The Complete Fairy Tales

  “I shouted as loud as I could; but no one heard me, they were too far away. Soon the storm would come, the ice would break, and everyone out there would drown; not one of them would be saved. They could not hear me, and I had not the strength to walk even as far as the beach. How could I manage to get them to shore? Then God gave me the idea that I could set fire to the straw in my bed; it was better that my poor house should burn than that all those people should die. I lit a candle and set the straw on fire. A great red flame shot up and I managed to get outside the house, but then I fell. The flame followed me out the door and caught hold of the thatch. The people out on the ice saw it and they all came running to help me, for they thought that I might be inside the burning house. Not one of them stayed behind. I heard them running, and I heard the storm coming, too; it made such a great stir in the air. Then came the terrible sound of the ice breaking: it was like great cannons shooting. The spring tide lifted the ice and broke it into splinters. But everyone had got ashore. People were running up on the dike, where I lay amid the sparks from the fire. They were safe, but I think the fright and the cold must have been too much for me. And here I am at the gate of heaven. They say that it also opens for the wretched, like me. And now I don’t have a house any more; not that that would help me gain admittance here.”

  Just at that moment the gates of heaven opened and an angel came out to lead the poor old woman inside. A straw from her bed, the one she had set fire to in order to save the people out on the ice, fell from her skirt. It was immediately changed into the purest gold; and the golden straw grew and became the prettiest piece of art work.

  “Look at what the poor woman brought,” said the angel to the critic. “What have you brought? I know you never have accomplished anything, you have never even made a brick. If you only could go back and fetch one, and then bring it as a gift. Oh, I know it would be badly made, but if you had done the best you could, it would at least be something. But you can’t return and I can’t do anything for you!”

  The poor old woman, Margrethe from the little house on the dike, pleaded for him. “His brother gave me all his broken bricks so that I could build my house. Those broken pieces meant an awful lot to me then. Can’t they count now as one whole brick, for his sake? It would be a merciful act and this is the home of mercy.”

  “Your brother, the one whom you deemed the poorest among you,” said the angel, “he whose honest work you considered low, gives you now a beggar’s coin. You shall not be turned away, you shall be allowed to stand here outside and think about your life down on earth. But enter you cannot before you have done one good deed—at least something!”

  “I could have expressed that better,” thought the critic, but he didn’t say it out loud and that was already something.

  84

  The Old Oak Tree’s Last Dream

  A Christmas Story

  On the outskirts of the forest, on a bank above the beach, grew an old oak tree. It was three hundred and sixty-five years old, but to the tree those years did not seem longer than as many days and nights would to a human being. We are awake during the day and sleep at night, and it is then we have our dreams. But the oak tree is awake three seasons of the year and only sleeps during the fourth. It is only in the winter that it rests; that is its night after that long day that is called spring, summer, and autumn.

  Many a warm day the mayflies danced around its leaves and branches, soared on their fragile wings to the very crown of the tree. Ever happy were the little insects and, when they grew tired, they rested on a broad green oak leaf. Then the tree could not help saying, “Poor little you, one day is your whole life. How short, how sad is your fate!”

  “Sad,” the mayfly always replied. “What do you mean by that? Everthing is so beautiful, so warm, and so lovely; and I am so happy.”

  “But only one day and then all is over.”

  “Over,” said the mayfly. “What is over? Are you over too?”

  “No, I live many thousands of your days, and my days are so long that they last almost a year, which is so long that you cannot even figure it out.”

  “I do not understand you. You live thousands of my days, but I have thousands of moments to be happy in. Do you think that all the beauty in the world will die when you do?”

  “No,” answered the tree. “That will last much longer than even I can imagine.”

  “Well there, you see, we live equally long; it is just our ways of figuring that are different.”

  And the little mayfly flew away again, up into the air, and rejoiced that it had been given such lovely fine wings. The air was filled with the scent of flowering clover from the fields, wild roses from the hedges, elder trees, honeysuckle, woodruff, primroses, and wild mint. The fragrance was so strong that the mayfly felt quite drunk from it. The day was long and beautiful, so filled with happiness, so full of joy. When finally the sun did set, the little fly felt tired from all it had experienced so intensely. The wings were no longer strong enough to carry it. Ever so gently it sank down among the soft grass, nodding its head as if it were saying yes. It slept so peacefully, so happily, and that was death.

  “Poor little mayfly,” said the oak tree, “its life was much too short.”

  Every summer the mayflies repeated their dance and the oak held the same conversation with them. Generations upon generations of mayflies died, and yet each new insect born was just as happy, just as carefree, as all those that had gone before it. The oak tree was awake through its spring morning, its summer noon, and its fall evening. It felt that soon it was time to sleep; the oak tree’s night, winter, was coming.

  Already the storms were singing: “Good night, good night! We pluck your leaves. See, there one fell. We pluck, we pluck! We sing you to sleep. We undress you and shake your old branches; they creak but it does them good. Sleep now, sleep, it is your three hundred and sixty-fifth night, which means you are young yet. Sleep. From the clouds snow is falling, it is a warm blanket around your feet. Sleep and dream sweet dreams!”

  The oak tree stood nude with its bare branches against the sky, ready to sleep through its long night, ready to dream many a dream just as human beings do.

  It, too, had been tiny once: an acorn had been its cradle. By human reckoning it was now in the fourth century of its life. It was the biggest tree in the forest, and its crown rose up high above the others. Sailors used it as a landmark to navigate by, and the wood pigeons built their nests in it. In the fall the migrating birds would rest among its bronze leaves before they flew south. But now in the winter its branches were naked, and only crows and jackdaws used them; they sat there discussing hard times and complaining about how difficult it was to find food, now that winter was here.

  It was at the holy Christmastime that the oak tree dreamed the most beautiful dream it had ever dreamed. We shall hear it:

  The tree felt that something holy, something solemn and yet joyful, was happening. From every direction it heard church bells ringing. In its dream, it was not winter but the loveliest warm summer day. The branches in its great crown spread themselves out green and fresh, the sun rays played upon its leaves, and the air was filled with the fragrance of flowering trees and bushes. Colorful butterflies played hide-and-seek and the mayflies danced as if the whole world had been created just for their enjoyment. Everything the tree had seen and experienced through its long life passed by in an endless parade. It saw knights with their ladies; they were riding out to hunt, with feathers in their caps and falcons on their hands. And the tree heard the dogs bark and the sound of the hunters’ horns. Then strange soldiers camped beneath its branches; they pitched their tents and made fires. The sun reflected in their shining weapons; they ate and drank and sang as if they had conquered time as well as the country. Two shy lovers came and cut their names in its bark; they were the first to do it but others would follow. Once an aeolian harp had been hung in the oak’s branches by a happy youth. That had happened so many years ago, yet it hung there again in
the dream; and the wind blew through it and made music. The wood pigeons cooed, and the cuckoo called out once for each year that the oak tree had left of its life; but the cuckoo is not to be trusted.

  The tree felt as if a great wave of strength, of life, were passing through it. From its tiniest root, deep down in the ground, to its topmost little twigs, it experienced an awareness of life and warmth. It felt its strength increase, it was growing taller and taller. Its great crown was now enormous. As it grew, its feeling of happiness became more and more intense, and it had such a great longing for the sun that it wanted to grow right up into that golden warm sphere.

  In its dream, the tree had grown so tall that its top branches were above the clouds; flocks of birds were flying below them; even the swans could not fly above its crown.

  Every leaf had become an eye that could see. All the stars were out, even though it was day, and they looked so clear, so bright, and shone as brilliantly as the eyes of children or of the lovers who met beneath the old oak tree.

  What a wonderful moment, so full of joy! Yet in the midst of all its happiness the tree felt a longing for other trees and the bushes that grew far below it. It wished that they, too—as well as the little flowers and herbs—could lift themselves high up in the sky as it was doing, and experience its joy. The great oak tree wanted to share its godlike ecstasy. It felt that unless everyone took part in this great dream of happiness it would not be complete. This wish ran through it from root to leaves and was as strong as a human being’s desires.

  The crown of the tree swayed as its branches turned to look downward. It smelled the odor of woodruff and the stronger fragrance of violets and honeysuckle, and thought that it could hear the cuckoo call.

  The top branches of the other trees of the forest now peeped through the clouds; they, too, were growing, lifting themselves up to the sky, toward the sun. Bushes and flowers followed; some of them had freed themselves from the earth and were flying. The birch, like a bolt of white lightning, passed the old oak. The whole forest was flying up toward the sky, even the brown reeds from the swamp were coming. The birds had followed the plants. On a blade of grass sat a grasshopper and played with his wings on his hind legs. Beetles and bees and all the other insects had come, and all of them shared the old oak tree’s joyous ecstasy.

  “But where are the little blue flowers from the pond?” shouted the oak tree. “And the red harebell and the little primrose?” The old oak did not want anyone to be forgotten.

  “We are here, we are here!” sang voices all around it.

  “But the woodruff from last summer and all the lilies of the valley from the summer before that, where are they? I remember the year when the wild apples bloomed so beautifully. Oh, so much beauty do I recall through all the years of my life! If it only were all alive now and could be with us!”

  “We are, we are,” came cries from somewhere higher up; they must have flown there earlier.

  “That is the most marvelous of all,” rejoiced the old oak tree. “Everything that I have known is here. Nothing has been forgotten, not the tiniest flower or the smallest bird. How is such joy possible? Where is such happiness conceivable?”

  “In heaven it is possible,” sang the voices.

  And the tree felt its roots loosen their grasp on the earth.

  “Yes, that is best!” the oak cried. “Now no bands hold me down. I can fly up into the everlasting light, the eternal glory! And all that I held dear is with me. None has been forgotten, all are here with me, all!”

  That was the oak tree’s dream; and while it was dreaming a great storm blew across the sea and the land. The waves rushed toward the shore and were crushed on the beach, and the wind tore at the old oak tree’s branches. Just at the moment when it dreamed that its roots gave way, in its flight toward heaven, it was torn from the ground by the wind and fell. Its three hundred and sixty-five years of life were now as a day is for the mayfly.

  Christmas morning the sea had calmed and the storm was over. The church bells were gaily ringing, and above each house, even the smallest and poorest cottages, a blue ribbon of smoke rose from the chimney, like the smoke at a Druid feast of thanksgiving. The sea grew calmer and calmer, and on board the big ships, which the night before had been so hard pressed by the storm, the sailors hoisted gay colorful flags in the rigging to celebrate the holy day.

  “The big tree is gone! The old oak tree we used as a landmark!” the sailors shouted, amazed. “It fell in the storm. What shall we use now? There is none that can replace it.”

  That was the old oak tree’s funeral sermon; it was short but well meant. The tree itself lay stretched out on the snow-covered beach. From the ship came the sound of the sailors singing a carol about the joyful season, when Christ was born to save mankind and give us eternal life. The sailors were singing of the same dream, the beautiful dream that the old oak tree had dreamed Christmas Eve: the last night of its life.

  85

  The Talisman

  There once were a prince and a princess who had just gotten married. They were so very happy that they had only one worry: the thought that they might not always be as happy as they were now. Therefore, they wanted a talisman that could protect them against discontent in their marriage. They had heard of a wise hermit who lived out in the forest, of whom it was said that he had remedies for all the griefs of this world. The prince and the princess went to seek his advice and told him about what troubled their hearts.

  The wise man listened to them and said, “Travel through all the countries of the world and, when you meet a couple who are truly contented in their married life, ask them to give you a small piece of the linen that they are wearing next to their bodies. Once you have that, keep it always with you. A little piece of such linen is, indeed, a very powerful charm!”

  The prince and the princess set out on their journey. They had not ridden far when they heard of a knight who was supposed to be most happily married. They rode up to his castle and asked him and his noble wife if it were true, as it had been rumored, that they were perfectly content in their marriage.

  “Yes,” answered the knight, “it is true, except for one thing. We have no children.” Here the talisman was not to be found, so the young royal couple continued their journey.

  They came to a large city where lived an honorable citizen of whom it was said that he had lived a long life in perfect union with his wife. To his home they made their way to ask the couple if their marriage was as happy as everyone said it was.

  “Yes, it is!” answered the good man. “My wife and I have lived in perfect harmony; if only we had not had so many children, for they have caused us so much trouble and grief.” Here, too, they need not ask for any talisman.

  And the prince and princess traveled on, asking everywhere if anyone knew a couple whose marriage had brought them only joy, but nowhere were they told of any.

  One day as they were riding through a meadow they saw a shepherd sitting and playing on his flute. Just at that moment his wife, carrying an infant in her arms, with a little boy beside her, came walking out to her husband. As soon as the shepherd spied his wife he jumped up and ran to meet her. He greeted her and took the babe from her arms and fondled and kissed it. The shepherd’s dog had come too; it jumped for joy around the boy and licked his hand. The wife put down a pot that she had brought with her and said, “Come, my husband, and eat.” The shepherd was hungry but the first bite he gave the baby, and the second he shared between his son and the dog.

  All this the prince and princess heard and saw. They dismounted, walked up to the little family, and asked: “You seem to us to be what we would call a happily married couple, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, truly we are happy,” answered the shepherd. “I think no prince or princess could be happier than we are.”

  “Then listen to me,” said the prince. “Be so kind as to give us a tiny piece of the linen you are wearing under your clothes. You shall be well paid for it.”

&nb
sp; The shepherd and his wife blushed and looked embarrassed. Finally he said, “God knows that we would gladly give you not only a tiny piece of our linen but our shirts and shifts as well, if we only had any, but we don’t.”

  The prince and princess had to travel on without the talisman they sought. Finally they grew tired of this endless journey and set their course for home. As their road went through the forest and past the wise hermit’s cottage, they stopped to tell him how poorly he had advised them.

  The wise man smiled and said, “Has your journey really been in vain? Have you not returned enriched from your experiences?”

  “Yes,” admitted the prince, “I have learned that contentment is the rarest blessing on this earth.”

  “And I have learned,” said the princess, “that for contentment all that is needed is to be content!”

  The prince took the princess’ hand in his, and with expressions of the deepest love they looked at each other.

  The wise man blessed them and said, “In your hearts you have found the true talisman. Guard it carefully, and the evil spirit of discontent will never—no matter how long you live—have any power over you.”

  86

  The Bog King’s Daughter

  The storks tell their young ones many stories and fairy tales. All of them take place in the swamps and bogs where storks like to live. They usually choose stories that fit the ages of their children. The smallest are satisfied if their parents say: “Muddle, duddle … cribble crabble”; that is plot and morality enough for their taste. But the older ones are not so easily satisfied; they demand something with a deeper meaning or at least a story about their own family. The storks know two stories that are very ancient and very long: one of them is the story of Moses, who was set sailing out upon the waters of the Nile by his mother and was found by a princess. He was carefully brought up and well educated and became a great man. Where he is buried no one knows. That story every child has heard. The other tale is not well known, possibly because it is a bit provincial. It is a fairy tale that has been told by stork mothers for a thousand years; each one of them has told it a little better than her mother, and we shall tell it best of all.