Chapter Chapter 6 · The Snow Queen

. The Snow Queen

FIRST STORY. Which Treats of a Mirror and of the Splinters

Now then, let us begin. When we are at the end of the story, we shall

know more than we know now: but to begin.

Once upon a time there was a wicked sprite, indeed he was the most

mischievous of all sprites. One day he was in a very good humor, for

he had made a mirror with the power of causing all that was good and

beautiful when it was reflected therein, to look poor and mean; but

that which was good-for-nothing and looked ugly was shown magnified

and increased in ugliness. In this mirror the most beautiful landscapes

looked like boiled spinach, and the best persons were turned into

frights, or appeared to stand on their heads; their faces were so

distorted that they were not to be recognised; and if anyone had a mole,

you might be sure that it would be magnified and spread over both nose

and mouth.

“That's glorious fun!” said the sprite. If a good thought passed through

a man's mind, then a grin was seen in the mirror, and the sprite laughed

heartily at his clever discovery. All the little sprites who went to his

school--for he kept a sprite school--told each other that a miracle had

happened; and that now only, as they thought, it would be possible to

see how the world really looked. They ran about with the mirror; and at

last there was not a land or a person who was not represented distorted

in the mirror. So then they thought they would fly up to the sky,

and have a joke there. The higher they flew with the mirror, the more

terribly it grinned: they could hardly hold it fast. Higher and higher

still they flew, nearer and nearer to the stars, when suddenly the

mirror shook so terribly with grinning, that it flew out of their hands

and fell to the earth, where it was dashed in a hundred million and more

pieces. And now it worked much more evil than before; for some of these

pieces were hardly so large as a grain of sand, and they flew about in

the wide world, and when they got into people's eyes, there they stayed;

and then people saw everything perverted, or only had an eye for that

which was evil. This happened because the very smallest bit had the

same power which the whole mirror had possessed. Some persons even got

a splinter in their heart, and then it made one shudder, for their heart

became like a lump of ice. Some of the broken pieces were so large that

they were used for windowpanes, through which one could not see one's

friends. Other pieces were put in spectacles; and that was a sad affair

when people put on their glasses to see well and rightly. Then the

wicked sprite laughed till he almost choked, for all this tickled his

fancy. The fine splinters still flew about in the air: and now we shall

hear what happened next.

SECOND STORY. A Little Boy and a Little Girl

In a large town, where there are so many houses, and so many people,

that there is no roof left for everybody to have a little garden; and

where, on this account, most persons are obliged to content themselves

with flowers in pots; there lived two little children, who had a garden

somewhat larger than a flower-pot. They were not brother and sister; but

they cared for each other as much as if they were. Their parents lived

exactly opposite. They inhabited two garrets; and where the roof of the

one house joined that of the other, and the gutter ran along the extreme

end of it, there was to each house a small window: one needed only to

step over the gutter to get from one window to the other.

The children's parents had large wooden boxes there, in which vegetables

for the kitchen were planted, and little rosetrees besides: there was a

rose in each box, and they grew splendidly. They now thought of placing

the boxes across the gutter, so that they nearly reached from one window

to the other, and looked just like two walls of flowers. The tendrils

of the peas hung down over the boxes; and the rose-trees shot up long

branches, twined round the windows, and then bent towards each other: it

was almost like a triumphant arch of foliage and flowers. The boxes were

very high, and the children knew that they must not creep over them; so

they often obtained permission to get out of the windows to each other,

and to sit on their little stools among the roses, where they could play

delightfully. In winter there was an end of this pleasure. The windows

were often frozen over; but then they heated copper farthings on the

stove, and laid the hot farthing on the windowpane, and then they had a

capital peep-hole, quite nicely rounded; and out of each peeped a gentle

friendly eye--it was the little boy and the little girl who were looking

out. His name was Kay, hers was Gerda. In summer, with one jump, they

could get to each other; but in winter they were obliged first to

go down the long stairs, and then up the long stairs again: and

out-of-doors there was quite a snow-storm.

“It is the white bees that are swarming,” said Kay's old grandmother.

“Do the white bees choose a queen?” asked the little boy; for he knew

that the honey-bees always have one.

“Yes,” said the grandmother, “she flies where the swarm hangs in the

thickest clusters. She is the largest of all; and she can never remain

quietly on the earth, but goes up again into the black clouds. Many a

winter's night she flies through the streets of the town, and peeps in

at the windows; and they then freeze in so wondrous a manner that they

look like flowers.”

“Yes, I have seen it,” said both the children; and so they knew that it

was true.

“Can the Snow Queen come in?” said the little girl.

“Only let her come in!” said the little boy. “Then I'd put her on the

stove, and she'd melt.”

And then his grandmother patted his head and told him other stories.

In the evening, when little Kay was at home, and half undressed, he

climbed up on the chair by the window, and peeped out of the little

hole. A few snow-flakes were falling, and one, the largest of all,

remained lying on the edge of a flower-pot.

The flake of snow grew larger and larger; and at last it was like a

young lady, dressed in the finest white gauze, made of a million little

flakes like stars. She was so beautiful and delicate, but she was of

ice, of dazzling, sparkling ice; yet she lived; her eyes gazed fixedly,

like two stars; but there was neither quiet nor repose in them. She

nodded towards the window, and beckoned with her hand. The little boy

was frightened, and jumped down from the chair; it seemed to him as if,

at the same moment, a large bird flew past the window.

The next day it was a sharp frost--and then the spring came; the sun

shone, the green leaves appeared, the swallows built their nests, the

windows were opened, and the little children again sat in their pretty

garden, high up on the leads at the top of the house.

That summer the roses flowered in unwonted beauty. The little girl had

learned a hymn, in which there was something about roses; and then she

thought of her own flowers; and she sang the verse to the little boy,

who then sang it with her:

“The rose in the valley is blooming so sweet,

And angels descend there the children to greet.”

And the children held each other by the hand, kissed the roses, looked

up at the clear sunshine, and spoke as though they really saw angels

there. What lovely summer-days those were! How delightful to be out in

the air, near the fresh rose-bushes, that seem as if they would never

finish blossoming!

Kay and Gerda looked at the picture-book full of beasts and of birds;

and it was then--the clock in the church-tower was just striking

five--that Kay said, “Oh! I feel such a sharp pain in my heart; and now

something has got into my eye!”

The little girl put her arms around his neck. He winked his eyes; now

there was nothing to be seen.

“I think it is out now,” said he; but it was not. It was just one of

those pieces of glass from the magic mirror that had got into his eye;

and poor Kay had got another piece right in his heart. It will soon

become like ice. It did not hurt any longer, but there it was.

“What are you crying for?” asked he. “You look so ugly! There's nothing

the matter with me. Ah,” said he at once, “that rose is cankered! And

look, this one is quite crooked! After all, these roses are very ugly!

They are just like the box they are planted in!” And then he gave the

box a good kick with his foot, and pulled both the roses up.

“What are you doing?” cried the little girl; and as he perceived her

fright, he pulled up another rose, got in at the window, and hastened

off from dear little Gerda.

Afterwards, when she brought her picture-book, he asked, “What horrid

beasts have you there?” And if his grandmother told them stories, he

always interrupted her; besides, if he could manage it, he would get

behind her, put on her spectacles, and imitate her way of speaking; he

copied all her ways, and then everybody laughed at him. He was soon able

to imitate the gait and manner of everyone in the street. Everything

that was peculiar and displeasing in them--that Kay knew how to imitate:

and at such times all the people said, “The boy is certainly very

clever!” But it was the glass he had got in his eye; the glass that was

sticking in his heart, which made him tease even little Gerda, whose

whole soul was devoted to him.

His games now were quite different to what they had formerly been, they

were so very knowing. One winter's day, when the flakes of snow were

flying about, he spread the skirts of his blue coat, and caught the snow

as it fell.

“Look through this glass, Gerda,” said he. And every flake seemed

larger, and appeared like a magnificent flower, or beautiful star; it

was splendid to look at!

“Look, how clever!” said Kay. “That's much more interesting than real

flowers! They are as exact as possible; there is not a fault in them, if

they did not melt!”

It was not long after this, that Kay came one day with large gloves on,

and his little sledge at his back, and bawled right into Gerda's ears,

“I have permission to go out into the square where the others are

playing”; and off he was in a moment.

There, in the market-place, some of the boldest of the boys used to tie

their sledges to the carts as they passed by, and so they were pulled

along, and got a good ride. It was so capital! Just as they were in the

very height of their amusement, a large sledge passed by: it was painted

quite white, and there was someone in it wrapped up in a rough white

mantle of fur, with a rough white fur cap on his head. The sledge drove

round the square twice, and Kay tied on his sledge as quickly as he

could, and off he drove with it. On they went quicker and quicker into

the next street; and the person who drove turned round to Kay, and

nodded to him in a friendly manner, just as if they knew each other.

Every time he was going to untie his sledge, the person nodded to him,

and then Kay sat quiet; and so on they went till they came outside

the gates of the town. Then the snow began to fall so thickly that the

little boy could not see an arm's length before him, but still on he

went: when suddenly he let go the string he held in his hand in order

to get loose from the sledge, but it was of no use; still the little

vehicle rushed on with the quickness of the wind. He then cried as loud

as he could, but no one heard him; the snow drifted and the sledge flew

on, and sometimes it gave a jerk as though they were driving over hedges

and ditches. He was quite frightened, and he tried to repeat the

Lord's Prayer; but all he could do, he was only able to remember the

multiplication table.

The snow-flakes grew larger and larger, till at last they looked just

like great white fowls. Suddenly they flew on one side; the large sledge

stopped, and the person who drove rose up. It was a lady; her cloak and

cap were of snow. She was tall and of slender figure, and of a dazzling

whiteness. It was the Snow Queen.

“We have travelled fast,” said she; “but it is freezingly cold. Come

under my bearskin.” And she put him in the sledge beside her,

wrapped the fur round him, and he felt as though he were sinking in a

snow-wreath.

“Are you still cold?” asked she; and then she kissed his forehead.

Ah! it was colder than ice; it penetrated to his very heart, which was

already almost a frozen lump; it seemed to him as if he were about to

die--but a moment more and it was quite congenial to him, and he did not

remark the cold that was around him.

“My sledge! Do not forget my sledge!” It was the first thing he thought

of. It was there tied to one of the white chickens, who flew along with

it on his back behind the large sledge. The Snow Queen kissed Kay once

more, and then he forgot little Gerda, grandmother, and all whom he had

left at his home.

“Now you will have no more kisses,” said she, “or else I should kiss you

to death!”

Kay looked at her. She was very beautiful; a more clever, or a more

lovely countenance he could not fancy to himself; and she no longer

appeared of ice as before, when she sat outside the window, and beckoned

to him; in his eyes she was perfect, he did not fear her at all, and

told her that he could calculate in his head and with fractions, even;

that he knew the number of square miles there were in the different

countries, and how many inhabitants they contained; and she smiled while

he spoke. It then seemed to him as if what he knew was not enough, and

he looked upwards in the large huge empty space above him, and on she

flew with him; flew high over the black clouds, while the storm moaned

and whistled as though it were singing some old tune. On they flew

over woods and lakes, over seas, and many lands; and beneath them the

chilling storm rushed fast, the wolves howled, the snow crackled; above

them flew large screaming crows, but higher up appeared the moon, quite

large and bright; and it was on it that Kay gazed during the long long

winter's night; while by day he slept at the feet of the Snow Queen.

THIRD STORY. Of the Flower-Garden At the Old Woman's Who Understood

Witchcraft

But what became of little Gerda when Kay did not return? Where could he

be? Nobody knew; nobody could give any intelligence. All the boys knew

was, that they had seen him tie his sledge to another large and splendid

one, which drove down the street and out of the town. Nobody knew

where he was; many sad tears were shed, and little Gerda wept long and

bitterly; at last she said he must be dead; that he had been drowned in

the river which flowed close to the town. Oh! those were very long and

dismal winter evenings!

At last spring came, with its warm sunshine.

“Kay is dead and gone!” said little Gerda.

“That I don't believe,” said the Sunshine.

“Kay is dead and gone!” said she to the Swallows.

“That I don't believe,” said they: and at last little Gerda did not

think so any longer either.

“I'll put on my red shoes,” said she, one morning; “Kay has never seen

them, and then I'll go down to the river and ask there.”

It was quite early; she kissed her old grandmother, who was still

asleep, put on her red shoes, and went alone to the river.

“Is it true that you have taken my little playfellow? I will make you a

present of my red shoes, if you will give him back to me.”

And, as it seemed to her, the blue waves nodded in a strange manner;

then she took off her red shoes, the most precious things she possessed,

and threw them both into the river. But they fell close to the bank, and

the little waves bore them immediately to land; it was as if the stream

would not take what was dearest to her; for in reality it had not got

little Kay; but Gerda thought that she had not thrown the shoes out far

enough, so she clambered into a boat which lay among the rushes, went

to the farthest end, and threw out the shoes. But the boat was not

fastened, and the motion which she occasioned, made it drift from the

shore. She observed this, and hastened to get back; but before she could

do so, the boat was more than a yard from the land, and was gliding

quickly onward.

Little Gerda was very frightened, and began to cry; but no one heard her

except the sparrows, and they could not carry her to land; but they flew

along the bank, and sang as if to comfort her, “Here we are! Here we

are!” The boat drifted with the stream, little Gerda sat quite still

without shoes, for they were swimming behind the boat, but she could not

reach them, because the boat went much faster than they did.

The banks on both sides were beautiful; lovely flowers, venerable trees,

and slopes with sheep and cows, but not a human being was to be seen.

“Perhaps the river will carry me to little Kay,” said she; and then

she grew less sad. She rose, and looked for many hours at the beautiful

green banks. Presently she sailed by a large cherry-orchard, where was

a little cottage with curious red and blue windows; it was thatched,

and before it two wooden soldiers stood sentry, and presented arms when

anyone went past.

Gerda called to them, for she thought they were alive; but they, of

course, did not answer. She came close to them, for the stream drifted

the boat quite near the land.

Gerda called still louder, and an old woman then came out of the

cottage, leaning upon a crooked stick. She had a large broad-brimmed hat

on, painted with the most splendid flowers.

“Poor little child!” said the old woman. “How did you get upon the large

rapid river, to be driven about so in the wide world!” And then the

old woman went into the water, caught hold of the boat with her crooked

stick, drew it to the bank, and lifted little Gerda out.

And Gerda was so glad to be on dry land again; but she was rather afraid

of the strange old woman.

“But come and tell me who you are, and how you came here,” said she.

And Gerda told her all; and the old woman shook her head and said,

“A-hem! a-hem!” and when Gerda had told her everything, and asked her if

she had not seen little Kay, the woman answered that he had not passed

there, but he no doubt would come; and she told her not to be cast down,

but taste her cherries, and look at her flowers, which were finer than

any in a picture-book, each of which could tell a whole story. She then

took Gerda by the hand, led her into the little cottage, and locked the

door.

The windows were very high up; the glass was red, blue, and green, and

the sunlight shone through quite wondrously in all sorts of colors. On

the table stood the most exquisite cherries, and Gerda ate as many as

she chose, for she had permission to do so. While she was eating, the

old woman combed her hair with a golden comb, and her hair curled and

shone with a lovely golden color around that sweet little face, which

was so round and so like a rose.

“I have often longed for such a dear little girl,” said the old woman.

“Now you shall see how well we agree together”; and while she combed

little Gerda's hair, the child forgot her foster-brother Kay more and

more, for the old woman understood magic; but she was no evil being, she

only practised witchcraft a little for her own private amusement, and

now she wanted very much to keep little Gerda. She therefore went out

in the garden, stretched out her crooked stick towards the rose-bushes,

which, beautifully as they were blowing, all sank into the earth and no

one could tell where they had stood. The old woman feared that if Gerda

should see the roses, she would then think of her own, would remember

little Kay, and run away from her.

She now led Gerda into the flower-garden. Oh, what odour and what

loveliness was there! Every flower that one could think of, and of every

season, stood there in fullest bloom; no picture-book could be gayer or

more beautiful. Gerda jumped for joy, and played till the sun set behind

the tall cherry-tree; she then had a pretty bed, with a red silken

coverlet filled with blue violets. She fell asleep, and had as pleasant

dreams as ever a queen on her wedding-day.

The next morning she went to play with the flowers in the warm sunshine,

and thus passed away a day. Gerda knew every flower; and, numerous as

they were, it still seemed to Gerda that one was wanting, though she

did not know which. One day while she was looking at the hat of the old

woman painted with flowers, the most beautiful of them all seemed to her

to be a rose. The old woman had forgotten to take it from her hat

when she made the others vanish in the earth. But so it is when one's

thoughts are not collected. “What!” said Gerda. “Are there no roses

here?” and she ran about amongst the flowerbeds, and looked, and looked,

but there was not one to be found. She then sat down and wept; but her

hot tears fell just where a rose-bush had sunk; and when her warm tears

watered the ground, the tree shot up suddenly as fresh and blooming as

when it had been swallowed up. Gerda kissed the roses, thought of her

own dear roses at home, and with them of little Kay.

“Oh, how long I have stayed!” said the little girl. “I intended to look

for Kay! Don't you know where he is?” she asked of the roses. “Do you

think he is dead and gone?”

“Dead he certainly is not,” said the Roses. “We have been in the earth

where all the dead are, but Kay was not there.”

“Many thanks!” said little Gerda; and she went to the other flowers,

looked into their cups, and asked, “Don't you know where little Kay is?”

But every flower stood in the sunshine, and dreamed its own fairy tale

or its own story: and they all told her very many things, but not one

knew anything of Kay.

Well, what did the Tiger-Lily say?

“Hearest thou not the drum? Bum! Bum! Those are the only two tones.

Always bum! Bum! Hark to the plaintive song of the old woman, to the

call of the priests! The Hindoo woman in her long robe stands upon the

funeral pile; the flames rise around her and her dead husband, but the

Hindoo woman thinks on the living one in the surrounding circle; on him

whose eyes burn hotter than the flames--on him, the fire of whose eyes

pierces her heart more than the flames which soon will burn her body to

ashes. Can the heart's flame die in the flame of the funeral pile?”

“I don't understand that at all,” said little Gerda.

“That is my story,” said the Lily.

What did the Convolvulus say?

“Projecting over a narrow mountain-path there hangs an old feudal

castle. Thick evergreens grow on the dilapidated walls, and around the

altar, where a lovely maiden is standing: she bends over the railing and

looks out upon the rose. No fresher rose hangs on the branches than she;

no appleblossom carried away by the wind is more buoyant! How her silken

robe is rustling!

“'Is he not yet come?'”

“Is it Kay that you mean?” asked little Gerda.

“I am speaking about my story--about my dream,” answered the

Convolvulus.

What did the Snowdrops say?

“Between the trees a long board is hanging--it is a swing. Two little

girls are sitting in it, and swing themselves backwards and forwards;

their frocks are as white as snow, and long green silk ribands flutter

from their bonnets. Their brother, who is older than they are, stands up

in the swing; he twines his arms round the cords to hold himself fast,

for in one hand he has a little cup, and in the other a clay-pipe. He is

blowing soap-bubbles. The swing moves, and the bubbles float in charming

changing colors: the last is still hanging to the end of the pipe, and

rocks in the breeze. The swing moves. The little black dog, as light as

a soap-bubble, jumps up on his hind legs to try to get into the swing.

It moves, the dog falls down, barks, and is angry. They tease him; the

bubble bursts! A swing, a bursting bubble--such is my song!”

“What you relate may be very pretty, but you tell it in so melancholy a

manner, and do not mention Kay.”

What do the Hyacinths say?

“There were once upon a time three sisters, quite transparent, and very

beautiful. The robe of the one was red, that of the second blue, and

that of the third white. They danced hand in hand beside the calm

lake in the clear moonshine. They were not elfin maidens, but mortal

children. A sweet fragrance was smelt, and the maidens vanished in the

wood; the fragrance grew stronger--three coffins, and in them three

lovely maidens, glided out of the forest and across the lake: the

shining glow-worms flew around like little floating lights. Do the

dancing maidens sleep, or are they dead? The odour of the flowers says

they are corpses; the evening bell tolls for the dead!”

“You make me quite sad,” said little Gerda. “I cannot help thinking of

the dead maidens. Oh! is little Kay really dead? The Roses have been in

the earth, and they say no.”

“Ding, dong!” sounded the Hyacinth bells. “We do not toll for little

Kay; we do not know him. That is our way of singing, the only one we

have.”

And Gerda went to the Ranunculuses, that looked forth from among the

shining green leaves.

“You are a little bright sun!” said Gerda. “Tell me if you know where I

can find my playfellow.”

And the Ranunculus shone brightly, and looked again at Gerda. What

song could the Ranunculus sing? It was one that said nothing about Kay

either.

“In a small court the bright sun was shining in the first days of

spring. The beams glided down the white walls of a neighbor's house, and

close by the fresh yellow flowers were growing, shining like gold in

the warm sun-rays. An old grandmother was sitting in the air; her

grand-daughter, the poor and lovely servant just come for a short visit.

She knows her grandmother. There was gold, pure virgin gold in that

blessed kiss. There, that is my little story,” said the Ranunculus.

“My poor old grandmother!” sighed Gerda. “Yes, she is longing for me,

no doubt: she is sorrowing for me, as she did for little Kay. But I

will soon come home, and then I will bring Kay with me. It is of no use

asking the flowers; they only know their own old rhymes, and can tell me

nothing.” And she tucked up her frock, to enable her to run quicker; but

the Narcissus gave her a knock on the leg, just as she was going to

jump over it. So she stood still, looked at the long yellow flower, and

asked, “You perhaps know something?” and she bent down to the Narcissus.

And what did it say?

“I can see myself--I can see myself! Oh, how odorous I am! Up in the

little garret there stands, half-dressed, a little Dancer. She stands

now on one leg, now on both; she despises the whole world; yet she lives

only in imagination. She pours water out of the teapot over a piece of

stuff which she holds in her hand; it is the bodice; cleanliness is a

fine thing. The white dress is hanging on the hook; it was washed in the

teapot, and dried on the roof. She puts it on, ties a saffron-colored

kerchief round her neck, and then the gown looks whiter. I can see

myself--I can see myself!”

“That's nothing to me,” said little Gerda. “That does not concern me.”

And then off she ran to the further end of the garden.

The gate was locked, but she shook the rusted bolt till it was loosened,

and the gate opened; and little Gerda ran off barefooted into the wide

world. She looked round her thrice, but no one followed her. At last she

could run no longer; she sat down on a large stone, and when she looked

about her, she saw that the summer had passed; it was late in the

autumn, but that one could not remark in the beautiful garden, where

there was always sunshine, and where there were flowers the whole year

round.

“Dear me, how long I have staid!” said Gerda. “Autumn is come. I must

not rest any longer.” And she got up to go further.

Oh, how tender and wearied her little feet were! All around it looked

so cold and raw: the long willow-leaves were quite yellow, and the fog

dripped from them like water; one leaf fell after the other: the sloes

only stood full of fruit, which set one's teeth on edge. Oh, how dark

and comfortless it was in the dreary world!

FOURTH STORY. The Prince and Princess

Gerda was obliged to rest herself again, when, exactly opposite to her,

a large Raven came hopping over the white snow. He had long been looking

at Gerda and shaking his head; and now he said, “Caw! Caw!” Good day!

Good day! He could not say it better; but he felt a sympathy for the

little girl, and asked her where she was going all alone. The word

“alone” Gerda understood quite well, and felt how much was expressed

by it; so she told the Raven her whole history, and asked if he had not

seen Kay.

The Raven nodded very gravely, and said, “It may be--it may be!”

“What, do you really think so?” cried the little girl; and she nearly

squeezed the Raven to death, so much did she kiss him.

“Gently, gently,” said the Raven. “I think I know; I think that it may

be little Kay. But now he has forgotten you for the Princess.”

“Does he live with a Princess?” asked Gerda.

“Yes--listen,” said the Raven; “but it will be difficult for me to

speak your language. If you understand the Raven language I can tell you

better.”

“No, I have not learnt it,” said Gerda; “but my grandmother understands

it, and she can speak gibberish too. I wish I had learnt it.”

“No matter,” said the Raven; “I will tell you as well as I can; however,

it will be bad enough.” And then he told all he knew.

“In the kingdom where we now are there lives a Princess, who is

extraordinarily clever; for she has read all the newspapers in the whole

world, and has forgotten them again--so clever is she. She was lately,

it is said, sitting on her throne--which is not very amusing after

all--when she began humming an old tune, and it was just, 'Oh, why

should I not be married?' 'That song is not without its meaning,' said

she, and so then she was determined to marry; but she would have a

husband who knew how to give an answer when he was spoken to--not

one who looked only as if he were a great personage, for that is so

tiresome. She then had all the ladies of the court drummed together; and

when they heard her intention, all were very pleased, and said, 'We are

very glad to hear it; it is the very thing we were thinking of.' You may

believe every word I say,” said the Raven; “for I have a tame sweetheart

that hops about in the palace quite free, and it was she who told me all

this.

“The newspapers appeared forthwith with a border of hearts and the

initials of the Princess; and therein you might read that every

good-looking young man was at liberty to come to the palace and speak to

the Princess; and he who spoke in such wise as showed he felt himself at

home there, that one the Princess would choose for her husband.

“Yes, Yes,” said the Raven, “you may believe it; it is as true as I am

sitting here. People came in crowds; there was a crush and a hurry, but

no one was successful either on the first or second day. They could all

talk well enough when they were out in the street; but as soon as

they came inside the palace gates, and saw the guard richly dressed

in silver, and the lackeys in gold on the staircase, and the large

illuminated saloons, then they were abashed; and when they stood before

the throne on which the Princess was sitting, all they could do was

to repeat the last word they had uttered, and to hear it again did not

interest her very much. It was just as if the people within were under

a charm, and had fallen into a trance till they came out again into the

street; for then--oh, then--they could chatter enough. There was a whole

row of them standing from the town-gates to the palace. I was there

myself to look,” said the Raven. “They grew hungry and thirsty; but from

the palace they got nothing whatever, not even a glass of water. Some

of the cleverest, it is true, had taken bread and butter with them:

but none shared it with his neighbor, for each thought, 'Let him look

hungry, and then the Princess won't have him.'”

“But Kay--little Kay,” said Gerda, “when did he come? Was he among the

number?”

“Patience, patience; we are just come to him. It was on the third day

when a little personage without horse or equipage, came marching right

boldly up to the palace; his eyes shone like yours, he had beautiful

long hair, but his clothes were very shabby.”

“That was Kay,” cried Gerda, with a voice of delight. “Oh, now I've

found him!” and she clapped her hands for joy.

“He had a little knapsack at his back,” said the Raven.

“No, that was certainly his sledge,” said Gerda; “for when he went away

he took his sledge with him.”

“That may be,” said the Raven; “I did not examine him so minutely; but

I know from my tame sweetheart, that when he came into the court-yard

of the palace, and saw the body-guard in silver, the lackeys on the

staircase, he was not the least abashed; he nodded, and said to them,

'It must be very tiresome to stand on the stairs; for my part, I shall

go in.' The saloons were gleaming with lustres--privy councillors and

excellencies were walking about barefooted, and wore gold keys; it was

enough to make any one feel uncomfortable. His boots creaked, too, so

loudly, but still he was not at all afraid.”

“That's Kay for certain,” said Gerda. “I know he had on new boots; I

have heard them creaking in grandmama's room.”

“Yes, they creaked,” said the Raven. “And on he went boldly up to the

Princess, who was sitting on a pearl as large as a spinning-wheel.

All the ladies of the court, with their attendants and attendants'

attendants, and all the cavaliers, with their gentlemen and gentlemen's

gentlemen, stood round; and the nearer they stood to the door, the

prouder they looked. It was hardly possible to look at the gentleman's

gentleman, so very haughtily did he stand in the doorway.”

“It must have been terrible,” said little Gerda. “And did Kay get the

Princess?”

“Were I not a Raven, I should have taken the Princess myself, although

I am promised. It is said he spoke as well as I speak when I talk Raven

language; this I learned from my tame sweetheart. He was bold and nicely

behaved; he had not come to woo the Princess, but only to hear her

wisdom. She pleased him, and he pleased her.”

“Yes, yes; for certain that was Kay,” said Gerda. “He was so clever;

he could reckon fractions in his head. Oh, won't you take me to the

palace?”

“That is very easily said,” answered the Raven. “But how are we to

manage it? I'll speak to my tame sweetheart about it: she must advise

us; for so much I must tell you, such a little girl as you are will

never get permission to enter.”

“Oh, yes I shall,” said Gerda; “when Kay hears that I am here, he will

come out directly to fetch me.”

“Wait for me here on these steps,” said the Raven. He moved his head

backwards and forwards and flew away.

The evening was closing in when the Raven returned. “Caw--caw!” said he.

“She sends you her compliments; and here is a roll for you. She took

it out of the kitchen, where there is bread enough. You are hungry,

no doubt. It is not possible for you to enter the palace, for you are

barefooted: the guards in silver, and the lackeys in gold, would not

allow it; but do not cry, you shall come in still. My sweetheart knows a

little back stair that leads to the bedchamber, and she knows where she

can get the key of it.”

And they went into the garden in the large avenue, where one leaf was

falling after the other; and when the lights in the palace had all

gradually disappeared, the Raven led little Gerda to the back door,

which stood half open.

Oh, how Gerda's heart beat with anxiety and longing! It was just as if

she had been about to do something wrong; and yet she only wanted to

know if little Kay was there. Yes, he must be there. She called to mind

his intelligent eyes, and his long hair, so vividly, she could quite see

him as he used to laugh when they were sitting under the roses at home.

“He will, no doubt, be glad to see you--to hear what a long way you have

come for his sake; to know how unhappy all at home were when he did not

come back.”

Oh, what a fright and a joy it was!

They were now on the stairs. A single lamp was burning there; and on the

floor stood the tame Raven, turning her head on every side and looking

at Gerda, who bowed as her grandmother had taught her to do.

“My intended has told me so much good of you, my dear young lady,” said

the tame Raven. “Your tale is very affecting. If you will take the lamp,

I will go before. We will go straight on, for we shall meet no one.”

“I think there is somebody just behind us,” said Gerda; and something

rushed past: it was like shadowy figures on the wall; horses with

flowing manes and thin legs, huntsmen, ladies and gentlemen on

horseback.

“They are only dreams,” said the Raven. “They come to fetch the thoughts

of the high personages to the chase; 'tis well, for now you can observe

them in bed all the better. But let me find, when you enjoy honor and

distinction, that you possess a grateful heart.”

“Tut! That's not worth talking about,” said the Raven of the woods.

They now entered the first saloon, which was of rose-colored satin, with

artificial flowers on the wall. Here the dreams were rushing past,

but they hastened by so quickly that Gerda could not see the high

personages. One hall was more magnificent than the other; one might

indeed well be abashed; and at last they came into the bedchamber. The

ceiling of the room resembled a large palm-tree with leaves of glass,

of costly glass; and in the middle, from a thick golden stem, hung two

beds, each of which resembled a lily. One was white, and in this lay the

Princess; the other was red, and it was here that Gerda was to look for

little Kay. She bent back one of the red leaves, and saw a brown neck.

Oh! that was Kay! She called him quite loud by name, held the lamp

towards him--the dreams rushed back again into the chamber--he awoke,

turned his head, and--it was not little Kay!

The Prince was only like him about the neck; but he was young and

handsome. And out of the white lily leaves the Princess peeped, too,

and asked what was the matter. Then little Gerda cried, and told her her

whole history, and all that the Ravens had done for her.

“Poor little thing!” said the Prince and the Princess. They praised the

Ravens very much, and told them they were not at all angry with them,

but they were not to do so again. However, they should have a reward.

“Will you fly about here at liberty,” asked the Princess; “or would you

like to have a fixed appointment as court ravens, with all the broken

bits from the kitchen?”

And both the Ravens nodded, and begged for a fixed appointment; for

they thought of their old age, and said, “It is a good thing to have a

provision for our old days.”

And the Prince got up and let Gerda sleep in his bed, and more than this

he could not do. She folded her little hands and thought, “How good men

and animals are!” and she then fell asleep and slept soundly. All the

dreams flew in again, and they now looked like the angels; they drew

a little sledge, in which little Kay sat and nodded his head; but the

whole was only a dream, and therefore it all vanished as soon as she

awoke.

The next day she was dressed from head to foot in silk and velvet. They

offered to let her stay at the palace, and lead a happy life; but she

begged to have a little carriage with a horse in front, and for a small

pair of shoes; then, she said, she would again go forth in the wide

world and look for Kay.

Shoes and a muff were given her; she was, too, dressed very nicely; and

when she was about to set off, a new carriage stopped before the door.

It was of pure gold, and the arms of the Prince and Princess shone

like a star upon it; the coachman, the footmen, and the outriders, for

outriders were there, too, all wore golden crowns. The Prince and the

Princess assisted her into the carriage themselves, and wished her all

success. The Raven of the woods, who was now married, accompanied her

for the first three miles. He sat beside Gerda, for he could not bear

riding backwards; the other Raven stood in the doorway, and flapped her

wings; she could not accompany Gerda, because she suffered from headache

since she had had a fixed appointment and ate so much. The carriage

was lined inside with sugar-plums, and in the seats were fruits and

gingerbread.

“Farewell! Farewell!” cried Prince and Princess; and Gerda wept, and

the Raven wept. Thus passed the first miles; and then the Raven bade her

farewell, and this was the most painful separation of all. He flew into

a tree, and beat his black wings as long as he could see the carriage,

that shone from afar like a sunbeam.

FIFTH STORY. The Little Robber Maiden

They drove through the dark wood; but the carriage shone like a torch,

and it dazzled the eyes of the robbers, so that they could not bear to

look at it.

“'Tis gold! 'Tis gold!” they cried; and they rushed forward, seized

the horses, knocked down the little postilion, the coachman, and the

servants, and pulled little Gerda out of the carriage.

“How plump, how beautiful she is! She must have been fed on

nut-kernels,” said the old female robber, who had a long, scrubby beard,

and bushy eyebrows that hung down over her eyes. “She is as good as a

fatted lamb! How nice she will be!” And then she drew out a knife, the

blade of which shone so that it was quite dreadful to behold.

“Oh!” cried the woman at the same moment. She had been bitten in the ear

by her own little daughter, who hung at her back; and who was so wild

and unmanageable, that it was quite amusing to see her. “You naughty

child!” said the mother: and now she had not time to kill Gerda.

“She shall play with me,” said the little robber child. “She shall give

me her muff, and her pretty frock; she shall sleep in my bed!” And then

she gave her mother another bite, so that she jumped, and ran round with

the pain; and the Robbers laughed, and said, “Look, how she is dancing

with the little one!”

“I will go into the carriage,” said the little robber maiden; and she

would have her will, for she was very spoiled and very headstrong. She

and Gerda got in; and then away they drove over the stumps of felled

trees, deeper and deeper into the woods. The little robber maiden was as

tall as Gerda, but stronger, broader-shouldered, and of dark complexion;

her eyes were quite black; they looked almost melancholy. She embraced

little Gerda, and said, “They shall not kill you as long as I am not

displeased with you. You are, doubtless, a Princess?”

“No,” said little Gerda; who then related all that had happened to her,

and how much she cared about little Kay.

The little robber maiden looked at her with a serious air, nodded her

head slightly, and said, “They shall not kill you, even if I am angry

with you: then I will do it myself”; and she dried Gerda's eyes, and put

both her hands in the handsome muff, which was so soft and warm.

At length the carriage stopped. They were in the midst of the court-yard

of a robber's castle. It was full of cracks from top to bottom; and out

of the openings magpies and rooks were flying; and the great bull-dogs,

each of which looked as if he could swallow a man, jumped up, but they

did not bark, for that was forbidden.

In the midst of the large, old, smoking hall burnt a great fire on the

stone floor. The smoke disappeared under the stones, and had to seek

its own egress. In an immense caldron soup was boiling; and rabbits and

hares were being roasted on a spit.

“You shall sleep with me to-night, with all my animals,” said the little

robber maiden. They had something to eat and drink; and then went into

a corner, where straw and carpets were lying. Beside them, on laths and

perches, sat nearly a hundred pigeons, all asleep, seemingly; but yet

they moved a little when the robber maiden came. “They are all mine,”

said she, at the same time seizing one that was next to her by the legs

and shaking it so that its wings fluttered. “Kiss it,” cried the little

girl, and flung the pigeon in Gerda's face. “Up there is the rabble of

the wood,” continued she, pointing to several laths which were fastened

before a hole high up in the wall; “that's the rabble; they would all

fly away immediately, if they were not well fastened in. And here is my

dear old Bac”; and she laid hold of the horns of a reindeer, that had a

bright copper ring round its neck, and was tethered to the spot. “We are

obliged to lock this fellow in too, or he would make his escape. Every

evening I tickle his neck with my sharp knife; he is so frightened at

it!” and the little girl drew forth a long knife, from a crack in the

wall, and let it glide over the Reindeer's neck. The poor animal kicked;

the girl laughed, and pulled Gerda into bed with her.

“Do you intend to keep your knife while you sleep?” asked Gerda; looking

at it rather fearfully.

“I always sleep with the knife,” said the little robber maiden. “There

is no knowing what may happen. But tell me now, once more, all about

little Kay; and why you have started off in the wide world alone.” And

Gerda related all, from the very beginning: the Wood-pigeons cooed above

in their cage, and the others slept. The little robber maiden wound her

arm round Gerda's neck, held the knife in the other hand, and snored so

loud that everybody could hear her; but Gerda could not close her eyes,

for she did not know whether she was to live or die. The robbers sat

round the fire, sang and drank; and the old female robber jumped about

so, that it was quite dreadful for Gerda to see her.

Then the Wood-pigeons said, “Coo! Coo! We have seen little Kay! A white

hen carries his sledge; he himself sat in the carriage of the Snow

Queen, who passed here, down just over the wood, as we lay in our nest.

She blew upon us young ones; and all died except we two. Coo! Coo!”

“What is that you say up there?” cried little Gerda. “Where did the Snow

Queen go to? Do you know anything about it?”

“She is no doubt gone to Lapland; for there is always snow and ice

there. Only ask the Reindeer, who is tethered there.”

“Ice and snow is there! There it is, glorious and beautiful!” said the

Reindeer. “One can spring about in the large shining valleys! The Snow

Queen has her summer-tent there; but her fixed abode is high up towards

the North Pole, on the Island called Spitzbergen.”

“Oh, Kay! Poor little Kay!” sighed Gerda.

“Do you choose to be quiet?” said the robber maiden. “If you don't, I

shall make you.”

In the morning Gerda told her all that the Wood-pigeons had said; and

the little maiden looked very serious, but she nodded her head, and

said, “That's no matter--that's no matter. Do you know where Lapland

lies!” she asked of the Reindeer.

“Who should know better than I?” said the animal; and his eyes rolled in

his head. “I was born and bred there--there I leapt about on the fields

of snow.”

“Listen,” said the robber maiden to Gerda. “You see that the men are

gone; but my mother is still here, and will remain. However, towards

morning she takes a draught out of the large flask, and then she sleeps

a little: then I will do something for you.” She now jumped out of bed,

flew to her mother; with her arms round her neck, and pulling her by the

beard, said, “Good morrow, my own sweet nanny-goat of a mother.” And her

mother took hold of her nose, and pinched it till it was red and blue;

but this was all done out of pure love.

When the mother had taken a sup at her flask, and was having a nap, the

little robber maiden went to the Reindeer, and said, “I should very much

like to give you still many a tickling with the sharp knife, for then

you are so amusing; however, I will untether you, and help you out,

so that you may go back to Lapland. But you must make good use of your

legs; and take this little girl for me to the palace of the Snow Queen,

where her playfellow is. You have heard, I suppose, all she said; for

she spoke loud enough, and you were listening.”

The Reindeer gave a bound for joy. The robber maiden lifted up little

Gerda, and took the precaution to bind her fast on the Reindeer's back;

she even gave her a small cushion to sit on. “Here are your worsted

leggins, for it will be cold; but the muff I shall keep for myself, for

it is so very pretty. But I do not wish you to be cold. Here is a pair

of lined gloves of my mother's; they just reach up to your elbow. On

with them! Now you look about the hands just like my ugly old mother!”

And Gerda wept for joy.

“I can't bear to see you fretting,” said the little robber maiden. “This

is just the time when you ought to look pleased. Here are two loaves and

a ham for you, so that you won't starve.” The bread and the meat were

fastened to the Reindeer's back; the little maiden opened the door,

called in all the dogs, and then with her knife cut the rope that

fastened the animal, and said to him, “Now, off with you; but take good

care of the little girl!”

And Gerda stretched out her hands with the large wadded gloves towards

the robber maiden, and said, “Farewell!” and the Reindeer flew on over

bush and bramble through the great wood, over moor and heath, as fast as

he could go.

“Ddsa! Ddsa!” was heard in the sky. It was just as if somebody was

sneezing.

“These are my old northern-lights,” said the Reindeer, “look how they

gleam!” And on he now sped still quicker--day and night on he went: the

loaves were consumed, and the ham too; and now they were in Lapland.

SIXTH STORY. The Lapland Woman and the Finland Woman

Suddenly they stopped before a little house, which looked very

miserable. The roof reached to the ground; and the door was so low, that

the family were obliged to creep upon their stomachs when they went in

or out. Nobody was at home except an old Lapland woman, who was dressing

fish by the light of an oil lamp. And the Reindeer told her the whole

of Gerda's history, but first of all his own; for that seemed to him of

much greater importance. Gerda was so chilled that she could not speak.

“Poor thing,” said the Lapland woman, “you have far to run still. You

have more than a hundred miles to go before you get to Finland; there

the Snow Queen has her country-house, and burns blue lights every

evening. I will give you a few words from me, which I will write on a

dried haberdine, for paper I have none; this you can take with you to

the Finland woman, and she will be able to give you more information

than I can.”

When Gerda had warmed herself, and had eaten and drunk, the Lapland

woman wrote a few words on a dried haberdine, begged Gerda to take care

of them, put her on the Reindeer, bound her fast, and away sprang the

animal. “Ddsa! Ddsa!” was again heard in the air; the most charming

blue lights burned the whole night in the sky, and at last they came to

Finland. They knocked at the chimney of the Finland woman; for as to a

door, she had none.

There was such a heat inside that the Finland woman herself went about

almost naked. She was diminutive and dirty. She immediately loosened

little Gerda's clothes, pulled off her thick gloves and boots; for

otherwise the heat would have been too great--and after laying a piece

of ice on the Reindeer's head, read what was written on the fish-skin.

She read it three times: she then knew it by heart; so she put the fish

into the cupboard--for it might very well be eaten, and she never threw

anything away.

Then the Reindeer related his own story first, and afterwards that of

little Gerda; and the Finland woman winked her eyes, but said nothing.

“You are so clever,” said the Reindeer; “you can, I know, twist all the

winds of the world together in a knot. If the seaman loosens one knot,

then he has a good wind; if a second, then it blows pretty stiffly; if

he undoes the third and fourth, then it rages so that the forests are

upturned. Will you give the little maiden a potion, that she may possess

the strength of twelve men, and vanquish the Snow Queen?”

“The strength of twelve men!” said the Finland woman. “Much good that

would be!” Then she went to a cupboard, and drew out a large skin rolled

up. When she had unrolled it, strange characters were to be seen written

thereon; and the Finland woman read at such a rate that the perspiration

trickled down her forehead.

But the Reindeer begged so hard for little Gerda, and Gerda looked so

imploringly with tearful eyes at the Finland woman, that she winked, and

drew the Reindeer aside into a corner, where they whispered together,

while the animal got some fresh ice put on his head.

“'Tis true little Kay is at the Snow Queen's, and finds everything there

quite to his taste; and he thinks it the very best place in the world;

but the reason of that is, he has a splinter of glass in his eye, and in

his heart. These must be got out first; otherwise he will never go back

to mankind, and the Snow Queen will retain her power over him.”

“But can you give little Gerda nothing to take which will endue her with

power over the whole?”

“I can give her no more power than what she has already. Don't you see

how great it is? Don't you see how men and animals are forced to serve

her; how well she gets through the world barefooted? She must not hear

of her power from us; that power lies in her heart, because she is

a sweet and innocent child! If she cannot get to the Snow Queen by

herself, and rid little Kay of the glass, we cannot help her. Two miles

hence the garden of the Snow Queen begins; thither you may carry the

little girl. Set her down by the large bush with red berries, standing

in the snow; don't stay talking, but hasten back as fast as possible.”

And now the Finland woman placed little Gerda on the Reindeer's back,

and off he ran with all imaginable speed.

“Oh! I have not got my boots! I have not brought my gloves!” cried

little Gerda. She remarked she was without them from the cutting frost;

but the Reindeer dared not stand still; on he ran till he came to the

great bush with the red berries, and there he set Gerda down, kissed her

mouth, while large bright tears flowed from the animal's eyes, and then

back he went as fast as possible. There stood poor Gerda now, without

shoes or gloves, in the very middle of dreadful icy Finland.

She ran on as fast as she could. There then came a whole regiment of

snow-flakes, but they did not fall from above, and they were quite

bright and shining from the Aurora Borealis. The flakes ran along

the ground, and the nearer they came the larger they grew. Gerda well

remembered how large and strange the snow-flakes appeared when she

once saw them through a magnifying-glass; but now they were large and

terrific in another manner--they were all alive. They were the outposts

of the Snow Queen. They had the most wondrous shapes; some looked like

large ugly porcupines; others like snakes knotted together, with their

heads sticking out; and others, again, like small fat bears, with the

hair standing on end: all were of dazzling whiteness--all were living

snow-flakes.

Little Gerda repeated the Lord's Prayer. The cold was so intense that

she could see her own breath, which came like smoke out of her mouth. It

grew thicker and thicker, and took the form of little angels, that grew

more and more when they touched the earth. All had helms on their heads,

and lances and shields in their hands; they increased in numbers; and

when Gerda had finished the Lord's Prayer, she was surrounded by a whole

legion. They thrust at the horrid snow-flakes with their spears, so that

they flew into a thousand pieces; and little Gerda walked on bravely and

in security. The angels patted her hands and feet; and then she felt the

cold less, and went on quickly towards the palace of the Snow Queen.

But now we shall see how Kay fared. He never thought of Gerda, and least

of all that she was standing before the palace.

SEVENTH STORY. What Took Place in the Palace of the Snow Queen, and what

Happened Afterward.

The walls of the palace were of driving snow, and the windows and doors

of cutting winds. There were more than a hundred halls there, according

as the snow was driven by the winds. The largest was many miles in

extent; all were lighted up by the powerful Aurora Borealis, and all

were so large, so empty, so icy cold, and so resplendent! Mirth never

reigned there; there was never even a little bear-ball, with the storm

for music, while the polar bears went on their hind legs and showed off

their steps. Never a little tea-party of white young lady foxes; vast,

cold, and empty were the halls of the Snow Queen. The northern-lights

shone with such precision that one could tell exactly when they were

at their highest or lowest degree of brightness. In the middle of the

empty, endless hall of snow, was a frozen lake; it was cracked in a

thousand pieces, but each piece was so like the other, that it seemed

the work of a cunning artificer. In the middle of this lake sat the Snow

Queen when she was at home; and then she said she was sitting in the

Mirror of Understanding, and that this was the only one and the best

thing in the world.

Little Kay was quite blue, yes nearly black with cold; but he did not

observe it, for she had kissed away all feeling of cold from his body,

and his heart was a lump of ice. He was dragging along some pointed

flat pieces of ice, which he laid together in all possible ways, for he

wanted to make something with them; just as we have little flat pieces

of wood to make geometrical figures with, called the Chinese Puzzle.

Kay made all sorts of figures, the most complicated, for it was

an ice-puzzle for the understanding. In his eyes the figures were

extraordinarily beautiful, and of the utmost importance; for the bit

of glass which was in his eye caused this. He found whole figures which

represented a written word; but he never could manage to represent just

the word he wanted--that word was “eternity”; and the Snow Queen had

said, “If you can discover that figure, you shall be your own master,

and I will make you a present of the whole world and a pair of new

skates.” But he could not find it out.

“I am going now to warm lands,” said the Snow Queen. “I must have a look

down into the black caldrons.” It was the volcanoes Vesuvius and Etna

that she meant. “I will just give them a coating of white, for that is

as it ought to be; besides, it is good for the oranges and the grapes.”

And then away she flew, and Kay sat quite alone in the empty halls of

ice that were miles long, and looked at the blocks of ice, and thought

and thought till his skull was almost cracked. There he sat quite

benumbed and motionless; one would have imagined he was frozen to death.

Suddenly little Gerda stepped through the great portal into the palace.

The gate was formed of cutting winds; but Gerda repeated her evening

prayer, and the winds were laid as though they slept; and the little

maiden entered the vast, empty, cold halls. There she beheld Kay: she

recognised him, flew to embrace him, and cried out, her arms firmly

holding him the while, “Kay, sweet little Kay! Have I then found you at

last?”

But he sat quite still, benumbed and cold. Then little Gerda shed

burning tears; and they fell on his bosom, they penetrated to his

heart, they thawed the lumps of ice, and consumed the splinters of the

looking-glass; he looked at her, and she sang the hymn:

“The rose in the valley is blooming so sweet, And angels descend there

the children to greet.”

Hereupon Kay burst into tears; he wept so much that the splinter rolled

out of his eye, and he recognised her, and shouted, “Gerda, sweet little

Gerda! Where have you been so long? And where have I been?” He looked

round him. “How cold it is here!” said he. “How empty and cold!” And he

held fast by Gerda, who laughed and wept for joy. It was so beautiful,

that even the blocks of ice danced about for joy; and when they were

tired and laid themselves down, they formed exactly the letters which

the Snow Queen had told him to find out; so now he was his own master,

and he would have the whole world and a pair of new skates into the

bargain.

Gerda kissed his cheeks, and they grew quite blooming; she kissed his

eyes, and they shone like her own; she kissed his hands and feet, and he

was again well and merry. The Snow Queen might come back as soon as she

liked; there stood his discharge written in resplendent masses of ice.

They took each other by the hand, and wandered forth out of the large

hall; they talked of their old grandmother, and of the roses upon the

roof; and wherever they went, the winds ceased raging, and the sun burst

forth. And when they reached the bush with the red berries, they found

the Reindeer waiting for them. He had brought another, a young one, with

him, whose udder was filled with milk, which he gave to the little ones,

and kissed their lips. They then carried Kay and Gerda--first to the

Finland woman, where they warmed themselves in the warm room, and

learned what they were to do on their journey home; and they went to

the Lapland woman, who made some new clothes for them and repaired their

sledges.

The Reindeer and the young hind leaped along beside them, and

accompanied them to the boundary of the country. Here the first

vegetation peeped forth; here Kay and Gerda took leave of the Lapland

woman. “Farewell! Farewell!” they all said. And the first green buds

appeared, the first little birds began to chirrup; and out of the wood

came, riding on a magnificent horse, which Gerda knew (it was one of the

leaders in the golden carriage), a young damsel with a bright-red cap on

her head, and armed with pistols. It was the little robber maiden, who,

tired of being at home, had determined to make a journey to the north;

and afterwards in another direction, if that did not please her. She

recognised Gerda immediately, and Gerda knew her too. It was a joyful

meeting.

“You are a fine fellow for tramping about,” said she to little Kay; “I

should like to know, faith, if you deserve that one should run from one

end of the world to the other for your sake?”

But Gerda patted her cheeks, and inquired for the Prince and Princess.

“They are gone abroad,” said the other.

“But the Raven?” asked little Gerda.

“Oh! The Raven is dead,” she answered. “His tame sweetheart is a

widow, and wears a bit of black worsted round her leg; she laments most

piteously, but it's all mere talk and stuff! Now tell me what you've

been doing and how you managed to catch him.”

And Gerda and Kay both told their story.

And “Schnipp-schnapp-schnurre-basselurre,” said the robber maiden; and

she took the hands of each, and promised that if she should some day

pass through the town where they lived, she would come and visit them;

and then away she rode. Kay and Gerda took each other's hand: it was

lovely spring weather, with abundance of flowers and of verdure. The

church-bells rang, and the children recognised the high towers, and the

large town; it was that in which they dwelt. They entered and hastened

up to their grandmother's room, where everything was standing as

formerly. The clock said “tick! tack!” and the finger moved round; but

as they entered, they remarked that they were now grown up. The roses

on the leads hung blooming in at the open window; there stood the little

children's chairs, and Kay and Gerda sat down on them, holding each

other by the hand; they both had forgotten the cold empty splendor of

the Snow Queen, as though it had been a dream. The grandmother sat in

the bright sunshine, and read aloud from the Bible: “Unless ye become as

little children, ye cannot enter the kingdom of heaven.”

And Kay and Gerda looked in each other's eyes, and all at once they

understood the old hymn:

“The rose in the valley is blooming so sweet, And angels descend there

the children to greet.”

There sat the two grown-up persons; grown-up, and yet children; children

at least in heart; and it was summer-time; summer, glorious summer!