“Where am I?” she asked; and her voice sounded like theirs—so lovely and so melodious that no human music could reproduce it.
“We are the daughters of the air,” they answered. “Mermaids have no immortal soul and can never have one, unless they can obtain the love of a human being. Their chance of obtaining eternal life depends upon others. We, daughters of the air, have not received an eternal soul either; but we can win one by good deeds. We fly to the warm countries, where the heavy air of the plague rests, and blow cool winds to spread it. We carry the smell of flowers that refresh and heal the sick. If for three hundred years we earnestly try to do what is good, we obtain an immortal soul and can take part in the eternal happiness of man. You, little mermaid, have tried with all your heart to do the same. You have suffered and borne your suffering bravely; and that is why you are now among us, the spirits of the air. Do your good deeds and in three hundred years an immortal soul will be yours.”
The little mermaid lifted her arms up toward God’s sun, and for the first time she felt a tear.
She heard noise coming from the ship. She saw the prince and the princess searching for her. Sadly they looked at the sea, as if they knew that she had thrown herself into the waves. Without being seen, she kissed the bride’s forehead and smiled at the prince; then she rose together with the other children of the air, up into a pink cloud that was sailing by.
“In three hundred years I shall rise like this into God’s kingdom,” she said.
“You may be able to go there before that,” whispered one of the others to her. “Invisibly, we fly through the homes of human beings. They can’t see us, so they don’t know when we are there; but if we find a good child, who makes his parents happy and deserves their love, we smile and God takes a year away from the time of our trial. But if there is a naughty and mean child in the house we come to, we cry; and for every tear we shed, God adds a day to the three hundred years we already must serve.”
9
The Emperor’s New Clothes
Many, many years ago there was an emperor who was so terribly fond of beautiful new clothes that he spent all his money on his attire. He did not care about his soldiers, or attending the theater, or even going for a drive in the park, unless it was to show off his new clothes. He had an outfit for every hour of the day. And just as we say, “The king is in his council chamber,” his subjects used to say, “The emperor is in his clothes closet.”
In the large town where the emperor’s palace was, life was gay and happy; and every day new visitors arrived. One day two swindlers came. They told everybody that they were weavers and that they could weave the most marvelous cloth. Not only were the colors and the patterns of their material extraordinarly beautiful, but the cloth had the strange quality of being invisible to anyone who was unfit for his office or unforgivably stupid.
“This is truly marvelous,” thought the emperor. “Now if I had robes cut from that material, I should know which of my councilors was unfit for his office, and I would be able to pick out my clever subjects myself. They must weave some material for me!” And he gave the swindlers a lot of money so they could start working at once.
They set up a loom and acted as if they were weaving, but the loom was empty. The fine silk and gold threads they demanded from the emperor they never used, but hid them in their own knapsacks. Late into the night they would sit before their empty loom, pretending to weave.
“I would like to know how they are getting along,” thought the emperor; but his heart beat strangely when he remembered that those who were stupid or unfit for their office would not be able to see the material. Not that he was really worried that this would happen to him. Still, it might be better to send someone else the first time and see how he fared. Everybody in town had heard about the cloth’s magic quality and most of them could hardly wait to find out how stupid or unworthy their neighbors were.
“I shall send my faithful prime minister over to see how the weavers are getting along,” thought the emperor. “He will know how to judge the material, for he is both clever and fit for his office, if any man is.”
The good-natured old man stepped into the room where the weavers were working and saw the empty loom. He closed his eyes, and opened them again. “God preserve me!” he thought. “I cannot see a thing!” But he didn’t say it out loud.
The swindlers asked him to step a little closer to the loom so that he could admire the intricate patterns and marvelous colors of the material they were weaving. They both pointed to the empty loom, and the poor old prime minister opened his eyes as wide as he could; but it didn’t help, he still couldn’t see anything.
“Am I stupid?” he thought. “I can’t believe it, but if it is so, it is best no one finds out about it. But maybe I am not fit for my office. No, that is worse, I’d better not admit that I can’t see what they are weaving.”
“Tell us what you think of it,” demanded one of the swindlers.
“It is beautiful. It is very lovely,” mumbled the old prime minister, adjusting his glasses. “What patterns! What colors! I shall tell the emperor that it pleases me ever so much.”
“That is a compliment,” both the weavers said; and now they described the patterns and told which shades of color they had used. The prime minister listened attentively, so that he could repeat their words to the emperor; and that is exactly what he did.
The two swindlers demanded more money, and more silk and gold thread. They said they had to use it for their weaving, but their loom remained as empty as ever.
Soon the emperor sent another of his trusted councilors to see how the work was progressing. He looked and looked just as the prime minister had, but since there was nothing to be seen, he didn’t see anything.
“Isn’t it a marvelous piece of material?” asked one of the swindlers; and they both began to describe the beauty of their cloth again.
“I am not stupid,” thought the emperor’s councilor. “I must be unfit for my office. That is strange; but I’d better not admit it to anyone.” And he started to praise the material, which he could not see, for the loveliness of its patterns and colors.
“I think it is the most charming piece of material I have ever seen,” declared the councilor to the emperor.
Everyone in town was talking about the marvelous cloth that the swindlers were weaving.
At last the emperor himself decided to see it before it was removed from the loom. Attended by the most important people in the empire, among them the prime minister and the councilor who had been there before, the emperor entered the room where the weavers were weaving furiously on their empty loom.
“Isn’t it magnifique?” asked the prime minister.
“Your Majesty, look at the colors and the patterns,” said the councilor.
And the two old gentlemen pointed to the empty loom, believing that all the rest of the company could see the cloth.
“What!” thought the emperor. “I can’t see a thing! Why, this is a disaster! Am I stupid? Am I unfit to be emperor? Oh, it is too horrible!” Aloud he said, “It is very lovely. It has my approval,” while he nodded his head and looked at the empty loom.
All the councilors, ministers, and men of great importance who had come with him stared and stared; but they saw no more than the emperor had seen, and they said the same thing that he had said, “It is lovely.” And they advised him to have clothes cut and sewn, so that he could wear them in the procession at the next great celebration.
“It is magnificent! Beautiful! Excellent!” All of their mouths agreed, though none of their eyes had seen anything. The two swindlers were decorated and given the title “Royal Knight of the Loom.”
The night before the procession, the two swindlers didn’t sleep at all. They had sixteen candles lighting up the room where they worked. Everyone could see how busy they were, getting the emperor’s new clothes finished. They pretended to take the cloth from the loom; they cut the air with their big scissors, and sewed with n
eedles without thread. At last they announced: “The emperor’s clothes are ready!”
Together with his courtiers, the emperor came. The swindlers lifted their arms as if they were holding something in their hands, and said, “These are the trousers. This is the robe, and here is the train. They are all as light as if they were made of spider webs! It will be as if Your Majesty had almost nothing on, but that is their special virtue.”
“Oh yes,” breathed all the courtiers; but they saw nothing, for there was nothing to be seen.
“Will Your Imperial Majesty be so gracious as to take off your clothes?” asked the swindlers. “Over there by the big mirror, we shall help you put your new ones on.”
The emperor did as he was told; and the swindlers acted as if they were dressing him in the clothes they should have made. Finally they tied around his waist the long train which two of his most noble courtiers were to carry.
The emperor stood in front of the mirror admiring the clothes he couldn’t see.
“Oh, how they suit you! A perfect fit!” everyone exclaimed. “What colors! What patterns! The new clothes are magnificent!”
“The crimson canopy, under which Your Imperial Majesty is to walk, is waiting outside,” said the imperial master of court ceremony.
“Well, I am dressed. Aren’t my clothes becoming?” The emperor turned around once more in front of the mirror, pretending to study his finery.
The two gentlemen of the imperial bedchamber fumbled on the floor, trying to find the train which they were supposed to carry. They didn’t dare admit that they didn’t see anything, so they pretended to pick up the train and held their hands as if they were carrying it.
The emperor walked in the procession under his crimson canopy. And all the people of the town, who had lined the streets or were looking down from the windows, said that the emperor’s clothes were beautiful. “What a magnificent robe! And the train! How well the emperor’s clothes suit him!”
None of them were willing to admit that they hadn’t seen a thing; for if anyone did, then he was either stupid or unfit for the job he held. Never before had the emperor’s clothes been such a success.
“But he doesn’t have anything on!” cried a little child.
“Listen to the innocent one,” said the proud father. And the people whispered among each other and repeated what the child had said.
“He doesn’t have anything on. There’s a little child who says that he has nothing on.”
“He has nothing on!” shouted all the people at last.
The emperor shivered, for he was certain that they were right; but he thought, “I must bear it until the procession is over.” And he walked even more proudly, and the two gentlemen of the imperial bedchamber went on carrying the train that wasn’t there.
10
The Magic Galoshes
PART ONE: THE BEGINNING
In one of the houses on East Street, near the King’s New Square, which is in the very center of Copenhagen, a big party was being held. It was one of those parties you have to have once in a while, to which you invite everyone who has invited you to a party; then the slate is clean and you can be invited out again. Half of the guests were already playing cards; the other half were sitting in the parlor, waiting for the hostess to entertain them. The conversation lagged, until someone mentioned the Middle Ages; and someone else remarked that he thought that that earlier era was better than our own. Then Councilman Knap held forth ardently on his favorite theory that olden times were far superior to the present. He quite convinced his hostess; and they both agreed to disagree with Oersted’s evaluation, to be found in the almanac, which asserts that on the whole modern times are the best. The councilman said that he thought the reign of King Hans was the period in which life had been pleasantest and happiest.
While that discussion is going on, let us go out into the entrance hall, where the wraps, coats, walking canes, umbrellas, and galoshes have been deposited. Here sat two women: one was young, the other old. At first sight you might believe that they were personal maids who had accompanied their mistresses—some ancient dowager or withered old maid—to the party. But on closer examination this thought was dismissed; they were, in any case, not ordinary servants. Their hands were too delicate, they carried themselves too royally, and their clothes were of a strange, if not daring, fashion. They were fairies. The younger one was only a lady’s maid to the lady in waiting of the Fairy of Happiness; and she distributed only lesser blessings. The older one looked very serious and was the Fairy of Sorrow herself; she always delivers her gifts personally to make sure you receive them.
They were telling each other what they had done during that day. The fairy who was only a servant of the lady in waiting to the Fairy of Happiness had very little to tell. She had saved a hat from being drenched; she had obtained a greeting—a slight inclining of the head: a nod—for an honest and decent man from a very elegant nonentity, and small things of that nature. “But I’ll let you in on a secret,” she added. “Today is my birthday and as a present I have been given the honor of giving humanity a very special pair of galoshes. They are magic galoshes and anyone who has them on is transported instantly to the time in history or the place in the world that he desires to be. And so, at last, some people will have a chance to be happy on earth!”
“Do you believe that?” asked Sorrow. “People will be even more unhappy than they were before and will bless that moment when they get rid of the galoshes.”
“Don’t be silly,” said the younger fairy. “I’ll leave the galoshes here by the door; somebody will take them by mistake and obtain happiness!”
So ended the fairies’ conversation.
PART TWO: WHAT HAPPENED TO THE COUNCILMAN
It was late and Councilman Knap, who was getting ready to go home, was so engrossed in thinking about the times of King Hans that he put on the magic galoshes instead of his own. As he stepped out onto East Street, he was back in the time of King Hans, which meant that he put his foot down in half a foot of slush and mud because in King Hans’s times there was no such thing as a sidewalk.
“It’s terribly muddy!” he muttered. “Where is the sidewalk? And what happened to the street lamp?”
The moon had not risen high enough to shed any light on the street; the air was dense and heavy. Everything seemed to be shrouded in darkness. At the corner of the street, below the picture of the Virgin, burned a tiny oil lamp. Its light was so dim that the councilman did not notice it until he was standing right underneath the painting of the Mother and Child.
“I’ll bet this is an art gallery,” he thought. “And they’ve forgotten to take down their sign.”
Two men, dressed as men did in the time of King Hans, walked past him.
“I wonder why they were wearing those clothes? I’ll bet they’re coming from a masquerade.”
Suddenly he heard pipes and drums. Flares lighted up the street. The councilman stopped to look at the strange procession. First there was a group of drummers, who beat their instruments with great force; they were followed by some soldiers carrying torches and armed with crossbows; finally a man, obviously of great importance and belonging to the church, went by. The councilman was so surprised by the sight that he asked a passer-by who the dignitary was.
“He is the Bishop of Zealand,” was the answer.
“My God, what has happened to the bishop?” sighed the councilman, shaking his head. “No,” he thought. “That couldn’t have been the bishop.” And, still in a quandary, he walked the full length of East Street and across High Bridge Square; but he could not find the bridge to the Castle Square. In the darkness he could make out the banks of a stream, where he came upon two young men who were lying in a boat.
“Would you like to be rowed over to the island, sir?” one of them asked.
“Over to the island!” exclaimed the councilman, who still did not realize that he had taken a journey backward in time. “I want to go to Christian’s Harbor, I live on Lit
tle Beech Road.”
Amazed, the two young men just stared at him.
“Just tell me where the bridge is,” demanded the councilman. “It is disgraceful that none of the lamps is lighted; and there is mud everywhere, as if one were walking in a swamp.”
The more he and the ferrymen talked, the less comprehensible they were to each other.
“I can’t understand your dialect,” he said finally, and turned his back on them.
But where was the bridge? And where was the railing that followed the edge of the stream, to prevent people from falling into it? “It’s a scandal that such conditions are allowed.” And he had never been as disgusted with his own times as he was now.
“I’ll go to the King’s New Square where I can get a cab, otherwise I’ll never get home.”
When he reached the end of East Street, the moon came out. “What is that strange structure?” he muttered to himself when he saw the old eastern gates of the city. He spied a little door and opened it, and expected to be in the King’s New Square, but he found himself on a meadow. A channel cut across it; a few bushes were growing; and there were the sheds used for storage by the sea captains from Holland; the whole area was then called the Dutch Meadows.
“Either I have walked into a mirage or I am drunk,” whimpered the poor councilman. “Oh, what is this all about? Where am I?”
Convinced that he was very ill, he turned back. When he again stood on East Street, the moonlight had made it possible for him to notice that most of the buildings were half-timbered houses with thatched roofs.
“I am not well,” he sighed. “Even though I have had only one glass of punch, it didn’t agree with me. It was wrong of them to serve baked salmon and punch, they don’t go together. I think I shall return and tell my hostess. They would want to know how wretchedly I feel.… But it might be embarrassing; they may have gone to bed already.”