The Complete Fairy Tales

  And what happened after that? You might ask the town musician.

  “Peter has outgrown the drum. He will be a greater musician than I am,” said the man whose father had played for the king. “Peter can learn in six months what it has taken me a whole life to learn.”

  There was something about the boy: he was always so good-natured, so deeply kind. His eyes shone as if they had never seen ugliness.… There was no getting away from it, his hair shone too.

  “He should dye it,” said the neighbor’s wife. “The policeman’s daughter dyed hers and now she’s engaged.”

  “But her hair turned as green as grass, and now she has to have it done once a week,” argued her husband.

  “She can afford it,” replied his wife. “And so can Peter. He is invited to the best families in town. Why, he teaches the mayor’s daughter to play the piano.”

  Peter played beautifully, and the most beautiful pieces he played came from his heart and hadn’t been written down yet. He played through the light summer nights and through the long dark winter ones. “It’s more than we can stand,” said the neighbors to each other; and the fire drum agreed with them.

  The mayor’s daughter, Lotte, sat at the piano. Her delicate fingers flew across the keys and what they played echoed in Peter’s heart. It beat so fast that it seemed to have too little room in his chest. This happened to him not once but many times. At last, one evening, he grabbed her finger and took her little hand in his and kissed it. He looked into her brown eyes and said … No, only God knows what he said; but the rest of us may guess it.

  Lotte didn’t answer but she blushed right down to her shoulders. At that moment a guest was announced. It was the son of one of the king’s councilors. He had a high, smooth forehead that shone as if it were polished; so did the top of his head. Peter stayed and Lotte entertained them both, but her fondest glances she gave to Peter.

  When he came home, later that evening, he talked about the wide world and the golden treasure he would win with his violin: fame and immortality!

  “Boom … Boom-alum … Boom!” said the fire drum. “He has gone quite crazy. I think there is a fire in his brain.”

  The next day, when his mother came home from shopping, she asked, “Have you heard the good news, Peter? The mayor’s daughter, Lotte, is engaged to the son of one of the king’s councilors. It happened last night.”

  “No!” exclaimed Peter, and jumped up from his chair. But his mother said yes. She had the news from the barber’s wife, whose husband had been told it by the mayor himself.

  Peter’s face grew white, and he sat down again.

  “My God, what’s the matter with you?” asked his mother.

  “Nothing’s the matter! Nothing! Just leave me alone,” Peter answered while the tears ran down his face.

  “My sweet child, my golden treasure!” And now the mother cried out of sympathy.

  “Lotte ist tot! … Lotte is dead!” the big fire drum hummed inside himself, so that no one could hear him. “And that’s the end of that song!”

  But it wasn’t the end of a song, only of a verse; and there were many more verses to come. Some of them were long and they were golden verses, all about life’s golden treasure.

  “She gives herself airs; she brags and she boasts,” said the neighbor’s wife. “She carries his letters about everywhere and shows them to everyone. Her own Peter! Her golden treasure! They have written about him and his violin in the newspapers. Peter sends her money; and she certainly needs it, now that she’s a widow.”

  “He plays before kings and emperors!” the town musician said proudly. “Fame was not my fate. But he is my pupil, and he hasn’t forgotten his old teacher.”

  “His father dreamed that he would come home from the war with a silver cross on his chest. He didn’t; but now the king has made him a Knight of the Danish Flag.… I suppose it would have been more difficult to win a medal in war,” said the mother naïvely. “How proud his father would have been of him.”

  “Famous!” boomed the fire drum; and everyone in town said the same. “The town crier’s redheaded son Peter,” whom they had all known when he was a boy wearing clogs on his feet, the child who had been a drummer boy, was famous!

  “He played for us before he played for the king,” said the mayor’s wife. “He was in love with our Lotte. He always had ambitions above his station. Then we thought he was impertinent and ridiculous! My husband laughed when he heard such nonsense. Our Lotte is the wife of the king’s councilor!”

  There was a golden treasure in the heart and the soul of that boy, born in poverty, that little drummer who had played “Forward march!” and given courage to those who had been about to retreat. The treasure he could share with others sprang from his violin. He could play as if a whole organ were hidden within it; and he could play so tenderly that the listener would hear fairies dancing on a summer night and the thrush singing. It was as though his instrument were a human voice of such purity and beauty that all who heard it felt the ecstasy of art. His name flew from country to country, it spread like fire, the fire of enthusiasm!

  “And then he is so handsome,” said the young ladies and the older ones. One woman, past seventy, had bought an album in which to “keep the locks of famous men,” just so that she could ask for one from the young violinist.

  Into the humble house of the town crier stepped the son. He was as elegant as a prince and happier than a king. He took his mother in his arms, and she cried, as you do when you are very happy, then she kissed him. Peter nodded to everything in the room: to the chest, to the closet where the fancy glasses and Sunday teacups were kept, and to the little bed that he had slept in when he was a child. He took down the old fire drum and placed it in the middle of the room.

  Speaking to both his mother and the fire drum, he said, “If Father had been here, he would have played a roll on the drum. Now I will have to do it.”

  He beat the drum so hard that it sounded like a thunderstorm; and the fire drum felt the honor so deeply that its drumhead cracked. “He beats a drum well,” it said. “Now he has given me a souvenir. I shouldn’t be surprised if his mother burst from joy.”

  That was the story of the golden treasure, and now you have heard it.

  120

  How the Storm Changed the Signs

  In olden times when Grandfather was a little boy, he wore red trousers, a red jacket, a sash around his waist, and a feather in his cap, for that was the way little boys were dressed when they were dressed up. So many things were different then. There were often parades in the streets, and we hardly ever have parades any more because they are so old-fashioned. But it is fun to hear Grandfather tell about them.

  When the Shoemakers’ Guild moved their sign from the old guildhall to the new, that was a day! At the head of the procession was carried a great silk banner with a big boot and a double-headed eagle painted on it. Then came the oldest of the master shoemakers; he had a drawn rapier in his hand, that had a lemon stuck onto its tip. Behind him were the young journeymen, with red and white ribbons tied to their shirts; the youngest of them carried the great silver cup and the chest in which the guild’s money was kept. There was music, too, and the best of all the instruments, according to Grandfather, was the “bird.” This was a tall staff with a brass half-moon on top of it, and hanging from it were all shapes and kinds of metal bits that dangled and jingled and clanged to make real Turkish music. The “bird” was waved and swung, and the sun reflected so sharply in its gold, silver, and brass that it hurt your eyes to look at it.

  In front of the procession, ahead even of the standard-bearer, ran Harlequin. His clothes were made of patches just as quilts sometimes are. His face had been painted black, and from his cap bells rang merrily as they do on a horse that is pulling a sleigh. He danced, leaping through the air, and sometimes he would run in among the spectators and hit them with his wand. There was a loud cracking noise but no one was ever hurt.

  People rushed forw
ard and were pushed backward. Little children ran alongside the parade, and sometimes they fell over their own running feet, right into the dirty gutter. Old ladies poked with their elbows and looked as sour as week-old milk. Some people laughed, others talked. There were people everywhere; they stood on every doorstep and in every window, and even on the roofs.

  The sky was clear and the sun was bright.… Well, not always. Sometimes a shower would come, but that was good for the farmers; and when it really rained and the people got wet to the skin, that was a blessing for the whole country.

  Grandfather was so good at telling stories. He had seen so many wonderful things when he was a little boy. That day, when the Shoemakers’ Guild had moved into their new guildhall, he had heard the oldest of the journeymen make a speech. He stood on the scaffolding that had been raised in front of the new building to enable the old guild sign to be put up. The speech was in verse and the way the journeyman recited it made it sound as if it had been written by someone else; and it had. Three of the young shoemakers had spent a whole evening composing it, and they had drunk a whole bowl of punch for inspiration. When the speech was over everyone applauded. But when Harlequin jumped up on the scaffolding and mocked the speech, they cheered. The fool was so clever, he made the clever shoemaker appear foolish. Then Harlequin drank beer out of tiny liqueur glasses and, as he finished each one, he threw it out among the crowd. Grandfather had a glass that had been given to him by a mason, who had been lucky enough to catch it. Finally, the new sign was hung and garlands of flowers and greenery were draped over it. It had been a great occasion and everyone had had a good time.

  “You never forget a day like that, even if you live to be a hundred,” said Grandfather. And Grandfather never did forget it, though he had seen so many other wonderful things. But the funniest story of all was about the big storm and how the wind changed all the signs around.

  It was the day that Grandfather’s parents moved to Copenhagen Grandfather was a little boy and this was his first visit to the capital At first, seeing so many people in the street, he thought that some guild was moving into a new guildhall and people were waiting for the parade to begin. He looked at the buildings; in front of every one there was a sign. He had never imagined that there could be so many signs. He wondered how many rooms they would have filled, if they had been stacked inside instead of hanging outside.

  The tailors’ sign had a pair of scissors and all kinds of clothes—from the simplest work clothes to the finest evening dress—painted on it, to show that the tailor could make whatever you needed. There were signs with pictures of butter vats and herrings, and one with a priest’s ruff and a coffin. The tobacconist’s sign was a picture of the sweetest-looking little boy smoking a cigar, which little boys shouldn’t but often do. There were billboards and posters, too, and they had writing as well as pictures on them. You could spend a whole day strolling up and down the street, reading, and still not have read them all. It was a whole education just to go for a walk in the city. You could tell who lived in every house you passed, and what their profession was as well. Every family had a sign of its own. “To know who lives in every house is a great advantage in a big city,” Grandfather explained.

  The great storm started the very night that Grandfather was to sleep in Copenhagen for the first time. When he told me about it, he didn’t have that twinkle in his eye that my mother always says he has, when he is making something up just to amuse us. No, he looked very earnest indeed.

  The weather that night was worse than any storm that you have ever read about in the newspapers. No one could remember the wind ever having blown like that before. Tiles from the roofs rained down on the streets, and in the morning every fence in the whole city was lying flat on the ground. Somebody saw an old wheelbarrow running down the street all alone, just to save itself. The din was frightening; up and down every street there were banging, clamoring, and howling. The water in the canals was so frightened, it didn’t know where it ought to be, so it leaped up over its sides into the streets. The storm rushed over the rooftops and took most of the chimneys with it. Many a proud church spire had to bow its head and has not been able to raise it since.

  Outside the house of the fire chief, a sweet old man who was always the last one to arrive at a fire, stood a sentry box. The storm turned it over and rolled it down the street and then, curiously enough, turned it upright again outside the house of a poor carpenter. He was a humble man who had saved three people from burning to death at the last big fire. But the sentry box didn’t care where it stood.

  The barber’s sign—a great big brass plate that looked just like the smaller one that was put under a customer’s chin, so that the soap wouldn’t get all over his clothes while he was being shaved—was blown off its hinges and through the air, to land on the window sill of the judge’s house. All the neighbors agreed that there was something spiteful about that, for the judge’s wife had a tongue as sharp as a razor. She knew more about everyone in town than most people knew about themselves.

  The wind carried a sign with a dried codfish on it to the door of a newspaper editor. I think that was a very poor joke. In the first place it’s only in Denmark that a codfish is a sign for stupidity; and the storm should know of the great power of the press, which makes an editor king on his own newspaper and in his own opinion.

  A weather vane flew across the street to the neighbor’s roof; and stood with its head down, as if it were pecking away with the intention of boring holes up there.

  A hooper’s sign, with the picture of a barrel on it, found itself hanging in front of a corset maker’s.

  The Menu of the Day that hung in a brass frame in front of the restaurant flew across the square to the theater, which was usually half empty. It was a strange playbill! “Horseradish Soup and Stuffed Cabbage.” But that night the theater was full.

  The furrier’s sign, which is the skin of a red fox, is perfectly honorable as long as it hangs in front of a furrier’s house; but that night, the storm wound it around the bell rope of a house in which a young man lived. This particular young man looked like a closed umbrella, attended early service, and was so honorable that his aunt declared that he ought to be an example to other young men.

  A sign with the inscription “Academy for Higher Learning” was placed by the wind above a poolroom. In its place there now hung above the academy a sign that read: “Here babies are suckled on bottles.” This was more naughty than it was witty; but the guilty party was the storm, and you cannot tell a storm how to behave.

  It was a terrible night. In the morning the people found that every sign in the whole city had been changed. It had been done with so much malice and cunning that Grandfather said he couldn’t tell me about all the exchanges; but he smiled inwardly when he thought about them, and maybe then there was a twinkle in his eye.

  It was very confusing for everyone, but especially for strangers to Copenhagen. If they went according to the signs, they were bound to go wrong. Some people, who had come to the capital to discuss a grave and serious matter with a congregation of elders, found themselves in a boys’ school with screaming and shouting pupils all around them; some of whom were even standing on their desks. Some other poor people mistook a church for the theater, and that was a dreadful error!

  There has never been a storm like that one since. Grandfather may be the only one alive who can remember it, for it happened when he was a little boy. I doubt that we will ever experience such a storm, but maybe our grandchildren will, so we had better warn them to stay inside while the storm changes all the signs.

  121

  The Teapot

  Once there was a teapot who was very proud. She was proud of being porcelain. She was proud of her spout and she was proud of her broad handle, for they gave her something to boast about both in front and in back. She didn’t talk about her lid, which had been broken and then glued together. There is no point in talking about your shortcomings; others willingly do that for you. The
cups, the cream pitcher, the sugar bowl—the whole tea service preferred discussing the mended lid to talking about the fine spout and the strong handle. And this the teapot knew.

  “I know what they think,” she said to herself. “And I know my own faults, too, and admit them; and that I call modesty and humility. We all have faults, and we all have our talents, too. The cups have a handle and the sugar bowl has a lid, but I have both. And one thing more that neither one of them will ever have: a spout. That is what makes me queen of the tea table. The sugar bowl and the cream pitcher are servants of taste, but I am its mistress. I disseminate my blessings among a thirsting humanity. In my interior, fragrant Chinese leaves are mixed with insipid boiling water.”

  This was the way the teapot had talked when she was still a youngster. One day while she was standing on the tea table, she was lifted by a very refined and delicate hand. Unfortunately, the refined and delicate hand was also careless. The teapot fell to the floor, and both her spout and her handle were broken off.—We shan’t talk about the lid, for that has been mentioned enough already.—The teapot had fainted: there she lay with boiling water running out of her. But the worst was yet to come: they laughed at her—the teapot!—not at the careless hand that had dropped her.

  “I shall never forget it! Never …” she would mutter to herself when she thought about her youth. “They said I was an invalid and put me in a corner of the closet. But I didn’t stay there long; the next day I was given to a beggar woman, who had come to ask for leftovers from the table. I was to know poverty, and the thought made me quite speechless. Yet then and there began what I would call a better life. One is one thing and becomes another.

  “I was filled up with earth, which for a teapot is the same as being buried. But inside the earth a bulb was placed. I don’t know who put it there, but there it was. I am sure it was meant as a subsititute for the Chinese leaves and the boiling water, and to console me for my broken spout and lost handle. The bulb lay in the earth inside me, and it became my heart: my living heart. And I was alive, something I had never been before. Within me were power and strength, and my pulse beat. The bulb sprouted. It was so filled with thoughts and feelings that it almost burst; then it flowered. I could see it. I carried it within me and I forgot myself when I looked at its beauty.