More and more guests arrived. The room was soon so crowded that the smaller mice had to stay in the corners or they would have been trampled to death. It didn’t help that the bridal couple were now standing in the doorway and nearly blocking it. The room had been greased with lard, just like the corridor: that was the wedding feast, which the guests could munch on whenever they wished. As dessert a pea was served; in it, a member of the family had bitten the bridal couple’s initials. It was most extraordinary!
All the mice declared that it had been a marvelous wedding and that the conversation had been extremely intelligent.
When it was over, the little female mouse drove Hjalmar back. It had certainly been a distinguished feast he had been invited to attend. But he had had to make himself small and put on a tin soldier’s uniform.
FRIDAY
“There are so many grownups who plague me to come and visit them,” said the sandman, “especially those who have a bad conscience. ‘Oh, kind sandman,’ they beg, ‘please come. We can’t sleep; our eyes won’t close. We have to lie awake all night and look at our bad deeds. They sit like little trolls at the end of our beds and throw boiling water on us to keep us awake. Won’t you come and tell them to go away so that we can sleep?’ And then they sigh so deeply and say, ‘We will pay you for it. Just come and say good night to us, sweet sandman. We have put the money on the window sill.’ But that kind of favor you can’t buy for money,” explained the sandman.
“What is going to happen tonight?” asked Hjalmar.
“Would you like to go to another wedding?” laughed the sandman. “It will be a little different from the one you went to last night. Your sister’s doll—the one that is dressed as a man and whom you all call Herman—wants to marry the doll named Bertha. It is Bertha’s birthday today and she’s expecting a lot of presents.”
“Oh, I know all about that.” Hjalmar sounded bored. “My sister is always making birthday parties or holding weddings for her dolls, especially when they need new clothes. I think she has done it a hundred times.”
“But tonight is the hundred and first time, and that is an anniversary that doesn’t take place often. When that is over, everything is over. Come take a look!”
Hjalmar glanced toward the table where his playthings were. There was light in the window of the little paper dollhouse; and outside it stood all his tin soldiers and presented arms. The bridal couple sat on the floor. They were leaning their backs against the leg of the table and looking pensively at each other—and that was not so strange; after all, they were getting married.
The sandman had put on Hjalmar’s grandmother’s skirt and was busy performing the marriage ceremony. As soon as it was over all the furniture sang this beautiful song, which the pencil had written especially for the occasion; he didn’t care whether the words made sense so long as they rhymed.
Wedding one hundred and one
Has only just begun.
He is proud as a pin,
She is made of skin.
Hurrah for pin, hurrah for skin
Whose married life does now begin!
Then it was time to give presents, but the two dolls had declared they didn’t want anything eatable, they were going to live on love.
“Should we go to the country or travel abroad for our honeymoon?” asked the groom.
This was a weighty problem; and therefore both the swallow, who had traveled widely, and the old hen from the farmyard, who had hatched five broods of chickens, were asked to give their opinions. The swallow told all about the countries of the south, where grapes hung in clusters on the vines and the air was mild and warm. He described the mountains and their strange and beautiful colors, so different from those one can see in the north.
“Ah, but they don’t have any kale!” clucked the hen. “I spent one summer out in the country, I had my little chickens with me. We vacationed in a gravel pit. Sand is so delightful to scratch and scrape in. And we were allowed to visit the part of the garden where the kale grew. It had a lovely green color; I am sure that nothing has a more beautiful color.”
“But one kale plant looks just like all the others,” said the swallow, “and besides, the weather is always so bad here.”
“We are used to that,” replied the hen.
“But it is always cold, I am freezing,” shivered the swallow.
“That is good for the kale,” cackled the hen. “Besides, sometimes the weather is hot here too. I remember a summer four years ago; it lasted almost five weeks. It was so hot you could hardly breathe. Besides in foreign lands they have all sorts of creepy poisonous things, and bandits. I think that people who don’t love their native land are ungrateful scoundrels who shouldn’t be allowed to live here.” And the hen began to cry, though she continued to talk. “I have traveled myself once, twelve miles in a wooden crate. Believe me, traveling is no pleasure.”
“I think the hen is a very sensible woman,” said the doll called Bertha. “I don’t like to travel in mountains myself. What is it but up one side and down the other? No, let us move out to a gravel pit and go for walks among the kale stalks.”
And that was what they decided to do.
SATURDAY
“Are you going to tell me a story?” asked Hjalmar as soon as he had gotten into bed.
“No, tonight I haven’t got time for one,” said the sandman, and opened his most beautiful umbrella over Hjalmar’s bed. “But you can look at this. It is all Chinese.”
Suddenly the umbrella looked like a Chinese bowl. Inside it there was a whole world: blue trees and blue bridges, with little Chinese men and women standing on them and nodding their heads at Hjalmar.
“Today I have to see to it that the whole world is properly cleaned, for tomorrow is Sunday, you know. I have to go to the church towers to find out whether the church elves have remembered to polish the bells, so they won’t sound false. Then I have to go out into the fields and inspect them, to make sure that the wind has dusted all the flowers and trees. But the most important work is to take down all the stars and polish them. I put them in my apron; but first I have to number all the holes so that I can put them back in the right place again. If I don’t, some of them might not fit correctly; then they might slip out and there would be too many shooting stars, falling down one after the other.”
“Now look here, Mr. Sandman,” said the old portrait of Hjalmar’s great-grandfather, which hung on the wall opposite Hjalmar’s bed. “I am the boy’s great-grandfather, and I am pleased that you tell Hjalmar stories, but you must not confuse the child. One cannot take down stars and polish them; the stars are planets like our earth; and that is exactly what is so exciting about them.”
“Thank you, thank you, old Great-grandfather,” said the sandman; but he didn’t look the least bit grateful. “You are the head of the family, the great head, the grand head. But I am a great deal older than you are; I am a heathen. The Romans and the Greeks worshiped me and called me the God of Dreams. I have visited the grandest palaces and am still a welcome guest anywhere. I know how to please both children and grownups. But why don’t you tell a story?” With these words the sandman left, taking his umbrella with him.
“These days, one is not even allowed to express an opinion,” grumbled Great-grandfather’s portrait. And then Hjalmar woke up.
SUNDAY
“Good evening,” said the sandman.
Hjalmar nodded his head as a greeting, then jumped out of bed, ran over to Great-grandfather’s portrait and turned his face to the wall so he couldn’t interrupt as he had done yesterday.
“Now tell me the story about the five peas in the pod, the tale of the cock that crowed too loud, and the one about the darning needle that was so proud that she thought she was a sewing needle,” demanded Hjalmar.
“That was a lot,” said the sandman. “You know, you can get too much of a good thing. Besides, I like to show you things rather than tell you stories. I think I will let you see my brother; he is also called the
sandman, but he only visits you once and then he carries you away on his horse. He tells you a story, but he only knows two. One is the loveliest story ever told, so beautiful that you cannot imagine it; the other is so ugly and terrifying that it, too, is indescribable.” The sandman lifted little Hjalmar up so that he could see out the window. “There rides my brother, the other sandman who is called Death. He is not really as frightening or horrible as he is portrayed in books. He is not a skeleton. That is just the silver embroidery on his uniform. Being in the cavalry, he rides a horse. Look at his lovely velvet cape fluttering in the wind behind him as he gallops by.”
And Hjalmar saw how Death rode and dismounted to take away the people who had died; some were old, but others were young. Some he placed in front of him and others behind him. He asked everyone the same question: “How is your report card?”
And all of them replied: “Oh, it is fine!” But he was not satisfied with their answers, he had to look himself. Everyone who had good marks he put in front of him, and to them he told the loveliest story in the world; but those who had bad marks he put behind him, and they were told a terrible story. They cried and wanted to jump down from the horse but they couldn’t.
“I think Death is a nice sandman,” said Hjalmar. “I am not afraid of him.”
“Oh, there is no reason to be,” smiled the sandman. “Just make certain that you have a good report card.”
“Now that is what I call a very instructive story,” mumbled Great-grandfather’s picture. “You see, it helps to complain and express one’s opinion.” Now he was satisfied.
Now you have heard the story of the sandman. You can ask him to tell you stories, himself, when he comes tonight.
21
The Rose Elf
In the middle of the garden grew a rosebush; it was filled with flowers, and in the most beautiful of them all lived an elf. He was so small that he could not be seen by the human eye. Within every petal of the rose he had a bedchamber. He was wonderfully well proportioned and as lovely as any child. From his shoulders to his heels stretched his beautiful wings. Oh, what fragrant air there was where he slept; and how clear and transparent were the walls, for they were the delicate pink petals of a rose.
All day the little elf flew about in the warm sunshine. He visited all the flowers in the garden, rode on the backs of butterflies, and just for fun he counted how many steps long all the roads and paths on a linden leaf were. What he called roads and paths we call the veins of the leaf; but he was so tiny that they seemed to him like endless roads. The sun set before he was finished, for he had started the work too late.
It was chilly. The dew was falling, and the evening breeze began to blow. The elf hurried home as fast as he could but the rose had already closed itself for the night. He couldn’t get in. He flew around the bush but not one of the flowers was open. The poor little elf became frightened. He had spent every night of his life sleeping sweetly within the petal of a rose. Never before had he been out in the dark. “Oh, this will be my death!” he muttered.
At the end of the garden there was an arbor whose latticework was covered with honeysuckle. The flowers looked like painted trumpets; and inside one of these, the elf hoped he would be able to sleep.
He flew toward the shaded nook but someone was there: two human beings, a beautiful young woman and a handsome young man. They sat close to each other on the little bench and wished never to be separated, for they loved each other, even more than the best little child loves his father and mother.
“We must part,” the young man said, and sighed. “Your brother frowns on our love and that is why he is sending me away. I am going on a business trip far, far away, across the mountains. Farewell, my sweet bride! For my bride you are!”
They kissed and the young girl wept. She picked a rose for him, but before she handed it to the young man, she kissed it so passionately that the flower opened. The elf flew into the rose and leaned his head up against one of the fragrant, soft walls: at last, he had got inside! Through the petals of the rose he could hear the two young people saying good-by to each other. The young man pinned the rose on his chest. Oh, how his heart beat! The little elf couldn’t sleep for all the noise.
As the young man walked through the dark forest he took the rose in his hand. Again and again he kissed it, so fervently that he almost crushed the elf to death. He could feel how the young man’s lips burned; and the rose opened itself as if it were midday.
Another man was also afoot in the forest that night: the young girl’s evil brother. In his hand he had a long sharp knife. While the young man kissed his rose, the evil man stabbed him to death. He cut off his head; and then buried both head and body in the soft earth under a linden tree.
“Now he is gone and soon he will be forgotten,” thought the evil man. “He was supposed to go on a long journey across the mountains. On such a trip one can easily lose one’s life, and that is what will have happened to him. He will never return and my sister will never dare ask me why.”
He covered the newly dug earth with leaves and twigs and walked home through the dark night. But he was not as alone as he thought he was, for the little elf was with him. He was inside a rolled-up, withered linden leaf that had fallen into the evil man’s hair, while he made the grave. Afterward the murderer had put his hat on again; and in the darkness the poor little elf shook both with fear and with anger, thinking of the ugly deed he had witnessed.
At sunrise the evil man returned to his house. He took his hat off and went into his sister’s bedchamber. The beautiful young girl was still asleep, dreaming about the young man she loved, who she thought had started on his long journey across the mountains. Her evil brother bent over her and laughed: the laughter of a devil. The leaf fell from his hair without his noticing it. He tiptoed out of his sister’s room and went to his own, to sleep.
The little elf rushed out of the leaf and into the sleeping girl’s ear. He told her of the evil deed he had seen. To the girl it was like a dream. He described how her brother had murdered the young man she loved and buried him under a flowering linden tree; then he explained where in the forest the linden tree was. Finally he remarked, “You will find on your bed a wizened linden leaf and then you will know that this is not a dream.”
The girl woke and there was the leaf! Oh, how she cried! How many salt tears she shed. And there was no one to comfort her, no one she could tell of her misery. The window was open; the elf could have flown out to his rose in the garden; but he could not bear to leave the girl all alone. On the window sill was a plant, and there on a flower he spent the rest of the day.
Several times the evil brother came. He joked and laughed boisterously. The poor girl did not dare show her sorrow.
As soon as night came, she sneaked out of the house and went to the forest to find the linden tree. Beneath it she dug up the corpse of the young man she loved. She cried and lamented and prayed to God that she, too, soon would die.
She would have liked to take his body back to have it properly buried, but that was impossible. She held the head in her hands and kissed the cold, pale lips; then she shook the earth out of his beautiful hair.
“This shall be mine forever,” she said. She covered the dead body; and walked home, carrying her lover’s head and the branch of a jasmine bush that grew near the linden tree.
As soon as she returned, she buried the head of the young man in the largest flowerpot she could find, and planted the jasmine branch above it.
“Farewell,” whispered the little elf. He could no longer bear to see the girl’s sorrow and flew out into the garden to find his rose. Only a few petals clung to the green hip; the flower bloomed no more.
“Soon all that is beautiful will fade and disappear,” sighed the elf. But he did find one rose that still had fragrant petals in which he could live.
Every morning he flew to the poor girl’s window. He always found her standing by the flowerpot crying, her tears falling on the branch from the jasmine
bush; and as the poor girl grew paler and paler, the jasmine branch grew greener. New leaves unfolded and soon white flower buds appeared. The girl kissed them. Her brother chided her and said she must be crazy or stupid to stand like that, crying before a plant. He did not know whose bright eyes and red lips had become dust beneath the lovely jasmine.
One day the young girl rested her head on the window sill next to the flowerpot and fell asleep. The elf found her slumbering and crawled into her ear to tell her about the evenings in the arbor, when the sweet-smelling roses were in bloom. And while she dreamed, her life ebbed out. She died and went to heaven where she was reunited with the young man whom she loved.
The jasmine flowers, like great white bells, opened and spread their sweet fragrance throughout the room; that was their way of crying for the dead.
When the evil brother saw the beautiful flowering bush he took it into his own bedchamber, as if it were his inheritance. It was so pleasant to look at and smelled so nicely. The little elf followed him and then flew from flower to flower to tell everyone of the evil brother’s deed and the poor girl’s suffering—for in every flower grew a soul that could understand.
“We know all about it,” said the flowers. “We know everything! Haven’t we grown from the eyes and lips of the dead man? We know all! We know all!”
The little elf could not understand how the flowers could be so calm. He flew out to the bees, who were collecting honey, and told them the story. They, in turn, told it to their queen; and she declared that they would murder the guilty man on the following morning.