Andersen's Fairy Tales
forms were too noble for that, their skin too fine, the cut of their
dress too striking. Two fairies were they; the younger, it is true,
was not Dame Fortune herself, but one of the waiting-maids of her
handmaidens who carry about the lesser good things that she distributes;
the other looked extremely gloomy--it was Care. She always attends to
her own serious business herself, as then she is sure of having it done
properly.
They were telling each other, with a confidential interchange of ideas,
where they had been during the day. The messenger of Fortune had only
executed a few unimportant commissions, such as saving a new bonnet from
a shower of rain, etc.; but what she had yet to perform was something
quite unusual.
“I must tell you,” said she, “that to-day is my birthday; and in honor
of it, a pair of walking-shoes or galoshes has been entrusted to me,
which I am to carry to mankind. These shoes possess the property of
instantly transporting him who has them on to the place or the period
in which he most wishes to be; every wish, as regards time or place, or
state of being, will be immediately fulfilled, and so at last man will
be happy, here below.”
“Do you seriously believe it?” replied Care, in a severe tone of
reproach. “No; he will be very unhappy, and will assuredly bless the
moment when he feels that he has freed himself from the fatal shoes.”
“Stupid nonsense!” said the other angrily. “I will put them here by
the door. Some one will make a mistake for certain and take the wrong
ones--he will be a happy man.”
Such was their conversation.
II. What Happened to the Councillor
It was late; Councillor Knap, deeply occupied with the times of King
Hans, intended to go home, and malicious Fate managed matters so that
his feet, instead of finding their way to his own galoshes, slipped
into those of Fortune. Thus caparisoned the good man walked out of the
well-lighted rooms into East Street. By the magic power of the shoes he
was carried back to the times of King Hans; on which account his foot
very naturally sank in the mud and puddles of the street, there having
been in those days no pavement in Copenhagen.
“Well! This is too bad! How dirty it is here!” sighed the Councillor.
“As to a pavement, I can find no traces of one, and all the lamps, it
seems, have gone to sleep.”
The moon was not yet very high; it was besides rather foggy, so that
in the darkness all objects seemed mingled in chaotic confusion. At the
next corner hung a votive lamp before a Madonna, but the light it gave
was little better than none at all; indeed, he did not observe it before
he was exactly under it, and his eyes fell upon the bright colors of the
pictures which represented the well-known group of the Virgin and the
infant Jesus.
“That is probably a wax-work show,” thought he; “and the people delay
taking down their sign in hopes of a late visitor or two.”
A few persons in the costume of the time of King Hans passed quickly by
him.
“How strange they look! The good folks come probably from a masquerade!”
Suddenly was heard the sound of drums and fifes; the bright blaze of a
fire shot up from time to time, and its ruddy gleams seemed to contend
with the bluish light of the torches. The Councillor stood still, and
watched a most strange procession pass by. First came a dozen drummers,
who understood pretty well how to handle their instruments; then came
halberdiers, and some armed with cross-bows. The principal person in the
procession was a priest. Astonished at what he saw, the Councillor asked
what was the meaning of all this mummery, and who that man was.
“That's the Bishop of Zealand,” was the answer.
“Good Heavens! What has taken possession of the Bishop?” sighed the
Councillor, shaking his head. It certainly could not be the Bishop; even
though he was considered the most absent man in the whole kingdom, and
people told the drollest anecdotes about him. Reflecting on the matter,
and without looking right or left, the Councillor went through East
Street and across the Habro-Platz. The bridge leading to Palace Square
was not to be found; scarcely trusting his senses, the nocturnal
wanderer discovered a shallow piece of water, and here fell in with two
men who very comfortably were rocking to and fro in a boat.
“Does your honor want to cross the ferry to the Holme?” asked they.
“Across to the Holme!” said the Councillor, who knew nothing of the age
in which he at that moment was. “No, I am going to Christianshafen, to
Little Market Street.”
Both men stared at him in astonishment.
“Only just tell me where the bridge is,” said he. “It is really
unpardonable that there are no lamps here; and it is as dirty as if one
had to wade through a morass.”
The longer he spoke with the boatmen, the more unintelligible did their
language become to him.
“I don't understand your Bornholmish dialect,” said he at last, angrily,
and turning his back upon them. He was unable to find the bridge: there
was no railway either. “It is really disgraceful what a state this place
is in,” muttered he to himself. Never had his age, with which, however,
he was always grumbling, seemed so miserable as on this evening. “I'll
take a hackney-coach!” thought he. But where were the hackney-coaches?
Not one was to be seen.
“I must go back to the New Market; there, it is to be hoped, I
shall find some coaches; for if I don't, I shall never get safe to
Christianshafen.”
So off he went in the direction of East Street, and had nearly got to
the end of it when the moon shone forth.
“God bless me! What wooden scaffolding is that which they have set up
there?” cried he involuntarily, as he looked at East Gate, which, in
those days, was at the end of East Street.
He found, however, a little side-door open, and through this he went,
and stepped into our New Market of the present time. It was a huge
desolate plain; some wild bushes stood up here and there, while across
the field flowed a broad canal or river. Some wretched hovels for the
Dutch sailors, resembling great boxes, and after which the place was
named, lay about in confused disorder on the opposite bank.
“I either behold a fata morgana, or I am regularly tipsy,” whimpered out
the Councillor. “But what's this?”
He turned round anew, firmly convinced that he was seriously ill. He
gazed at the street formerly so well known to him, and now so strange in
appearance, and looked at the houses more attentively: most of them were
of wood, slightly put together; and many had a thatched roof.
“No--I am far from well,” sighed he; “and yet I drank only one glass of
punch; but I cannot suppose it--it was, too, really very wrong to give
us punch and hot salmon for supper. I shall speak about it at the first
opportunity. I have half a mind to go back again, and say what I suffer.
But no, that would be too silly; and Heaven only knows if they are up
still.”
He looked for the house, but it had vanished.
“It is really dreadful,” groaned he with increasing anxiety; “I cannot
recognise East Street again; there is not a single decent shop from one
end to the other! Nothing but wretched huts can I see anywhere; just
as if I were at Ringstead. Oh! I am ill! I can scarcely bear myself any
longer. Where the deuce can the house be? It must be here on this very
spot; yet there is not the slightest idea of resemblance, to such a
degree has everything changed this night! At all events here are some
people up and stirring. Oh! oh! I am certainly very ill.”
He now hit upon a half-open door, through a chink of which a faint light
shone. It was a sort of hostelry of those times; a kind of public-house.
The room had some resemblance to the clay-floored halls in Holstein; a
pretty numerous company, consisting of seamen, Copenhagen burghers, and
a few scholars, sat here in deep converse over their pewter cans, and
gave little heed to the person who entered.
“By your leave!” said the Councillor to the Hostess, who came bustling
towards him. “I've felt so queer all of a sudden; would you have the
goodness to send for a hackney-coach to take me to Christianshafen?”
The woman examined him with eyes of astonishment, and shook her head;
she then addressed him in German. The Councillor thought she did not
understand Danish, and therefore repeated his wish in German. This, in
connection with his costume, strengthened the good woman in the belief
that he was a foreigner. That he was ill, she comprehended directly; so
she brought him a pitcher of water, which tasted certainly pretty strong
of the sea, although it had been fetched from the well.
The Councillor supported his head on his hand, drew a long breath, and
thought over all the wondrous things he saw around him.
“Is this the Daily News of this evening?” he asked mechanically, as he
saw the Hostess push aside a large sheet of paper.
The meaning of this councillorship query remained, of course, a riddle
to her, yet she handed him the paper without replying. It was a coarse
wood-cut, representing a splendid meteor “as seen in the town of
Cologne,” which was to be read below in bright letters.
“That is very old!” said the Councillor, whom this piece of antiquity
began to make considerably more cheerful. “Pray how did you come into
possession of this rare print? It is extremely interesting, although the
whole is a mere fable. Such meteorous appearances are to be explained in
this way--that they are the reflections of the Aurora Borealis, and it
is highly probable they are caused principally by electricity.”
Those persons who were sitting nearest him and heard his speech,
stared at him in wonderment; and one of them rose, took off his hat
respectfully, and said with a serious countenance, “You are no doubt a
very learned man, Monsieur.”
“Oh no,” answered the Councillor, “I can only join in conversation on
this topic and on that, as indeed one must do according to the demands
of the world at present.”
“Modestia is a fine virtue,” continued the gentleman; “however, as to
your speech, I must say mihi secus videtur: yet I am willing to suspend
my judicium.”
“May I ask with whom I have the pleasure of speaking?” asked the
Councillor.
“I am a Bachelor in Theologia,” answered the gentleman with a stiff
reverence.
This reply fully satisfied the Councillor; the title suited the dress.
“He is certainly,” thought he, “some village schoolmaster--some queer
old fellow, such as one still often meets with in Jutland.”
“This is no locus docendi, it is true,” began the clerical gentleman;
“yet I beg you earnestly to let us profit by your learning. Your reading
in the ancients is, sine dubio, of vast extent?”
“Oh yes, I've read something, to be sure,” replied the Councillor. “I
like reading all useful works; but I do not on that account despise the
modern ones; 'tis only the unfortunate 'Tales of Every-day Life' that I
cannot bear--we have enough and more than enough such in reality.”
“'Tales of Every-day Life?'” said our Bachelor inquiringly.
“I mean those new fangled novels, twisting and writhing themselves in
the dust of commonplace, which also expect to find a reading public.”
“Oh,” exclaimed the clerical gentleman smiling, “there is much wit in
them; besides they are read at court. The King likes the history of Sir
Iffven and Sir Gaudian particularly, which treats of King Arthur, and
his Knights of the Round Table; he has more than once joked about it
with his high vassals.”
“I have not read that novel,” said the Councillor; “it must be quite a
new one, that Heiberg has published lately.”
“No,” answered the theologian of the time of King Hans: “that book is
not written by a Heiberg, but was imprinted by Godfrey von Gehmen.”
“Oh, is that the author's name?” said the Councillor. “It is a very