
was overcome by a single little gnat.




THE WILD SWANS

Far away in the land to which the swallows fly when it is
winter, dwelt a king who had eleven sons, and one daughter, named
Eliza. The eleven brothers were princes, and each went to school
with a star on his breast, and a sword by his side. They wrote with
diamond pencils on gold slates, and learnt their lessons so quickly
and read so easily that every one might know they were princes.
Their sister Eliza sat on a little stool of plate-glass, and had a
book full of pictures, which had cost as much as half a kingdom. Oh,
these children were indeed happy, but it was not to remain so
always. Their father, who was king of the country, married a very
wicked queen, who did not love the poor children at all. They knew
this from the very first day after the wedding. In the palace there
were great festivities, and the children played at receiving
company; but instead of having, as usual, all the cakes and apples
that were left, she gave them some sand in a tea-cup, and told them to
pretend it was cake. The week after, she sent little Eliza into the
country to a peasant and his wife, and then she told the king so
many untrue things about the young princes, that he gave himself no
more trouble respecting them.

"Go out into the world and get your own living," said the queen.
"Fly like great birds, who have no voice. " But she could not make them
ugly as she wished, for they were turned into eleven beautiful wild
swans. Then, with a strange cry, they flew through the windows of
the palace, over the park, to the forest beyond. It was early
morning when they passed the peasant's cottage, where their sister
Eliza lay asleep in her room. They hovered over the roof, twisted
their long necks and flapped their wings, but no one heard them or saw
them, so they were at last obliged to fly away, high up in the clouds;
and over the wide world they flew till they came to a thick, dark
wood, which stretched far away to the seashore. Poor little Eliza
was alone in her room playing with a green leaf, for she had no
other playthings, and she pierced a hole through the leaf, and
looked through it at the sun, and it was as if she saw her brothers'
clear eyes, and when the warm sun shone on her cheeks, she thought
of all the kisses they had given her. One day passed just like
another; sometimes the winds rustled through the leaves of the
rose-bush, and would whisper to the roses, "Who can be more
beautiful than you! " But the roses would shake their heads, and say,
"Eliza is. " And when the old woman sat at the cottage door on
Sunday, and read her hymn-book, the wind would flutter the leaves, and
say to the book, "Who can be more pious than you? " and then the
hymn-book would answer "Eliza. " And the roses and the hymn-book told
the real truth. At fifteen she returned home, but when the queen saw
how beautiful she was, she became full of spite and hatred towards
her. Willingly would she have turned her into a swan, like her
brothers, but she did not dare to do so yet, because the king wished
to see his daughter. Early one morning the queen went into the
bath-room; it was built of marble, and had soft cushions, trimmed with
the most beautiful tapestry. She took three toads with her, and kissed
them, and said to one, "When Eliza comes to the bath, seat yourself
upon her head, that she may become as stupid as you are. " Then she
said to another, "Place yourself on her forehead, that she may
become as ugly as you are, and that her father may not know her. "
"Rest on her heart," she whispered to the third, "then she will have
evil inclinations, and suffer in consequence. " So she put the toads
into the clear water, and they turned green immediately. She next
called Eliza, and helped her to undress and get into the bath. As
Eliza dipped her head under the water, one of the toads sat on her
hair, a second on her forehead, and a third on her breast, but she did
not seem to notice them, and when she rose out of the water, there
were three red poppies floating upon it. Had not the creatures been
venomous or been kissed by the witch, they would have been changed
into red roses. At all events they became flowers, because they had
rested on Eliza's head, and on her heart. She was too good and too
innocent for witchcraft to have any power over her. When the wicked
queen saw this, she rubbed her face with walnut-juice, so that she was
quite brown; then she tangled her beautiful hair and smeared it with
disgusting ointment, till it was quite impossible to recognize the
beautiful Eliza.

When her father saw her, he was much shocked, and declared she was
not his daughter. No one but the watch-dog and the swallows knew
her; and they were only poor animals, and could say nothing. Then poor
Eliza wept, and thought of her eleven brothers, who were all away.
Sorrowfully, she stole away from the palace, and walked, the whole
day, over fields and moors, till she came to the great forest. She
knew not in what direction to go; but she was so unhappy, and longed
so for her brothers, who had been, like herself, driven out into the
world, that she was determined to seek them. She had been but a
short time in the wood when night came on, and she quite lost the
path; so she laid herself down on the soft moss, offered up her
evening prayer, and leaned her head against the stump of a tree. All
nature was still, and the soft, mild air fanned her forehead. The
light of hundreds of glow-worms shone amidst the grass and the moss,
like green fire; and if she touched a twig with her hand, ever so
lightly, the brilliant insects fell down around her, like
shooting-stars.

All night long she dreamt of her brothers. She and they were
children again, playing together. She saw them writing with their
diamond pencils on golden slates, while she looked at the beautiful
picture-book which had cost half a kingdom. They were not writing
lines and letters, as they used to do; but descriptions of the noble
deeds they had performed, and of all they had discovered and seen.
In the picture-book, too, everything was living. The birds sang, and
the people came out of the book, and spoke to Eliza and her
brothers; but, as the leaves turned over, they darted back again to
their places, that all might be in order.

When she awoke, the sun was high in the heavens; yet she could not
see him, for the lofty trees spread their branches thickly over her
head; but his beams were glancing through the leaves here and there,
like a golden mist. There was a sweet fragrance from the fresh green
verdure, and the birds almost perched upon her shoulders. She heard
water rippling from a number of springs, all flowing in a lake with
golden sands. Bushes grew thickly round the lake, and at one spot an
opening had been made by a deer, through which Eliza went down to
the water. The lake was so clear that, had not the wind rustled the
branches of the trees and the bushes, so that they moved, they would
have appeared as if painted in the depths of the lake; for every
leaf was reflected in the water, whether it stood in the shade or
the sunshine. As soon as Eliza saw her own face, she was quite
terrified at finding it so brown and ugly; but when she wetted her
little hand, and rubbed her eyes and forehead, the white skin
gleamed forth once more; and, after she had undressed, and dipped
herself in the fresh water, a more beautiful king's daughter could not
be found in the wide world. As soon as she had dressed herself
again, and braided her long hair, she went to the bubbling spring, and
drank some water out of the hollow of her hand. Then she wandered
far into the forest, not knowing whither she went. She thought of
her brothers, and felt sure that God would not forsake her. It is
God who makes the wild apples grow in the wood, to satisfy the hungry,
and He now led her to one of these trees, which was so loaded with
fruit, that the boughs bent beneath the weight. Here she held her
noonday repast, placed props under the boughs, and then went into
the gloomiest depths of the forest. It was so still that she could
hear the sound of her own footsteps, as well as the rustling of
every withered leaf which she crushed under her feet. Not a bird was
to be seen, not a sunbeam could penetrate through the large, dark
boughs of the trees. Their lofty trunks stood so close together, that,
when she looked before her, it seemed as if she were enclosed within
trellis-work. Such solitude she had never known before. The night
was very dark. Not a single glow-worm glittered in the moss.

Sorrowfully she laid herself down to sleep; and, after a while, it
seemed to her as if the branches of the trees parted over her head,
and that the mild eyes of angels looked down upon her from heaven.
When she awoke in the morning, she knew not whether she had dreamt
this, or if it had really been so. Then she continued her wandering;
but she had not gone many steps forward, when she met an old woman
with berries in her basket, and she gave her a few to eat. Then
Eliza asked her if she had not seen eleven princes riding through
the forest.

"No," replied the old woman, "But I saw yesterday eleven swans,
with gold crowns on their heads, swimming on the river close by. " Then
she led Eliza a little distance farther to a sloping bank, and at
the foot of it wound a little river. The trees on its banks
stretched their long leafy branches across the water towards each
other, and where the growth prevented them from meeting naturally, the
roots had torn themselves away from the ground, so that the branches
might mingle their foliage as they hung over the water. Eliza bade the
old woman farewell, and walked by the flowing river, till she
reached the shore of the open sea. And there, before the young
maiden's eyes, lay the glorious ocean, but not a sail appeared on
its surface, not even a boat could be seen. How was she to go farther?
She noticed how the countless pebbles on the sea-shore had been
smoothed and rounded by the action of the water. Glass, iron,
stones, everything that lay there mingled together, had taken its
shape from the same power, and felt as smooth, or even smoother than
her own delicate hand. "The water rolls on without weariness," she
said, "till all that is hard becomes smooth; so will I be unwearied
in my task. Thanks for your lessons, bright rolling waves; my heart
tells me you will lead me to my dear brothers. " On the foam-covered
sea-weeds, lay eleven white swan feathers, which she gathered up and
placed together. Drops of water lay upon them; whether they were
dew-drops or tears no one could say. Lonely as it was on the
sea-shore, she did not observe it, for the ever-moving sea showed more
changes in a few hours than the most varying lake could produce during
a whole year. If a black heavy cloud arose, it was as if the sea said,
"I can look dark and angry too;" and then the wind blew, and the waves
turned to white foam as they rolled. When the wind slept, and the
clouds glowed with the red sunlight, then the sea looked like a rose
leaf. But however quietly its white glassy surface rested, there was
still a motion on the shore, as its waves rose and fell like the
breast of a sleeping child. When the sun was about to set, Eliza saw
eleven white swans with golden crowns on their heads, flying towards
the land, one behind the other, like a long white ribbon. Then Eliza
went down the slope from the shore, and hid herself behind the bushes.
The swans alighted quite close to her and flapped their great white
wings. As soon as the sun had disappeared under the water, the
feathers of the swans fell off, and eleven beautiful princes,
Eliza's brothers, stood near her. She uttered a loud cry, for,
although they were very much changed, she knew them immediately. She
sprang into their arms, and called them each by name. Then, how
happy the princes were at meeting their little sister again, for
they recognized her, although she had grown so tall and beautiful.
They laughed, and they wept, and very soon understood how wickedly
their mother had acted to them all. "We brothers," said the eldest,
"fly about as wild swans, so long as the sun is in the sky; but as
soon as it sinks behind the hills, we recover our human shape.
Therefore must we always be near a resting place for our feet before
sunset; for if we should be flying towards the clouds at the time we
recovered our natural shape as men, we should sink deep into the
sea. We do not dwell here, but in a land just as fair, that lies
beyond the ocean, which we have to cross for a long distance; there is
no island in our passage upon which we could pass, the night;
nothing but a little rock rising out of the sea, upon which we can
scarcely stand with safety, even closely crowded together. If the
sea is rough, the foam dashes over us, yet we thank God even for
this rock; we have passed whole nights upon it, or we should never
have reached our beloved fatherland, for our flight across the sea
occupies two of the longest days in the year. We have permission to
visit out home once in every year, and to remain eleven days, during
which we fly across the forest to look once more at the palace where
our father dwells, and where we were born, and at the church, where
our mother lies buried. Here it seems as if the very trees and
bushes were related to us. The wild horses leap over the plains as
we have seen them in our childhood. The charcoal burners sing the
old songs, to which we have danced as children. This is our
fatherland, to which we are drawn by loving ties; and here we have
found you, our dear little sister. Two days longer we can remain
here, and then must we fly away to a beautiful land which is not our
home; and how can we take you with us? We have neither ship nor boat. "

"How can I break this spell? " said their sister. And then she
talked about it nearly the whole night, only slumbering for a few
hours. Eliza was awakened by the rustling of the swans' wings as
they soared above. Her brothers were again changed to swans, and
they flew in circles wider and wider, till they were far away; but one
of them, the youngest swan, remained behind, and laid his head in
his sister's lap, while she stroked his wings; and they remained
together the whole day. Towards evening, the rest came back, and as
the sun went down they resumed their natural forms. "To-morrow,"
said one, "we shall fly away, not to return again till a whole year
has passed. But we cannot leave you here. Have you courage to go
with us? My arm is strong enough to carry you through the wood; and
will not all our wings be strong enough to fly with you over the sea? "

"Yes, take me with you," said Eliza. Then they spent the whole
night in weaving a net with the pliant willow and rushes. It was
very large and strong. Eliza laid herself down on the net, and when
the sun rose, and her brothers again became wild swans, they took up
the net with their beaks, and flew up to the clouds with their dear
sister, who still slept. The sunbeams fell on her face, therefore
one of the swans soared over her head, so that his broad wings might
shade her. They were far from the land when Eliza woke. She thought
she must still be dreaming, it seemed so strange to her to feel
herself being carried so high in the air over the sea. By her side lay
a branch full of beautiful ripe berries, and a bundle of sweet
roots; the youngest of her brothers had gathered them for her, and
placed them by her side. She smiled her thanks to him; she knew it was
the same who had hovered over her to shade her with his wings. They
were now so high, that a large ship beneath them looked like a white
sea-gull skimming the waves. A great cloud floating behind them
appeared like a vast mountain, and upon it Eliza saw her own shadow
and those of the eleven swans, looking gigantic in size. Altogether it
formed a more beautiful picture than she had ever seen; but as the sun
rose higher, and the clouds were left behind, the shadowy picture
vanished away. Onward the whole day they flew through the air like a
winged arrow, yet more slowly than usual, for they had their sister to
carry. The weather seemed inclined to be stormy, and Eliza watched the
sinking sun with great anxiety, for the little rock in the ocean was
not yet in sight. It appeared to her as if the swans were making great
efforts with their wings. Alas! she was the cause of their not
advancing more quickly. When the sun set, they would change to men,
fall into the sea and be drowned. Then she offered a prayer from her
inmost heart, but still no appearance of the rock. Dark clouds came
nearer, the gusts of wind told of a coming storm, while from a
thick, heavy mass of clouds the lightning burst forth flash after
flash. The sun had reached the edge of the sea, when the swans
darted down so swiftly, that Eliza's head trembled; she believed
they were falling, but they again soared onward. Presently she
caught sight of the rock just below them, and by this time the sun was
half hidden by the waves. The rock did not appear larger than a seal's
head thrust out of the water. They sunk so rapidly, that at the moment
their feet touched the rock, it shone only like a star, and at last
disappeared like the last spark in a piece of burnt paper. Then she
saw her brothers standing closely round her with their arms linked
together. There was but just room enough for them, and not the
smallest space to spare. The sea dashed against the rock, and
covered them with spray.