Chương Chương 12 · The Best That the Galoshes Gave（7）

“No one--not even my shadow!” said the shadow, and he had his own

thoughts about it!

Now they were in the country where the princess reigned when she was at

home.

“Listen, my good friend,” said the shadow to the learned man. “I have

now become as happy and mighty as anyone can be; I will, therefore, do

something particular for thee! Thou shalt always live with me in the

palace, drive with me in my royal carriage, and have ten thousand

pounds a year; but then thou must submit to be called SHADOW by all and

everyone; thou must not say that thou hast ever been a man; and once

a year, when I sit on the balcony in the sunshine, thou must lie at my

feet, as a shadow shall do! I must tell thee: I am going to marry the

king's daughter, and the nuptials are to take place this evening!”

“Nay, this is going too far!” said the learned man. “I will not have it;

I will not do it! It is to deceive the whole country and the princess

too! I will tell everything! That I am a man, and that thou art a

shadow--thou art only dressed up!”

“There is no one who will believe it!” said the shadow. “Be reasonable,

or I will call the guard!”

“I will go directly to the princess!” said the learned man.

“But I will go first!” said the shadow. “And thou wilt go to prison!”

and that he was obliged to do--for the sentinels obeyed him whom they

knew the king's daughter was to marry.

“You tremble!” said the princess, as the shadow came into her chamber.

“Has anything happened? You must not be unwell this evening, now that we

are to have our nuptials celebrated.”

“I have lived to see the most cruel thing that anyone can live to

see!” said the shadow. “Only imagine--yes, it is true, such a poor

shadow-skull cannot bear much--only think, my shadow has become mad;

he thinks that he is a man, and that I--now only think--that I am his

shadow!”

“It is terrible!” said the princess; “but he is confined, is he not?”

“That he is. I am afraid that he will never recover.”

“Poor shadow!” said the princess. “He is very unfortunate; it would be

a real work of charity to deliver him from the little life he has, and,

when I think properly over the matter, I am of opinion that it will be

necessary to do away with him in all stillness!”

“It is certainly hard,” said the shadow, “for he was a faithful

servant!” and then he gave a sort of sigh.

“You are a noble character!” said the princess.

The whole city was illuminated in the evening, and the cannons went off

with a bum! bum! and the soldiers presented arms. That was a marriage!

The princess and the shadow went out on the balcony to show themselves,

and get another hurrah!

The learned man heard nothing of all this--for they had deprived him of

life.

THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL

Most terribly cold it was; it snowed, and was nearly quite dark, and

evening--the last evening of the year. In this cold and darkness there

went along the street a poor little girl, bareheaded, and with naked

feet. When she left home she had slippers on, it is true; but what was

the good of that? They were very large slippers, which her mother had

hitherto worn; so large were they; and the poor little thing lost them

as she scuffled away across the street, because of two carriages that

rolled by dreadfully fast.

One slipper was nowhere to be found; the other had been laid hold of by

an urchin, and off he ran with it; he thought it would do capitally for

a cradle when he some day or other should have children himself. So the

little maiden walked on with her tiny naked feet, that were quite red

and blue from cold. She carried a quantity of matches in an old apron,

and she held a bundle of them in her hand. Nobody had bought anything of

her the whole livelong day; no one had given her a single farthing.

She crept along trembling with cold and hunger--a very picture of

sorrow, the poor little thing!

The flakes of snow covered her long fair hair, which fell in beautiful

curls around her neck; but of that, of course, she never once now

thought. From all the windows the candles were gleaming, and it smelt so

deliciously of roast goose, for you know it was New Year's Eve; yes, of

that she thought.

In a corner formed by two houses, of which one advanced more than the

other, she seated herself down and cowered together. Her little feet

she had drawn close up to her, but she grew colder and colder, and to go

home she did not venture, for she had not sold any matches and could

not bring a farthing of money: from her father she would certainly get

blows, and at home it was cold too, for above her she had only the roof,

through which the wind whistled, even though the largest cracks were

stopped up with straw and rags.

Her little hands were almost numbed with cold. Oh! a match might afford

her a world of comfort, if she only dared take a single one out of the

bundle, draw it against the wall, and warm her fingers by it. She drew

one out. “Rischt!” how it blazed, how it burnt! It was a warm, bright

flame, like a candle, as she held her hands over it: it was a wonderful

light. It seemed really to the little maiden as though she were sitting

before a large iron stove, with burnished brass feet and a brass

ornament at top. The fire burned with such blessed influence; it warmed

so delightfully. The little girl had already stretched out her feet to

warm them too; but--the small flame went out, the stove vanished: she

had only the remains of the burnt-out match in her hand.

She rubbed another against the wall: it burned brightly, and where the

light fell on the wall, there the wall became transparent like a

veil, so that she could see into the room. On the table was spread a

snow-white tablecloth; upon it was a splendid porcelain service, and the

roast goose was steaming famously with its stuffing of apple and dried

plums. And what was still more capital to behold was, the goose hopped

down from the dish, reeled about on the floor with knife and fork in its

breast, till it came up to the poor little girl; when--the match went

out and nothing but the thick, cold, damp wall was left behind.

She lighted another match. Now there she was sitting under the most

magnificent Christmas tree: it was still larger, and more decorated than

the one which she had seen through the glass door in the rich merchant's

house.

Thousands of lights were burning on the green branches, and

gaily-colored pictures, such as she had seen in the shop-windows, looked

down upon her. The little maiden stretched out her hands towards them

when--the match went out. The lights of the Christmas tree rose higher

and higher, she saw them now as stars in heaven; one fell down and

formed a long trail of fire.

“Someone is just dead!” said the little girl; for her old grandmother,

the only person who had loved her, and who was now no more, had told

her, that when a star falls, a soul ascends to God.

She drew another match against the wall: it was again light, and in the

lustre there stood the old grandmother, so bright and radiant, so mild,

and with such an expression of love.

“Grandmother!” cried the little one. “Oh, take me with you! You go

away when the match burns out; you vanish like the warm stove, like the

delicious roast goose, and like the magnificent Christmas tree!” And

she rubbed the whole bundle of matches quickly against the wall, for

she wanted to be quite sure of keeping her grandmother near her. And

the matches gave such a brilliant light that it was brighter than at

noon-day: never formerly had the grandmother been so beautiful and

so tall. She took the little maiden, on her arm, and both flew in

brightness and in joy so high, so very high, and then above was neither

cold, nor hunger, nor anxiety--they were with God.

But in the corner, at the cold hour of dawn, sat the poor girl, with

rosy cheeks and with a smiling mouth, leaning against the wall--frozen

to death on the last evening of the old year. Stiff and stark sat the

child there with her matches, of which one bundle had been burnt. “She

wanted to warm herself,” people said. No one had the slightest suspicion

of what beautiful things she had seen; no one even dreamed of the

splendor in which, with her grandmother she had entered on the joys of a

new year.

THE DREAM OF LITTLE TUK

Ah! yes, that was little Tuk: in reality his name was not Tuk, but that

was what he called himself before he could speak plain: he meant it for

Charles, and it is all well enough if one does but know it. He had now

to take care of his little sister Augusta, who was much younger than

himself, and he was, besides, to learn his lesson at the same time; but

these two things would not do together at all. There sat the poor little

fellow, with his sister on his lap, and he sang to her all the songs he

knew; and he glanced the while from time to time into the geography-book

that lay open before him. By the next morning he was to have learnt

all the towns in Zealand by heart, and to know about them all that is

possible to be known.

His mother now came home, for she had been out, and took little Augusta

on her arm. Tuk ran quickly to the window, and read so eagerly that he

pretty nearly read his eyes out; for it got darker and darker, but his

mother had no money to buy a candle.

“There goes the old washerwoman over the way,” said his mother, as she

looked out of the window. “The poor woman can hardly drag herself along,

and she must now drag the pail home from the fountain. Be a good boy,

Tukey, and run across and help the old woman, won't you?”

So Tuk ran over quickly and helped her; but when he came back again into

the room it was quite dark, and as to a light, there was no thought of

such a thing. He was now to go to bed; that was an old turn-up bedstead;

in it he lay and thought about his geography lesson, and of Zealand, and

of all that his master had told him. He ought, to be sure, to have read

over his lesson again, but that, you know, he could not do. He therefore

put his geography-book under his pillow, because he had heard that was

a very good thing to do when one wants to learn one's lesson; but one

cannot, however, rely upon it entirely. Well, there he lay, and thought

and thought, and all at once it was just as if someone kissed his eyes

and mouth: he slept, and yet he did not sleep; it was as though the old

washerwoman gazed on him with her mild eyes and said, “It were a great

sin if you were not to know your lesson tomorrow morning. You have aided

me, I therefore will now help you; and the loving God will do so at all

times.” And all of a sudden the book under Tuk's pillow began scraping

and scratching.

“Kickery-ki! kluk! kluk! kluk!”--that was an old hen who came creeping

along, and she was from Kjoge. “I am a Kjoger hen,” [*] said she, and then

she related how many inhabitants there were there, and about the battle

that had taken place, and which, after all, was hardly worth talking

about.

* Kjoge, a town in the bay of Kjoge. “To see the Kjoge

hens,” is an expression similar to “showing a child London,”

which is said to be done by taking his head in both bands,

and so lifting him off the ground. At the invasion of the

English in 1807, an encounter of a no very glorious nature

took place between the British troops and the undisciplined

Danish militia.

“Kribledy, krabledy--plump!” down fell somebody: it was a wooden bird,

the popinjay used at the shooting-matches at Prastoe. Now he said that

there were just as many inhabitants as he had nails in his body; and he

was very proud. “Thorwaldsen lived almost next door to me.* Plump! Here

I lie capitally.”

* Prastoe, a still smaller town than Kjoge. Some hundred paces from

it lies the manor-house Ny Soe, where Thorwaldsen, the famed sculptor,

generally sojourned during his stay in Denmark, and where he called many

of his immortal works into existence.

But little Tuk was no longer lying down: all at once he was on

horseback. On he went at full gallop, still galloping on and on. A

knight with a gleaming plume, and most magnificently dressed, held him

before him on the horse, and thus they rode through the wood to the old

town of Bordingborg, and that was a large and very lively town. High

towers rose from the castle of the king, and the brightness of many

candles streamed from all the windows; within was dance and song,

and King Waldemar and the young, richly-attired maids of honor danced

together. The morn now came; and as soon as the sun appeared, the whole

town and the king's palace crumbled together, and one tower after the

other; and at last only a single one remained standing where the castle

had been before,* and the town was so small and poor, and the school

boys came along with their books under their arms, and said, “2000

inhabitants!” but that was not true, for there were not so many.

*Bordingborg, in the reign of King Waldemar, a considerable place, now

an unimportant little town. One solitary tower only, and some remains of

a wall, show where the castle once stood.

And little Tukey lay in his bed: it seemed to him as if he dreamed, and

yet as if he were not dreaming; however, somebody was close beside him.

“Little Tukey! Little Tukey!” cried someone near. It was a seaman,

quite a little personage, so little as if he were a midshipman; but a

midshipman it was not.

“Many remembrances from Corsor.* That is a town that is just rising

into importance; a lively town that has steam-boats and stagecoaches:

formerly people called it ugly, but that is no longer true. I lie on

the sea,” said Corsor; “I have high roads and gardens, and I have given

birth to a poet who was witty and amusing, which all poets are not. I

once intended to equip a ship that was to sail all round the earth; but

I did not do it, although I could have done so: and then, too, I smell

so deliciously, for close before the gate bloom the most beautiful

roses.”

*Corsor, on the Great Belt, called, formerly, before the introduction

of steam-vessels, when travellers were often obliged to wait a long time

for a favorable wind, “the most tiresome of towns.” The poet Baggesen

was born here.

Little Tuk looked, and all was red and green before his eyes; but as

soon as the confusion of colors was somewhat over, all of a sudden there

appeared a wooded slope close to the bay, and high up above stood a

magnificent old church, with two high pointed towers. From out the

hill-side spouted fountains in thick streams of water, so that there

was a continual splashing; and close beside them sat an old king with

a golden crown upon his white head: that was King Hroar, near the

fountains, close to the town of Roeskilde, as it is now called. And up

the slope into the old church went all the kings and queens of Denmark,

hand in hand, all with their golden crowns; and the organ played and

the fountains rustled. Little Tuk saw all, heard all. “Do not forget the

diet,” said King Hroar.*

*Roeskilde, once the capital of Denmark. The town takes its name from

King Hroar, and the many fountains in the neighborhood. In the beautiful

cathedral the greater number of the kings and queens of Denmark are

interred. In Roeskilde, too, the members of the Danish Diet assemble.

Again all suddenly disappeared. Yes, and whither? It seemed to him

just as if one turned over a leaf in a book. And now stood there an

old peasant-woman, who came from Soroe,* where grass grows in the

market-place. She had an old grey linen apron hanging over her head and

back: it was so wet, it certainly must have been raining. “Yes, that it

has,” said she; and she now related many pretty things out of Holberg's

comedies, and about Waldemar and Absalon; but all at once she cowered

together, and her head began shaking backwards and forwards, and she

looked as she were going to make a spring. “Croak! croak!” said she.

“It is wet, it is wet; there is such a pleasant deathlike stillness in

Sorbe!” She was now suddenly a frog, “Croak”; and now she was an old

woman. “One must dress according to the weather,” said she. “It is wet;

it is wet. My town is just like a bottle; and one gets in by the neck,

and by the neck one must get out again! In former times I had the

finest fish, and now I have fresh rosy-cheeked boys at the bottom of the

bottle, who learn wisdom, Hebrew, Greek--Croak!”

* Sorbe, a very quiet little town, beautifully situated, surrounded by

woods and lakes. Holberg, Denmark's Moliere, founded here an academy

for the sons of the nobles. The poets Hauch and Ingemann were appointed

professors here. The latter lives there still.

When she spoke it sounded just like the noise of frogs, or as if one

walked with great boots over a moor; always the same tone, so uniform

and so tiring that little Tuk fell into a good sound sleep, which, by

the bye, could not do him any harm.

But even in this sleep there came a dream, or whatever else it was: his

little sister Augusta, she with the blue eyes and the fair curling hair,

was suddenly a tall, beautiful girl, and without having wings was yet

able to fly; and she now flew over Zealand--over the green woods and the

blue lakes.

“Do you hear the cock crow, Tukey? Cock-a-doodle-doo! The cocks are

flying up from Kjoge! You will have a farm-yard, so large, oh! so very

large! You will suffer neither hunger nor thirst! You will get on in the

world! You will be a rich and happy man! Your house will exalt itself

like King Waldemar's tower, and will be richly decorated with marble

statues, like that at Prastoe. You understand what I mean. Your name

shall circulate with renown all round the earth, like unto the ship that

was to have sailed from Corsor; and in Roeskilde--”

“Do not forget the diet!” said King Hroar.

“Then you will speak well and wisely, little Tukey; and when at last you

sink into your grave, you shall sleep as quietly--”

“As if I lay in Soroe,” said Tuk, awaking. It was bright day, and he was

now quite unable to call to mind his dream; that, however, was not at

all necessary, for one may not know what the future will bring.

And out of bed he jumped, and read in his book, and now all at once he

knew his whole lesson. And the old washerwoman popped her head in at the

door, nodded to him friendly, and said, “Thanks, many thanks, my good

child, for your help! May the good ever-loving God fulfil your loveliest

dream!”

Little Tukey did not at all know what he had dreamed, but the loving God

knew it.

THE NAUGHTY BOY

Along time ago, there lived an old poet, a thoroughly kind old poet. As

he was sitting one evening in his room, a dreadful storm arose without,

and the rain streamed down from heaven; but the old poet sat warm

and comfortable in his chimney-corner, where the fire blazed and the

roasting apple hissed.

“Those who have not a roof over their heads will be wetted to the skin,”

said the good old poet.

“Oh let me in! Let me in! I am cold, and I'm so wet!” exclaimed suddenly

a child that stood crying at the door and knocking for admittance, while

the rain poured down, and the wind made all the windows rattle.

“Poor thing!” said the old poet, as he went to open the door. There

stood a little boy, quite naked, and the water ran down from his long

golden hair; he trembled with cold, and had he not come into a warm room

he would most certainly have perished in the frightful tempest.

“Poor child!” said the old poet, as he took the boy by the hand. “Come

in, come in, and I will soon restore thee! Thou shalt have wine and

roasted apples, for thou art verily a charming child!” And the boy was

so really. His eyes were like two bright stars; and although the water

trickled down his hair, it waved in beautiful curls. He looked exactly

like a little angel, but he was so pale, and his whole body trembled

with cold. He had a nice little bow in his hand, but it was quite

spoiled by the rain, and the tints of his many-colored arrows ran one

into the other.

The old poet seated himself beside his hearth, and took the little

fellow on his lap; he squeezed the water out of his dripping hair,

warmed his hands between his own, and boiled for him some sweet wine.

Then the boy recovered, his cheeks again grew rosy, he jumped down from

the lap where he was sitting, and danced round the kind old poet.

“You are a merry fellow,” said the old man. “What's your name?”

“My name is Cupid,” answered the boy. “Don't you know me? There lies my

bow; it shoots well, I can assure you! Look, the weather is now clearing

up, and the moon is shining clear again through the window.”

“Why, your bow is quite spoiled,” said the old poet.

“That were sad indeed,” said the boy, and he took the bow in his hand

and examined it on every side. “Oh, it is dry again, and is not hurt at

all; the string is quite tight. I will try it directly.” And he bent his

bow, took aim, and shot an arrow at the old poet, right into his heart.

“You see now that my bow was not spoiled,” said he laughing; and away he

ran.

The naughty boy, to shoot the old poet in that way; he who had taken him

into his warm room, who had treated him so kindly, and who had given him

warm wine and the very best apples!

The poor poet lay on the earth and wept, for the arrow had really flown

into his heart.

“Fie!” said he. “How naughty a boy Cupid is! I will tell all children

about him, that they may take care and not play with him, for he will

only cause them sorrow and many a heartache.”

And all good children to whom he related this story, took great heed

of this naughty Cupid; but he made fools of them still, for he is

astonishingly cunning. When the university students come from the

lectures, he runs beside them in a black coat, and with a book under his

arm. It is quite impossible for them to know him, and they walk along

with him arm in arm, as if he, too, were a student like themselves; and

then, unperceived, he thrusts an arrow to their bosom. When the young

maidens come from being examined by the clergyman, or go to church to

be confirmed, there he is again close behind them. Yes, he is forever

following people. At the play, he sits in the great chandelier and burns

in bright flames, so that people think it is really a flame, but they

soon discover it is something else. He roves about in the garden of the

palace and upon the ramparts: yes, once he even shot your father and

mother right in the heart. Ask them only and you will hear what they'll

tell you. Oh, he is a naughty boy, that Cupid; you must never have

anything to do with him. He is forever running after everybody. Only

think, he shot an arrow once at your old grandmother! But that is a

long time ago, and it is all past now; however, a thing of that sort she

never forgets. Fie, naughty Cupid! But now you know him, and you know,

too, how ill-behaved he is!

THE RED SHOES

There was once a little girl who was very pretty and delicate, but in

summer she was forced to run about with bare feet, she was so poor, and

in winter wear very large wooden shoes, which made her little insteps

quite red, and that looked so dangerous!

In the middle of the village lived old Dame Shoemaker; she sat and sewed

together, as well as she could, a little pair of shoes out of old red

strips of cloth; they were very clumsy, but it was a kind thought. They

were meant for the little girl. The little girl was called Karen.

On the very day her mother was buried, Karen received the red shoes,

and wore them for the first time. They were certainly not intended for

mourning, but she had no others, and with stockingless feet she followed

the poor straw coffin in them.

Suddenly a large old carriage drove up, and a large old lady sat in it:

she looked at the little girl, felt compassion for her, and then said to

the clergyman:

“Here, give me the little girl. I will adopt her!”

And Karen believed all this happened on account of the red shoes, but

the old lady thought they were horrible, and they were burnt. But Karen

herself was cleanly and nicely dressed; she must learn to read and sew;

and people said she was a nice little thing, but the looking-glass said:

“Thou art more than nice, thou art beautiful!”

Now the queen once travelled through the land, and she had her little

daughter with her. And this little daughter was a princess, and people

streamed to the castle, and Karen was there also, and the little

princess stood in her fine white dress, in a window, and let herself be

stared at; she had neither a train nor a golden crown, but splendid

red morocco shoes. They were certainly far handsomer than those Dame

Shoemaker had made for little Karen. Nothing in the world can be

compared with red shoes.

Now Karen was old enough to be confirmed; she had new clothes and was to

have new shoes also. The rich shoemaker in the city took the measure of

her little foot. This took place at his house, in his room; where stood

large glass-cases, filled with elegant shoes and brilliant boots. All

this looked charming, but the old lady could not see well, and so had

no pleasure in them. In the midst of the shoes stood a pair of red ones,

just like those the princess had worn. How beautiful they were! The

shoemaker said also they had been made for the child of a count, but had

not fitted.

“That must be patent leather!” said the old lady. “They shine so!”

“Yes, they shine!” said Karen, and they fitted, and were bought, but the

old lady knew nothing about their being red, else she would never have

allowed Karen to have gone in red shoes to be confirmed. Yet such was

the case.

Everybody looked at her feet; and when she stepped through the chancel

door on the church pavement, it seemed to her as if the old figures on

the tombs, those portraits of old preachers and preachers' wives, with

stiff ruffs, and long black dresses, fixed their eyes on her red shoes.

And she thought only of them as the clergyman laid his hand upon her

head, and spoke of the holy baptism, of the covenant with God, and how

she should be now a matured Christian; and the organ pealed so solemnly;

the sweet children's voices sang, and the old music-directors sang, but

Karen only thought of her red shoes.

In the afternoon, the old lady heard from everyone that the shoes had

been red, and she said that it was very wrong of Karen, that it was not

at all becoming, and that in future Karen should only go in black shoes

to church, even when she should be older.

The next Sunday there was the sacrament, and Karen looked at the black

shoes, looked at the red ones--looked at them again, and put on the red

shoes.

The sun shone gloriously; Karen and the old lady walked along the path

through the corn; it was rather dusty there.

At the church door stood an old soldier with a crutch, and with a

wonderfully long beard, which was more red than white, and he bowed to

the ground, and asked the old lady whether he might dust her shoes. And

Karen stretched out her little foot.

“See, what beautiful dancing shoes!” said the soldier. “Sit firm when

you dance”; and he put his hand out towards the soles.

And the old lady gave the old soldier alms, and went into the church

with Karen.

And all the people in the church looked at Karen's red shoes, and all

the pictures, and as Karen knelt before the altar, and raised the cup to

her lips, she only thought of the red shoes, and they seemed to swim

in it; and she forgot to sing her psalm, and she forgot to pray, “Our

Father in Heaven!”

Now all the people went out of church, and the old lady got into her

carriage. Karen raised her foot to get in after her, when the old

soldier said,

“Look, what beautiful dancing shoes!”

And Karen could not help dancing a step or two, and when she began her

feet continued to dance; it was just as though the shoes had power over

them. She danced round the church corner, she could not leave off; the

coachman was obliged to run after and catch hold of her, and he lifted

her in the carriage, but her feet continued to dance so that she trod on

the old lady dreadfully. At length she took the shoes off, and then her

legs had peace.

The shoes were placed in a closet at home, but Karen could not avoid

looking at them.

Now the old lady was sick, and it was said she could not recover. She

must be nursed and waited upon, and there was no one whose duty it was

so much as Karen's. But there was a great ball in the city, to which

Karen was invited. She looked at the old lady, who could not recover,

she looked at the red shoes, and she thought there could be no sin in

it; she put on the red shoes, she might do that also, she thought. But

then she went to the ball and began to dance.

When she wanted to dance to the right, the shoes would dance to the

left, and when she wanted to dance up the room, the shoes danced back

again, down the steps, into the street, and out of the city gate. She

danced, and was forced to dance straight out into the gloomy wood.

Then it was suddenly light up among the trees, and she fancied it must

be the moon, for there was a face; but it was the old soldier with

the red beard; he sat there, nodded his head, and said, “Look, what

beautiful dancing shoes!”

Then she was terrified, and wanted to fling off the red shoes, but they

clung fast; and she pulled down her stockings, but the shoes seemed to

have grown to her feet. And she danced, and must dance, over fields and

meadows, in rain and sunshine, by night and day; but at night it was the

most fearful.

She danced over the churchyard, but the dead did not dance--they had

something better to do than to dance. She wished to seat herself on a

poor man's grave, where the bitter tansy grew; but for her there was

neither peace nor rest; and when she danced towards the open church

door, she saw an angel standing there. He wore long, white garments; he

had wings which reached from his shoulders to the earth; his countenance

was severe and grave; and in his hand he held a sword, broad and

glittering.

“Dance shalt thou!” said he. “Dance in thy red shoes till thou art pale

and cold! Till thy skin shrivels up and thou art a skeleton! Dance shalt

thou from door to door, and where proud, vain children dwell, thou shalt

knock, that they may hear thee and tremble! Dance shalt thou--!”

“Mercy!” cried Karen. But she did not hear the angel's reply, for the

shoes carried her through the gate into the fields, across roads and

bridges, and she must keep ever dancing.

One morning she danced past a door which she well knew. Within sounded

a psalm; a coffin, decked with flowers, was borne forth. Then she knew

that the old lady was dead, and felt that she was abandoned by all, and

condemned by the angel of God.

She danced, and she was forced to dance through the gloomy night. The

shoes carried her over stack and stone; she was torn till she bled; she

danced over the heath till she came to a little house. Here, she knew,

dwelt the executioner; and she tapped with her fingers at the window,

and said, “Come out! Come out! I cannot come in, for I am forced to

dance!”

And the executioner said, “Thou dost not know who I am, I fancy? I

strike bad people's heads off; and I hear that my axe rings!”

“Don't strike my head off!” said Karen. “Then I can't repent of my sins!

But strike off my feet in the red shoes!”

And then she confessed her entire sin, and the executioner struck off

her feet with the red shoes, but the shoes danced away with the little

feet across the field into the deep wood.

And he carved out little wooden feet for her, and crutches, taught

her the psalm criminals always sing; and she kissed the hand which had

wielded the axe, and went over the heath.

“Now I have suffered enough for the red shoes!” said she. “Now I will

go into the church that people may see me!” And she hastened towards the

church door: but when she was near it, the red shoes danced before her,

and she was terrified, and turned round. The whole week she was unhappy,

and wept many bitter tears; but when Sunday returned, she said, “Well,

now I have suffered and struggled enough! I really believe I am as good

as many a one who sits in the church, and holds her head so high!”

And away she went boldly; but she had not got farther than the

churchyard gate before she saw the red shoes dancing before her; and she

was frightened, and turned back, and repented of her sin from her heart.

And she went to the parsonage, and begged that they would take her

into service; she would be very industrious, she said, and would do

everything she could; she did not care about the wages, only she wished

to have a home, and be with good people. And the clergyman's wife was

sorry for her and took her into service; and she was industrious and

thoughtful. She sat still and listened when the clergyman read the Bible

in the evenings. All the children thought a great deal of her; but when

they spoke of dress, and grandeur, and beauty, she shook her head.

The following Sunday, when the family was going to church, they asked

her whether she would not go with them; but she glanced sorrowfully,

with tears in her eyes, at her crutches. The family went to hear the

word of God; but she went alone into her little chamber; there was only

room for a bed and chair to stand in it; and here she sat down with her

Prayer-Book; and whilst she read with a pious mind, the wind bore

the strains of the organ towards her, and she raised her tearful

countenance, and said, “O God, help me!”

And the sun shone so clearly, and straight before her stood the angel

of God in white garments, the same she had seen that night at the church

door; but he no longer carried the sharp sword, but in its stead a

splendid green spray, full of roses. And he touched the ceiling with the

spray, and the ceiling rose so high, and where he had touched it there

gleamed a golden star. And he touched the walls, and they widened out,

and she saw the organ which was playing; she saw the old pictures of the

preachers and the preachers' wives. The congregation sat in cushioned

seats, and sang out of their Prayer-Books. For the church itself had

come to the poor girl in her narrow chamber, or else she had come into

the church. She sat in the pew with the clergyman's family, and when

they had ended the psalm and looked up, they nodded and said, “It is

right that thou art come!”

“It was through mercy!” she said.

And the organ pealed, and the children's voices in the choir sounded so

sweet and soft! The clear sunshine streamed so warmly through the window

into the pew where Karen sat! Her heart was so full of sunshine, peace,

and joy, that it broke. Her soul flew on the sunshine to God, and there

no one asked after the RED SHOES.