Chapter Chapter 11 · The Best That the Galoshes Gave（6）

“Give me back my child!” said the mother, and she wept and prayed. At

once she seized hold of two beautiful flowers close by, with each hand,

and cried out to Death, “I will tear all thy flowers off, for I am in

despair.”

“Touch them not!” said Death. “Thou say'st that thou art so unhappy, and

now thou wilt make another mother equally unhappy.”

“Another mother!” said the poor woman, and directly let go her hold of

both the flowers.

“There, thou hast thine eyes,” said Death; “I fished them up from the

lake, they shone so bright; I knew not they were thine. Take them again,

they are now brighter than before; now look down into the deep well

close by; I shall tell thee the names of the two flowers thou wouldst

have torn up, and thou wilt see their whole future life--their whole

human existence: and see what thou wast about to disturb and destroy.”

And she looked down into the well; and it was a happiness to see how the

one became a blessing to the world, to see how much happiness and joy

were felt everywhere. And she saw the other's life, and it was sorrow

and distress, horror, and wretchedness.

“Both of them are God's will!” said Death.

“Which of them is Misfortune's flower and which is that of Happiness?”

asked she.

“That I will not tell thee,” said Death; “but this thou shalt know from

me, that the one flower was thy own child! it was thy child's fate thou

saw'st--thy own child's future life!”

Then the mother screamed with terror, “Which of them was my child? Tell

it me! Save the innocent! Save my child from all that misery! Rather

take it away! Take it into God's kingdom! Forget my tears, forget my

prayers, and all that I have done!”

“I do not understand thee!” said Death. “Wilt thou have thy child again,

or shall I go with it there, where thou dost not know!”

Then the mother wrung her hands, fell on her knees, and prayed to our

Lord: “Oh, hear me not when I pray against Thy will, which is the best!

hear me not! hear me not!”

And she bowed her head down in her lap, and Death took her child and

went with it into the unknown land.

THE FALSE COLLAR

There was once a fine gentleman, all of whose moveables were a boot-jack

and a hair-comb: but he had the finest false collars in the world; and

it is about one of these collars that we are now to hear a story.

It was so old, that it began to think of marriage; and it happened that

it came to be washed in company with a garter.

“Nay!” said the collar. “I never did see anything so slender and so

fine, so soft and so neat. May I not ask your name?”

“That I shall not tell you!” said the garter.

“Where do you live?” asked the collar.

But the garter was so bashful, so modest, and thought it was a strange

question to answer.

“You are certainly a girdle,” said the collar; “that is to say an inside

girdle. I see well that you are both for use and ornament, my dear young

lady.”

“I will thank you not to speak to me,” said the garter. “I think I have

not given the least occasion for it.”

“Yes! When one is as handsome as you,” said the collar, “that is

occasion enough.”

“Don't come so near me, I beg of you!” said the garter. “You look so

much like those men-folks.”

“I am also a fine gentleman,” said the collar. “I have a bootjack and a

hair-comb.”

But that was not true, for it was his master who had them: but he

boasted.

“Don't come so near me,” said the garter: “I am not accustomed to it.”

“Prude!” exclaimed the collar; and then it was taken out of the

washing-tub. It was starched, hung over the back of a chair in the

sunshine, and was then laid on the ironing-blanket; then came the warm

box-iron. “Dear lady!” said the collar. “Dear widow-lady! I feel quite

hot. I am quite changed. I begin to unfold myself. You will burn a hole

in me. Oh! I offer you my hand.”

“Rag!” said the box-iron; and went proudly over the collar: for she

fancied she was a steam-engine, that would go on the railroad and draw

the waggons. “Rag!” said the box-iron.

The collar was a little jagged at the edge, and so came the long

scissors to cut off the jagged part. “Oh!” said the collar. “You are

certainly the first opera dancer. How well you can stretch your legs

out! It is the most graceful performance I have ever seen. No one can

imitate you.”

“I know it,” said the scissors.

“You deserve to be a baroness,” said the collar. “All that I have is a

fine gentleman, a boot-jack, and a hair-comb. If I only had the barony!”

“Do you seek my hand?” said the scissors; for she was angry; and without

more ado, she CUT HIM, and then he was condemned.

“I shall now be obliged to ask the hair-comb. It is surprising how well

you preserve your teeth, Miss,” said the collar. “Have you never thought

of being betrothed?”

“Yes, of course! you may be sure of that,” said the hair-comb. “I AM

betrothed--to the boot-jack!”

“Betrothed!” exclaimed the collar. Now there was no other to court, and

so he despised it.

A long time passed away, then the collar came into the rag chest at the

paper mill; there was a large company of rags, the fine by themselves,

and the coarse by themselves, just as it should be. They all had much to

say, but the collar the most; for he was a real boaster.

“I have had such an immense number of sweethearts!” said the collar.

“I could not be in peace! It is true, I was always a fine starched-up

gentleman! I had both a boot-jack and a hair-comb, which I never used!

You should have seen me then, you should have seen me when I lay down!

I shall never forget MY FIRST LOVE--she was a girdle, so fine, so soft,

and so charming, she threw herself into a tub of water for my sake!

There was also a widow, who became glowing hot, but I left her standing

till she got black again; there was also the first opera dancer, she

gave me that cut which I now go with, she was so ferocious! My

own hair-comb was in love with me, she lost all her teeth from the

heart-ache; yes, I have lived to see much of that sort of thing; but I

am extremely sorry for the garter--I mean the girdle--that went into the

water-tub. I have much on my conscience, I want to become white paper!”

And it became so, all the rags were turned into white paper; but the

collar came to be just this very piece of white paper we here see,

and on which the story is printed; and that was because it boasted so

terribly afterwards of what had never happened to it. It would be well

for us to beware, that we may not act in a similar manner, for we can

never know if we may not, in the course of time, also come into the

rag chest, and be made into white paper, and then have our whole life's

history printed on it, even the most secret, and be obliged to run about

and tell it ourselves, just like this collar.

THE SHADOW

It is in the hot lands that the sun burns, sure enough! there the people

become quite a mahogany brown, ay, and in the HOTTEST lands they are

burnt to Negroes. But now it was only to the HOT lands that a learned

man had come from the cold; there he thought that he could run about

just as when at home, but he soon found out his mistake.

He, and all sensible folks, were obliged to stay within doors--the

window-shutters and doors were closed the whole day; it looked as if the

whole house slept, or there was no one at home.

The narrow street with the high houses, was built so that the sunshine

must fall there from morning till evening--it was really not to be

borne.

The learned man from the cold lands--he was a young man, and seemed to

be a clever man--sat in a glowing oven; it took effect on him, he became

quite meagre--even his shadow shrunk in, for the sun had also an effect

on it. It was first towards evening when the sun was down, that they

began to freshen up again.

In the warm lands every window has a balcony, and the people came out on

all the balconies in the street--for one must have air, even if one be

accustomed to be mahogany!* It was lively both up and down the

street. Tailors, and shoemakers, and all the folks, moved out into the

street--chairs and tables were brought forth--and candles burnt--yes,

above a thousand lights were burning--and the one talked and the other

sung; and people walked and church-bells rang, and asses went along with

a dingle-dingle-dong! for they too had bells on. The street boys were

screaming and hooting, and shouting and shooting, with devils and

detonating balls--and there came corpse bearers and hood wearers--for

there were funerals with psalm and hymn--and then the din of carriages

driving and company arriving: yes, it was, in truth, lively enough down

in the street. Only in that single house, which stood opposite that in

which the learned foreigner lived, it was quite still; and yet some one

lived there, for there stood flowers in the balcony--they grew so

well in the sun's heat! and that they could not do unless they were

watered--and some one must water them--there must be somebody there.

The door opposite was also opened late in the evening, but it was dark

within, at least in the front room; further in there was heard the sound

of music. The learned foreigner thought it quite marvellous, but now--it

might be that he only imagined it--for he found everything marvellous

out there, in the warm lands, if there had only been no sun. The

stranger's landlord said that he didn't know who had taken the house

opposite, one saw no person about, and as to the music, it appeared

to him to be extremely tiresome. “It is as if some one sat there, and

practised a piece that he could not master--always the same piece. 'I

shall master it!' says he; but yet he cannot master it, however long he

plays.”

* The word mahogany can be understood, in Danish, as having two

meanings. In general, it means the reddish-brown wood itself; but in

jest, it signifies “excessively fine,” which arose from an anecdote of

Nyboder, in Copenhagen, (the seamen's quarter.) A sailor's wife, who was

always proud and fine, in her way, came to her neighbor, and complained

that she had got a splinter in her finger. “What of?” asked the

neighbor's wife. “It is a mahogany splinter,” said the other. “Mahogany!

It cannot be less with you!” exclaimed the woman--and thence the

proverb, “It is so mahogany!”--(that is, so excessively fine)--is

derived.

One night the stranger awoke--he slept with the doors of the balcony

open--the curtain before it was raised by the wind, and he thought

that a strange lustre came from the opposite neighbor's house; all the

flowers shone like flames, in the most beautiful colors, and in the

midst of the flowers stood a slender, graceful maiden--it was as if she

also shone; the light really hurt his eyes. He now opened them quite

wide--yes, he was quite awake; with one spring he was on the floor; he

crept gently behind the curtain, but the maiden was gone; the flowers

shone no longer, but there they stood, fresh and blooming as ever;

the door was ajar, and, far within, the music sounded so soft and

delightful, one could really melt away in sweet thoughts from it. Yet

it was like a piece of enchantment. And who lived there? Where was the

actual entrance? The whole of the ground-floor was a row of shops, and

there people could not always be running through.

One evening the stranger sat out on the balcony. The light burnt in the

room behind him; and thus it was quite natural that his shadow should

fall on his opposite neighbor's wall. Yes! there it sat, directly

opposite, between the flowers on the balcony; and when the stranger

moved, the shadow also moved: for that it always does.

“I think my shadow is the only living thing one sees over there,” said

the learned man. “See, how nicely it sits between the flowers. The door

stands half-open: now the shadow should be cunning, and go into the

room, look about, and then come and tell me what it had seen. Come, now!

Be useful, and do me a service,” said he, in jest. “Have the kindness to

step in. Now! Art thou going?” and then he nodded to the shadow, and the

shadow nodded again. “Well then, go! But don't stay away.”

The stranger rose, and his shadow on the opposite neighbor's balcony

rose also; the stranger turned round and the shadow also turned round.

Yes! if anyone had paid particular attention to it, they would have

seen, quite distinctly, that the shadow went in through the half-open

balcony-door of their opposite neighbor, just as the stranger went into

his own room, and let the long curtain fall down after him.

Next morning, the learned man went out to drink coffee and read the

newspapers.

“What is that?” said he, as he came out into the sunshine. “I have no

shadow! So then, it has actually gone last night, and not come again. It

is really tiresome!”

This annoyed him: not so much because the shadow was gone, but because

he knew there was a story about a man without a shadow.* It was known

to everybody at home, in the cold lands; and if the learned man now came

there and told his story, they would say that he was imitating it, and

that he had no need to do. He would, therefore, not talk about it at

all; and that was wisely thought.

*Peter Schlemihl, the shadowless man.

In the evening he went out again on the balcony. He had placed the light

directly behind him, for he knew that the shadow would always have its

master for a screen, but he could not entice it. He made himself little;

he made himself great: but no shadow came again. He said, “Hem! hem!”

but it was of no use.

It was vexatious; but in the warm lands everything grows so quickly; and

after the lapse of eight days he observed, to his great joy, that a new

shadow came in the sunshine. In the course of three weeks he had a very

fair shadow, which, when he set out for his home in the northern lands,

grew more and more in the journey, so that at last it was so long and so

large, that it was more than sufficient.

The learned man then came home, and he wrote books about what was true

in the world, and about what was good and what was beautiful; and there

passed days and years--yes! many years passed away.

One evening, as he was sitting in his room, there was a gentle knocking

at the door.

“Come in!” said he; but no one came in; so he opened the door, and there

stood before him such an extremely lean man, that he felt quite strange.

As to the rest, the man was very finely dressed--he must be a gentleman.

“Whom have I the honor of speaking?” asked the learned man.

“Yes! I thought as much,” said the fine man. “I thought you would not

know me. I have got so much body. I have even got flesh and clothes. You

certainly never thought of seeing me so well off. Do you not know your

old shadow? You certainly thought I should never more return. Things

have gone on well with me since I was last with you. I have, in all

respects, become very well off. Shall I purchase my freedom from

service? If so, I can do it”; and then he rattled a whole bunch of

valuable seals that hung to his watch, and he stuck his hand in the

thick gold chain he wore around his neck--nay! how all his fingers

glittered with diamond rings; and then all were pure gems.

“Nay; I cannot recover from my surprise!” said the learned man. “What is

the meaning of all this?”

“Something common, is it not,” said the shadow. “But you yourself do not

belong to the common order; and I, as you know well, have from a child

followed in your footsteps. As soon as you found I was capable to go

out alone in the world, I went my own way. I am in the most brilliant

circumstances, but there came a sort of desire over me to see you once

more before you die; you will die, I suppose? I also wished to see this

land again--for you know we always love our native land. I know you have

got another shadow again; have I anything to pay to it or you? If so,

you will oblige me by saying what it is.”

“Nay, is it really thou?” said the learned man. “It is most remarkable:

I never imagined that one's old shadow could come again as a man.”

“Tell me what I have to pay,” said the shadow; “for I don't like to be

in any sort of debt.”

“How canst thou talk so?” said the learned man. “What debt is there to

talk about? Make thyself as free as anyone else. I am extremely glad to

hear of thy good fortune: sit down, old friend, and tell me a little

how it has gone with thee, and what thou hast seen at our opposite

neighbor's there--in the warm lands.”

“Yes, I will tell you all about it,” said the shadow, and sat down: “but

then you must also promise me, that, wherever you may meet me, you will

never say to anyone here in the town that I have been your shadow. I

intend to get betrothed, for I can provide for more than one family.”

“Be quite at thy ease about that,” said the learned man; “I shall not

say to anyone who thou actually art: here is my hand--I promise it, and

a man's bond is his word.”

“A word is a shadow,” said the shadow, “and as such it must speak.”

It was really quite astonishing how much of a man it was. It was dressed

entirely in black, and of the very finest cloth; it had patent leather

boots, and a hat that could be folded together, so that it was bare

crown and brim; not to speak of what we already know it had--seals, gold

neck-chain, and diamond rings; yes, the shadow was well-dressed, and it

was just that which made it quite a man.

“Now I shall tell you my adventures,” said the shadow; and then he

sat, with the polished boots, as heavily as he could, on the arm of the

learned man's new shadow, which lay like a poodle-dog at his feet.

Now this was perhaps from arrogance; and the shadow on the ground kept

itself so still and quiet, that it might hear all that passed: it wished

to know how it could get free, and work its way up, so as to become its

own master.

“Do you know who lived in our opposite neighbor's house?” said the

shadow. “It was the most charming of all beings, it was Poesy! I was

there for three weeks, and that has as much effect as if one had lived

three thousand years, and read all that was composed and written;

that is what I say, and it is right. I have seen everything and I know

everything!”

“Poesy!” cried the learned man. “Yes, yes, she often dwells a recluse

in large cities! Poesy! Yes, I have seen her--a single short moment,

but sleep came into my eyes! She stood on the balcony and shone as the

Aurora Borealis shines. Go on, go on--thou wert on the balcony, and went

through the doorway, and then--”

“Then I was in the antechamber,” said the shadow. “You always sat and

looked over to the antechamber. There was no light; there was a sort

of twilight, but the one door stood open directly opposite the other

through a long row of rooms and saloons, and there it was lighted up. I

should have been completely killed if I had gone over to the maiden; but

I was circumspect, I took time to think, and that one must always do.”

“And what didst thou then see?” asked the learned man.

“I saw everything, and I shall tell all to you: but--it is no pride on

my part--as a free man, and with the knowledge I have, not to speak of

my position in life, my excellent circumstances--I certainly wish that

you would say YOU* to me!”

* It is the custom in Denmark for intimate acquaintances to use the

second person singular, “Du,” (thou) when speaking to each other. When

a friendship is formed between men, they generally affirm it, when

occasion offers, either in public or private, by drinking to each other

and exclaiming, “thy health,” at the same time striking their glasses

together. This is called drinking “Duus”: they are then, “Duus Brodre,”

(thou brothers) and ever afterwards use the pronoun “thou,” to each

other, it being regarded as more familiar than “De,” (you). Father and

mother, sister and brother say thou to one another--without regard to

age or rank. Master and mistress say thou to their servants the superior

to the inferior. But servants and inferiors do not use the same term

to their masters, or superiors--nor is it ever used when speaking to a

stranger, or anyone with whom they are but slightly acquainted--they

then say as in English--you.

“I beg your pardon,” said the learned man; “it is an old habit with me.

YOU are perfectly right, and I shall remember it; but now you must tell

me all YOU saw!”

“Everything!” said the shadow. “For I saw everything, and I know

everything!”

“How did it look in the furthest saloon?” asked the learned man. “Was it

there as in the fresh woods? Was it there as in a holy church? Were the

saloons like the starlit firmament when we stand on the high mountains?”

“Everything was there!” said the shadow. “I did not go quite in, I

remained in the foremost room, in the twilight, but I stood there

quite well; I saw everything, and I know everything! I have been in the

antechamber at the court of Poesy.”

“But WHAT DID you see? Did all the gods of the olden times pass through

the large saloons? Did the old heroes combat there? Did sweet children

play there, and relate their dreams?”

“I tell you I was there, and you can conceive that I saw everything

there was to be seen. Had you come over there, you would not have been

a man; but I became so! And besides, I learned to know my inward nature,

my innate qualities, the relationship I had with Poesy. At the time I

was with you, I thought not of that, but always--you know it well--when

the sun rose, and when the sun went down, I became so strangely great;

in the moonlight I was very near being more distinct than yourself; at

that time I did not understand my nature; it was revealed to me in the

antechamber! I became a man! I came out matured; but you were no longer

in the warm lands; as a man I was ashamed to go as I did. I was in

want of boots, of clothes, of the whole human varnish that makes a man

perceptible. I took my way--I tell it to you, but you will not put it in

any book--I took my way to the cake woman--I hid myself behind her;

the woman didn't think how much she concealed. I went out first in the

evening; I ran about the streets in the moonlight; I made myself long up

the walls--it tickles the back so delightfully! I ran up, and ran down,

peeped into the highest windows, into the saloons, and on the roofs, I

peeped in where no one could peep, and I saw what no one else saw, what

no one else should see! This is, in fact, a base world! I would not be a

man if it were not now once accepted and regarded as something to be so!

I saw the most unimaginable things with the women, with the men, with

parents, and with the sweet, matchless children; I saw,” said the

shadow, “what no human being must know, but what they would all

so willingly know--what is bad in their neighbor. Had I written a

newspaper, it would have been read! But I wrote direct to the persons

themselves, and there was consternation in all the towns where I came.

They were so afraid of me, and yet they were so excessively fond of

me. The professors made a professor of me; the tailors gave me new

clothes--I am well furnished; the master of the mint struck new coin for

me, and the women said I was so handsome! And so I became the man I am.

And I now bid you farewell. Here is my card--I live on the sunny side

of the street, and am always at home in rainy weather!” And so away went

the shadow. “That was most extraordinary!” said the learned man. Years

and days passed away, then the shadow came again. “How goes it?” said

the shadow.

“Alas!” said the learned man. “I write about the true, and the good,

and the beautiful, but no one cares to hear such things; I am quite

desperate, for I take it so much to heart!”

“But I don't!” said the shadow. “I become fat, and it is that one wants

to become! You do not understand the world. You will become ill by it.

You must travel! I shall make a tour this summer; will you go with me?

I should like to have a travelling companion! Will you go with me, as

shadow? It will be a great pleasure for me to have you with me; I shall

pay the travelling expenses!”

“Nay, this is too much!” said the learned man.

“It is just as one takes it!” said the shadow. “It will do you much good

to travel! Will you be my shadow? You shall have everything free on the

journey!”

“Nay, that is too bad!” said the learned man.

“But it is just so with the world!” said the shadow, “and so it will

be!” and away it went again.

The learned man was not at all in the most enviable state; grief and

torment followed him, and what he said about the true, and the good, and

the beautiful, was, to most persons, like roses for a cow! He was quite

ill at last.

“You really look like a shadow!” said his friends to him; and the

learned man trembled, for he thought of it.

“You must go to a watering-place!” said the shadow, who came and visited

him. “There is nothing else for it! I will take you with me for old

acquaintance' sake; I will pay the travelling expenses, and you write

the descriptions--and if they are a little amusing for me on the way!

I will go to a watering-place--my beard does not grow out as it

ought--that is also a sickness--and one must have a beard! Now you be

wise and accept the offer; we shall travel as comrades!”

And so they travelled; the shadow was master, and the master was the

shadow; they drove with each other, they rode and walked together, side

by side, before and behind, just as the sun was; the shadow always took

care to keep itself in the master's place. Now the learned man didn't

think much about that; he was a very kind-hearted man, and particularly

mild and friendly, and so he said one day to the shadow: “As we have

now become companions, and in this way have grown up together from

childhood, shall we not drink 'thou' together, it is more familiar?”

“You are right,” said the shadow, who was now the proper master. “It is

said in a very straight-forward and well-meant manner. You, as a learned

man, certainly know how strange nature is. Some persons cannot bear to

touch grey paper, or they become ill; others shiver in every limb if one

rub a pane of glass with a nail: I have just such a feeling on hearing

you say thou to me; I feel myself as if pressed to the earth in my first

situation with you. You see that it is a feeling; that it is not pride:

I cannot allow you to say THOU to me, but I will willingly say THOU to

you, so it is half done!”

So the shadow said THOU to its former master.

“This is rather too bad,” thought he, “that I must say YOU and he say

THOU,” but he was now obliged to put up with it.

So they came to a watering-place where there were many strangers, and

amongst them was a princess, who was troubled with seeing too well; and

that was so alarming!

She directly observed that the stranger who had just come was quite a

different sort of person to all the others; “He has come here in order

to get his beard to grow, they say, but I see the real cause, he cannot

cast a shadow.”

She had become inquisitive; and so she entered into conversation

directly with the strange gentleman, on their promenades. As the

daughter of a king, she needed not to stand upon trifles, so she said,

“Your complaint is, that you cannot cast a shadow?”

“Your Royal Highness must be improving considerably,” said the shadow,

“I know your complaint is, that you see too clearly, but it has

decreased, you are cured. I just happen to have a very unusual shadow!

Do you not see that person who always goes with me? Other persons have

a common shadow, but I do not like what is common to all. We give our

servants finer cloth for their livery than we ourselves use, and so I

had my shadow trimmed up into a man: yes, you see I have even given him

a shadow. It is somewhat expensive, but I like to have something for

myself!”

“What!” thought the princess. “Should I really be cured! These baths are

the first in the world! In our time water has wonderful powers. But I

shall not leave the place, for it now begins to be amusing here. I am

extremely fond of that stranger: would that his beard should not grow,

for in that case he will leave us!”

In the evening, the princess and the shadow danced together in the large

ball-room. She was light, but he was still lighter; she had never had

such a partner in the dance. She told him from what land she came, and

he knew that land; he had been there, but then she was not at home; he

had peeped in at the window, above and below--he had seen both the

one and the other, and so he could answer the princess, and make

insinuations, so that she was quite astonished; he must be the wisest

man in the whole world! She felt such respect for what he knew! So that

when they again danced together she fell in love with him; and that the

shadow could remark, for she almost pierced him through with her eyes.

So they danced once more together; and she was about to declare herself,

but she was discreet; she thought of her country and kingdom, and of the

many persons she would have to reign over.

“He is a wise man,” said she to herself--“It is well; and he dances

delightfully--that is also good; but has he solid knowledge? That is

just as important! He must be examined.”

So she began, by degrees, to question him about the most difficult

things she could think of, and which she herself could not have

answered; so that the shadow made a strange face.

“You cannot answer these questions?” said the princess.

“They belong to my childhood's learning,” said the shadow. “I really

believe my shadow, by the door there, can answer them!”

“Your shadow!” said the princess. “That would indeed be marvellous!”

“I will not say for a certainty that he can,” said the shadow, “but I

think so; he has now followed me for so many years, and listened to my

conversation--I should think it possible. But your royal highness will

permit me to observe, that he is so proud of passing himself off for

a man, that when he is to be in a proper humor--and he must be so to

answer well--he must be treated quite like a man.”

“Oh! I like that!” said the princess.

So she went to the learned man by the door, and she spoke to him about

the sun and the moon, and about persons out of and in the world, and he

answered with wisdom and prudence.

“What a man that must be who has so wise a shadow!” thought she. “It

will be a real blessing to my people and kingdom if I choose him for my

consort--I will do it!”

They were soon agreed, both the princess and the shadow; but no one was

to know about it before she arrived in her own kingdom.