บทที่ บทที่ 6 · The Best That the Galoshes Gave（1）

The following day, early in the morning, while the Clerk was still in

bed, someone knocked at his door. It was his neighbor, a young Divine,

who lived on the same floor. He walked in.

“Lend me your Galoshes,” said he; “it is so wet in the garden, though

the sun is shining most invitingly. I should like to go out a little.”

He got the Galoshes, and he was soon below in a little duodecimo garden,

where between two immense walls a plumtree and an apple-tree were

standing. Even such a little garden as this was considered in the

metropolis of Copenhagen as a great luxury.

The young man wandered up and down the narrow paths, as well as the

prescribed limits would allow; the clock struck six; without was heard

the horn of a post-boy.

“To travel! to travel!” exclaimed he, overcome by most painful and

passionate remembrances. “That is the happiest thing in the world! That

is the highest aim of all my wishes! Then at last would the agonizing

restlessness be allayed, which destroys my existence! But it must be

far, far away! I would behold magnificent Switzerland; I would travel to

Italy, and--”

It was a good thing that the power of the Galoshes worked as

instantaneously as lightning in a powder-magazine would do, otherwise

the poor man with his overstrained wishes would have travelled about

the world too much for himself as well as for us. In short, he was

travelling. He was in the middle of Switzerland, but packed up with

eight other passengers in the inside of an eternally-creaking diligence;

his head ached till it almost split, his weary neck could hardly bear

the heavy load, and his feet, pinched by his torturing boots, were

terribly swollen. He was in an intermediate state between sleeping and

waking; at variance with himself, with his company, with the country,

and with the government. In his right pocket he had his letter of

credit, in the left, his passport, and in a small leathern purse some

double louis d'or, carefully sewn up in the bosom of his waistcoat.

Every dream proclaimed that one or the other of these valuables was

lost; wherefore he started up as in a fever; and the first movement

which his hand made, described a magic triangle from the right pocket to

the left, and then up towards the bosom, to feel if he had them all safe

or not. From the roof inside the carriage, umbrellas, walking-sticks,

hats, and sundry other articles were depending, and hindered the view,

which was particularly imposing. He now endeavored as well as he

was able to dispel his gloom, which was caused by outward chance

circumstances merely, and on the bosom of nature imbibe the milk of

purest human enjoyment.

Grand, solemn, and dark was the whole landscape around. The gigantic

pine-forests, on the pointed crags, seemed almost like little tufts of

heather, colored by the surrounding clouds. It began to snow, a cold

wind blew and roared as though it were seeking a bride.

“Augh!” sighed he, “were we only on the other side the Alps, then we

should have summer, and I could get my letters of credit cashed. The

anxiety I feel about them prevents me enjoying Switzerland. Were I but

on the other side!”

And so saying he was on the other side in Italy, between Florence and

Rome. Lake Thracymene, illumined by the evening sun, lay like flaming

gold between the dark-blue mountain-ridges; here, where Hannibal

defeated Flaminius, the rivers now held each other in their green

embraces; lovely, half-naked children tended a herd of black swine,

beneath a group of fragrant laurel-trees, hard by the road-side.

Could we render this inimitable picture properly, then would everybody

exclaim, “Beautiful, unparalleled Italy!” But neither the young Divine

said so, nor anyone of his grumbling companions in the coach of the

vetturino.

The poisonous flies and gnats swarmed around by thousands; in vain one

waved myrtle-branches about like mad; the audacious insect population

did not cease to sting; nor was there a single person in the

well-crammed carriage whose face was not swollen and sore from their

ravenous bites. The poor horses, tortured almost to death, suffered most

from this truly Egyptian plague; the flies alighted upon them in large

disgusting swarms; and if the coachman got down and scraped them off,

hardly a minute elapsed before they were there again. The sun now set: a

freezing cold, though of short duration pervaded the whole creation;

it was like a horrid gust coming from a burial-vault on a warm summer's

day--but all around the mountains retained that wonderful green tone

which we see in some old pictures, and which, should we not have seen a

similar play of color in the South, we declare at once to be unnatural.

It was a glorious prospect; but the stomach was empty, the body tired;

all that the heart cared and longed for was good night-quarters; yet

how would they be? For these one looked much more anxiously than for the

charms of nature, which every where were so profusely displayed.

The road led through an olive-grove, and here the solitary inn was

situated. Ten or twelve crippled-beggars had encamped outside. The

healthiest of them resembled, to use an expression of Marryat's,

“Hunger's eldest son when he had come of age”; the others were either

blind, had withered legs and crept about on their hands, or withered

arms and fingerless hands. It was the most wretched misery, dragged

from among the filthiest rags. “Excellenza, miserabili!” sighed they,

thrusting forth their deformed limbs to view. Even the hostess, with

bare feet, uncombed hair, and dressed in a garment of doubtful color,

received the guests grumblingly. The doors were fastened with a loop of

string; the floor of the rooms presented a stone paving half torn

up; bats fluttered wildly about the ceiling; and as to the smell

therein--no--that was beyond description.

“You had better lay the cloth below in the stable,” said one of the

travellers; “there, at all events, one knows what one is breathing.”

The windows were quickly opened, to let in a little fresh air. Quicker,

however, than the breeze, the withered, sallow arms of the beggars were

thrust in, accompanied by the eternal whine of “Miserabili, miserabili,

excellenza!” On the walls were displayed innumerable inscriptions,

written in nearly every language of Europe, some in verse, some in

prose, most of them not very laudatory of “bella Italia.”

The meal was served. It consisted of a soup of salted water, seasoned

with pepper and rancid oil. The last ingredient played a very prominent

part in the salad; stale eggs and roasted cocks'-combs furnished the

grand dish of the repast; the wine even was not without a disgusting

taste--it was like a medicinal draught.

At night the boxes and other effects of the passengers were placed

against the rickety doors. One of the travellers kept watch while the

others slept. The sentry was our young Divine. How close it was in the

chamber! The heat oppressive to suffocation--the gnats hummed and stung

unceasingly--the “miserabili” without whined and moaned in their sleep.

“Travelling would be agreeable enough,” said he groaning, “if one only

had no body, or could send it to rest while the spirit went on its

pilgrimage unhindered, whither the voice within might call it. Wherever

I go, I am pursued by a longing that is insatiable--that I cannot

explain to myself, and that tears my very heart. I want something better

than what is but what is fled in an instant. But what is it, and where

is it to be found? Yet, I know in reality what it is I wish for. Oh!

most happy were I, could I but reach one aim--could but reach the

happiest of all!”

And as he spoke the word he was again in his home; the long white

curtains hung down from the windows, and in the middle of the floor

stood the black coffin; in it he lay in the sleep of death. His wish

was fulfilled--the body rested, while the spirit went unhindered on its

pilgrimage. “Let no one deem himself happy before his end,” were the

words of Solon; and here was a new and brilliant proof of the wisdom of

the old apothegm.

Every corpse is a sphynx of immortality; here too on the black coffin

the sphynx gave us no answer to what he who lay within had written two

days before:

“O mighty Death! thy silence teaches nought,

Thou leadest only to the near grave's brink;

Is broken now the ladder of my thoughts?

Do I instead of mounting only sink?

Our heaviest grief the world oft seeth not,

Our sorest pain we hide from stranger eyes:

And for the sufferer there is nothing left

But the green mound that o'er the coffin lies.”

Two figures were moving in the chamber. We knew them both; it was the

fairy of Care, and the emissary of Fortune. They both bent over the

corpse.

“Do you now see,” said Care, “what happiness your Galoshes have brought

to mankind?”

“To him, at least, who slumbers here, they have brought an imperishable

blessing,” answered the other.

“Ah no!” replied Care. “He took his departure himself; he was not called

away. His mental powers here below were not strong enough to reach the

treasures lying beyond this life, and which his destiny ordained he

should obtain. I will now confer a benefit on him.”

And she took the Galoshes from his feet; his sleep of death was ended;

and he who had been thus called back again to life arose from his

dread couch in all the vigor of youth. Care vanished, and with her the

Galoshes. She has no doubt taken them for herself, to keep them to all

eternity.

THE FIR TREE

Out in the woods stood a nice little Fir Tree. The place he had was a

very good one: the sun shone on him: as to fresh air, there was enough

of that, and round him grew many large-sized comrades, pines as well as

firs. But the little Fir wanted so very much to be a grown-up tree.

He did not think of the warm sun and of the fresh air; he did not care

for the little cottage children that ran about and prattled when they

were in the woods looking for wild-strawberries. The children often came

with a whole pitcher full of berries, or a long row of them threaded on

a straw, and sat down near the young tree and said, “Oh, how pretty he

is! What a nice little fir!” But this was what the Tree could not bear

to hear.

At the end of a year he had shot up a good deal, and after another year

he was another long bit taller; for with fir trees one can always tell

by the shoots how many years old they are.

“Oh! Were I but such a high tree as the others are,” sighed he. “Then I

should be able to spread out my branches, and with the tops to look into

the wide world! Then would the birds build nests among my branches: and

when there was a breeze, I could bend with as much stateliness as the

others!”

Neither the sunbeams, nor the birds, nor the red clouds which morning

and evening sailed above him, gave the little Tree any pleasure.

In winter, when the snow lay glittering on the ground, a hare would

often come leaping along, and jump right over the little Tree. Oh, that

made him so angry! But two winters were past, and in the third the Tree

was so large that the hare was obliged to go round it. “To grow and

grow, to get older and be tall,” thought the Tree--“that, after all, is

the most delightful thing in the world!”

In autumn the wood-cutters always came and felled some of the largest

trees. This happened every year; and the young Fir Tree, that had now

grown to a very comely size, trembled at the sight; for the magnificent

great trees fell to the earth with noise and cracking, the branches were

lopped off, and the trees looked long and bare; they were hardly to be

recognised; and then they were laid in carts, and the horses dragged

them out of the wood.

Where did they go to? What became of them?

In spring, when the swallows and the storks came, the Tree asked them,

“Don't you know where they have been taken? Have you not met them

anywhere?”

The swallows did not know anything about it; but the Stork looked

musing, nodded his head, and said, “Yes; I think I know; I met many

ships as I was flying hither from Egypt; on the ships were magnificent

masts, and I venture to assert that it was they that smelt so of fir.

I may congratulate you, for they lifted themselves on high most

majestically!”

“Oh, were I but old enough to fly across the sea! But how does the sea

look in reality? What is it like?”

“That would take a long time to explain,” said the Stork, and with these

words off he went.

“Rejoice in thy growth!” said the Sunbeams. “Rejoice in thy vigorous

growth, and in the fresh life that moveth within thee!”

And the Wind kissed the Tree, and the Dew wept tears over him; but the

Fir understood it not.

When Christmas came, quite young trees were cut down: trees which often

were not even as large or of the same age as this Fir Tree, who could

never rest, but always wanted to be off. These young trees, and they

were always the finest looking, retained their branches; they were laid

on carts, and the horses drew them out of the wood.

“Where are they going to?” asked the Fir. “They are not taller than

I; there was one indeed that was considerably shorter; and why do they

retain all their branches? Whither are they taken?”

“We know! We know!” chirped the Sparrows. “We have peeped in at the

windows in the town below! We know whither they are taken! The greatest

splendor and the greatest magnificence one can imagine await them. We

peeped through the windows, and saw them planted in the middle of the

warm room and ornamented with the most splendid things, with gilded

apples, with gingerbread, with toys, and many hundred lights!”

“And then?” asked the Fir Tree, trembling in every bough. “And then?

What happens then?”

“We did not see anything more: it was incomparably beautiful.”

“I would fain know if I am destined for so glorious a career,” cried

the Tree, rejoicing. “That is still better than to cross the sea! What

a longing do I suffer! Were Christmas but come! I am now tall, and my

branches spread like the others that were carried off last year! Oh!

were I but already on the cart! Were I in the warm room with all the

splendor and magnificence! Yes; then something better, something still

grander, will surely follow, or wherefore should they thus ornament me?

Something better, something still grander must follow--but what? Oh, how

I long, how I suffer! I do not know myself what is the matter with me!”

“Rejoice in our presence!” said the Air and the Sunlight. “Rejoice in

thy own fresh youth!”

But the Tree did not rejoice at all; he grew and grew, and was green

both winter and summer. People that saw him said, “What a fine tree!”

and towards Christmas he was one of the first that was cut down. The axe

struck deep into the very pith; the Tree fell to the earth with a sigh;

he felt a pang--it was like a swoon; he could not think of happiness,

for he was sorrowful at being separated from his home, from the place

where he had sprung up. He well knew that he should never see his dear

old comrades, the little bushes and flowers around him, anymore; perhaps

not even the birds! The departure was not at all agreeable.

The Tree only came to himself when he was unloaded in a court-yard with

the other trees, and heard a man say, “That one is splendid! We don't

want the others.” Then two servants came in rich livery and carried the

Fir Tree into a large and splendid drawing-room. Portraits were hanging

on the walls, and near the white porcelain stove stood two large Chinese

vases with lions on the covers. There, too, were large easy-chairs,

silken sofas, large tables full of picture-books and full of toys, worth

hundreds and hundreds of crowns--at least the children said so. And the

Fir Tree was stuck upright in a cask that was filled with sand; but no

one could see that it was a cask, for green cloth was hung all round it,

and it stood on a large gaily-colored carpet. Oh! how the Tree quivered!

What was to happen? The servants, as well as the young ladies, decorated

it. On one branch there hung little nets cut out of colored paper, and

each net was filled with sugarplums; and among the other boughs gilded

apples and walnuts were suspended, looking as though they had grown

there, and little blue and white tapers were placed among the leaves.

Dolls that looked for all the world like men--the Tree had never beheld

such before--were seen among the foliage, and at the very top a

large star of gold tinsel was fixed. It was really splendid--beyond

description splendid.

“This evening!” they all said. “How it will shine this evening!”

“Oh!” thought the Tree. “If the evening were but come! If the tapers

were but lighted! And then I wonder what will happen! Perhaps the other

trees from the forest will come to look at me! Perhaps the sparrows will

beat against the windowpanes! I wonder if I shall take root here, and

winter and summer stand covered with ornaments!”

He knew very much about the matter--but he was so impatient that for

sheer longing he got a pain in his back, and this with trees is the same

thing as a headache with us.

The candles were now lighted--what brightness! What splendor! The

Tree trembled so in every bough that one of the tapers set fire to the

foliage. It blazed up famously.

“Help! Help!” cried the young ladies, and they quickly put out the fire.

Now the Tree did not even dare tremble. What a state he was in! He was

so uneasy lest he should lose something of his splendor, that he was

quite bewildered amidst the glare and brightness; when suddenly both

folding-doors opened and a troop of children rushed in as if they would

upset the Tree. The older persons followed quietly; the little ones

stood quite still. But it was only for a moment; then they shouted that

the whole place re-echoed with their rejoicing; they danced round the

Tree, and one present after the other was pulled off.

“What are they about?” thought the Tree. “What is to happen now!” And

the lights burned down to the very branches, and as they burned down

they were put out one after the other, and then the children had

permission to plunder the Tree. So they fell upon it with such violence

that all its branches cracked; if it had not been fixed firmly in the

ground, it would certainly have tumbled down.

The children danced about with their beautiful playthings; no one looked

at the Tree except the old nurse, who peeped between the branches; but

it was only to see if there was a fig or an apple left that had been

forgotten.

“A story! A story!” cried the children, drawing a little fat man towards

the Tree. He seated himself under it and said, “Now we are in the shade,

and the Tree can listen too. But I shall tell only one story. Now which

will you have; that about Ivedy-Avedy, or about Humpy-Dumpy, who

tumbled downstairs, and yet after all came to the throne and married the

princess?”

“Ivedy-Avedy,” cried some; “Humpy-Dumpy,” cried the others. There was

such a bawling and screaming--the Fir Tree alone was silent, and he

thought to himself, “Am I not to bawl with the rest? Am I to do nothing

whatever?” for he was one of the company, and had done what he had to

do.

And the man told about Humpy-Dumpy that tumbled down, who

notwithstanding came to the throne, and at last married the princess.

And the children clapped their hands, and cried. “Oh, go on! Do go on!”

They wanted to hear about Ivedy-Avedy too, but the little man only told

them about Humpy-Dumpy. The Fir Tree stood quite still and absorbed

in thought; the birds in the wood had never related the like of this.

“Humpy-Dumpy fell downstairs, and yet he married the princess! Yes, yes!

That's the way of the world!” thought the Fir Tree, and believed it all,

because the man who told the story was so good-looking. “Well, well! who

knows, perhaps I may fall downstairs, too, and get a princess as wife!”

And he looked forward with joy to the morrow, when he hoped to be decked

out again with lights, playthings, fruits, and tinsel.

“I won't tremble to-morrow!” thought the Fir Tree. “I will enjoy to

the full all my splendor! To-morrow I shall hear again the story of

Humpy-Dumpy, and perhaps that of Ivedy-Avedy too.” And the whole night

the Tree stood still and in deep thought.

In the morning the servant and the housemaid came in.

“Now then the splendor will begin again,” thought the Fir. But they

dragged him out of the room, and up the stairs into the loft: and here,

in a dark corner, where no daylight could enter, they left him. “What's

the meaning of this?” thought the Tree. “What am I to do here? What

shall I hear now, I wonder?” And he leaned against the wall lost in

reverie. Time enough had he too for his reflections; for days and nights

passed on, and nobody came up; and when at last somebody did come, it

was only to put some great trunks in a corner, out of the way. There

stood the Tree quite hidden; it seemed as if he had been entirely

forgotten.

“'Tis now winter out-of-doors!” thought the Tree. “The earth is hard and

covered with snow; men cannot plant me now, and therefore I have been

put up here under shelter till the spring-time comes! How thoughtful

that is! How kind man is, after all! If it only were not so dark here,

and so terribly lonely! Not even a hare! And out in the woods it was

so pleasant, when the snow was on the ground, and the hare leaped by;

yes--even when he jumped over me; but I did not like it then! It is

really terribly lonely here!”

“Squeak! Squeak!” said a little Mouse, at the same moment, peeping out

of his hole. And then another little one came. They snuffed about the

Fir Tree, and rustled among the branches.

“It is dreadfully cold,” said the Mouse. “But for that, it would be

delightful here, old Fir, wouldn't it?”

“I am by no means old,” said the Fir Tree. “There's many a one

considerably older than I am.”

“Where do you come from,” asked the Mice; “and what can you do?” They

were so extremely curious. “Tell us about the most beautiful spot on the

earth. Have you never been there? Were you never in the larder, where

cheeses lie on the shelves, and hams hang from above; where one dances

about on tallow candles: that place where one enters lean, and comes out

again fat and portly?”

“I know no such place,” said the Tree. “But I know the wood, where the

sun shines and where the little birds sing.” And then he told all about

his youth; and the little Mice had never heard the like before; and they

listened and said,

“Well, to be sure! How much you have seen! How happy you must have

been!”

“I!” said the Fir Tree, thinking over what he had himself related.

“Yes, in reality those were happy times.” And then he told about

Christmas-eve, when he was decked out with cakes and candles.

“Oh,” said the little Mice, “how fortunate you have been, old Fir Tree!”

“I am by no means old,” said he. “I came from the wood this winter; I am

in my prime, and am only rather short for my age.”

“What delightful stories you know,” said the Mice: and the next night

they came with four other little Mice, who were to hear what the Tree

recounted: and the more he related, the more he remembered himself; and

it appeared as if those times had really been happy times. “But they may

still come--they may still come! Humpy-Dumpy fell downstairs, and yet

he got a princess!” and he thought at the moment of a nice little Birch

Tree growing out in the woods: to the Fir, that would be a real charming

princess.

“Who is Humpy-Dumpy?” asked the Mice. So then the Fir Tree told the

whole fairy tale, for he could remember every single word of it; and the

little Mice jumped for joy up to the very top of the Tree. Next night

two more Mice came, and on Sunday two Rats even; but they said the

stories were not interesting, which vexed the little Mice; and they,

too, now began to think them not so very amusing either.

“Do you know only one story?” asked the Rats.

“Only that one,” answered the Tree. “I heard it on my happiest evening;

but I did not then know how happy I was.”

“It is a very stupid story! Don't you know one about bacon and tallow

candles? Can't you tell any larder stories?”

“No,” said the Tree.

“Then good-bye,” said the Rats; and they went home.

At last the little Mice stayed away also; and the Tree sighed: “After

all, it was very pleasant when the sleek little Mice sat round me, and

listened to what I told them. Now that too is over. But I will take good

care to enjoy myself when I am brought out again.”

But when was that to be? Why, one morning there came a quantity of

people and set to work in the loft. The trunks were moved, the tree was

pulled out and thrown--rather hard, it is true--down on the floor, but a

man drew him towards the stairs, where the daylight shone.

“Now a merry life will begin again,” thought the Tree. He felt the fresh

air, the first sunbeam--and now he was out in the courtyard. All passed

so quickly, there was so much going on around him, the Tree quite forgot

to look to himself. The court adjoined a garden, and all was in flower;

the roses hung so fresh and odorous over the balustrade, the lindens

were in blossom, the Swallows flew by, and said, “Quirre-vit! My husband

is come!” but it was not the Fir Tree that they meant.

“Now, then, I shall really enjoy life,” said he exultingly, and spread

out his branches; but, alas, they were all withered and yellow! It was

in a corner that he lay, among weeds and nettles. The golden star of

tinsel was still on the top of the Tree, and glittered in the sunshine.

In the court-yard some of the merry children were playing who had danced

at Christmas round the Fir Tree, and were so glad at the sight of him.

One of the youngest ran and tore off the golden star.

“Only look what is still on the ugly old Christmas tree!” said he,

trampling on the branches, so that they all cracked beneath his feet.

And the Tree beheld all the beauty of the flowers, and the freshness in

the garden; he beheld himself, and wished he had remained in his dark

corner in the loft; he thought of his first youth in the wood, of the

merry Christmas-eve, and of the little Mice who had listened with so

much pleasure to the story of Humpy-Dumpy.

“'Tis over--'tis past!” said the poor Tree. “Had I but rejoiced when I

had reason to do so! But now 'tis past, 'tis past!”

And the gardener's boy chopped the Tree into small pieces; there was a

whole heap lying there. The wood flamed up splendidly under the large

brewing copper, and it sighed so deeply! Each sigh was like a shot.

The boys played about in the court, and the youngest wore the gold star

on his breast which the Tree had had on the happiest evening of his

life. However, that was over now--the Tree gone, the story at an end.

All, all was over--every tale must end at last.

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.