Stories in Full.
The following three stories have for so long formed a part of my repertory that I have been requested to include them in my book, and, in order to associate myself more completely with them, I am presenting a translation of my own from the original Danish version.
The Nightingale.
You must know that in China the Emperor is a Chinaman, and all those around him are also Chinamen. It is many years since all this happened, and for that very reason it is worth hearing, before it is forgotten.
There was no palace in the world more beautiful than the Emperor's; it was very costly, all of fine porcelain, but it was so delicate and brittle, that it was very difficult to touch, and you had to be very careful in doing so. The most wonderful flowers could be seen in the garden, and silver tinkling bells were tied on to the most beautiful of these, for fear people should pass by without noticing them. How well everything had been thought out in the Emperor's garden—which was so big, that even the gardener himself did not know how big. If you walked on and on you came to the most beautiful wood, with tall trees and deep lakes. This wood stretched right down to the sea, which was blue and deep; great ships could pass underneath the branches, and in these branches
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 a nightingale had made its home, and its singing was so entrancing that the poor fisherman, though he had so many other things to do, would lie still and listen when he was out at night drawing in his nets.
“Heavens! how lovely that is!” he said: but then he was forced to think about his own affairs, and the nightingale was forgotten; but the next day, when it sang again, the fisherman said the same thing: “Heavens! how lovely that is!”
Travellers from all the countries of the world came to the Emperor's town, and expressed their admiration for the palace and the garden, but when they heard the nightingale, they all said in one breath: “That is the best of all!”
Now, when these travellers came home, they told of what they had seen. The scholars wrote many books about the town, the palace and the garden, but nobody left the nightingale out: it was always spoken of as the most wonderful of all they had seen, and those who had the gift of the Poet wrote the most delightful poems all about the nightingale in the wood near the deep lake.
The books went round the world, and in course of time some of them reached the Emperor. He sat in his golden chair, and read and read, nodding his head every minute; for it pleased him to read the beautiful descriptions of the town, the palace and the garden; and then he found in the book the following words: “But the Nightingale is the best of all.”
“What is this?” said the Emperor.
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 “The nightingale! I know nothing whatever about it. To think of there being such a bird in my Kingdom—nay, in my very garden—and I have never heard it! And one has to learn of such a thing for the first time from a book!”
Then he summoned his Lord-in-Waiting, who was such a grand creature that if any one inferior in rank ventured to speak to him, or ask him about anything, he merely uttered the sound “P,” which meant nothing whatever.
“There is said to be a most wonderful bird, called the Nightingale,” said the Emperor; “they say it is the best thing in my great Kingdom. Why have I been told nothing about it?”
“I have never heard it mentioned before,” said the Lord-in-Waiting. “It has certainly never been presented at court.”
“It is my good pleasure that it shall appear here to-night and sing before me!” said the Emperor. “The whole world knows what is mine, and I myself do not know it.”
“I have never heard it mentioned before,” said the Lord-in-Waiting. “I will seek it, and I shall find it.”
But where was it to be found? The Lord-in-Waiting ran up and down all the stairs, through the halls and the passages, but not one of all those whom he met had ever heard a word about the Nightingale. The Lord-in-Waiting ran back to the Emperor and told him that it must certainly be a fable invented by writers of books.
“Your Majesty must not believe all that is written in books. It is pure invention, besides something which is called the Black Art.”
“But,” said the Emperor,
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 “the book in which I read this was sent to me by His Majesty the Emperor of Japan, and therefore this cannot be a falsehood. I insist on hearing the Nightingale: it must appear this evening. It has my gracious favour, and if it fails to appear, the court shall be trampled upon after the court has supped.”
“Tsing-pe!” said the Lord-in-Waiting, and again he ran up and down all the stairs, through all the halls and passages, and half the court ran with him, for they had no wish to be trampled upon. And many questions were asked about the wonderful Nightingale of whom all had heard except those who lived at court.
At last, they met a poor little girl in the kitchen. She said: “Heavens! The Nightingale! I know it well! Yes, how it can sing! Every evening I have permission to take the broken pieces from the table to my poor sick mother who lives near the seashore, and on my way back, when I feel tired and rest a while in the wood, then I hear the Nightingale sing, and my eyes are filled with tears: it is just as if my mother kissed me.”
“Little kitchen-girl,” said the Lord-in-Waiting, “I will get a permanent position for you in the Court Kitchen and permission to see the Emperor dine, if you can lead us to the Nightingale; for it has received orders to appear at Court to-night.”
So they started off all together for the wood where the bird was wont to sing: half the court went too. They were going along at a good pace when suddenly they heard a cow lowing.
“Oh,” said a court-page. “There you have it. That is a wonderful power for so small a creature! I have certainly heard it before.”
“No, those are the cows lowing,” said the little kitchen girl. “We are a long way from the place yet.”
And then the frogs began to croak in the pond.
“Beautiful,” said the Court Preacher. “Now, I hear it—it is just like little church bells.”
“No, those are the frogs,” said the little Kitchen maid.
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 “But now I think that we shall soon hear it.”
And then the Nightingale began to sing.
“There it is,” said the little girl. “Listen, listen—there it sits.” And she pointed to a little grey bird in the branches.
“Is it possible!” said the Lord-in-Waiting. “I had never supposed it would look like that. How very plain it looks! It has certainly lost its colour from seeing so many grand folk around it.”
“Little Nightingale,” called out the little Kitchen girl, “our gracious Emperor would be so glad if you would sing for him.”
“With the greatest pleasure,” said the Nightingale. It sang, and it was a joy to hear it.
“Just like little glass bells,” said the Lord-in-Waiting; “and just look at the little throat, how active it is! It is astonishing to think we have never heard it before! It will have a real success at Court.”
“Shall I sing for the Emperor again?” said the Nightingale, who thought that the Emperor was there in person.
“Mine excellent little Nightingale,” said the Lord-in-Waiting, “I have the great pleasure of bidding you to a Court-Festival this night, when you will enchant His Imperial Majesty with your delightful warbling.”
“My voice sounds better among the green trees,” said the Nightingale. But it came willingly when it knew that the Emperor wished it.
There was a great deal of furbishing up at the Palace. The walls and ceiling, which were of porcelain, shone with a light of a thousand golden lamps. The most beautiful flowers of the tinkling kind were placed in the passages. There was running to and fro, and a thorough draught. But that is just what made the bells ring: one could not oneself. In the
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 middle of the large hall where the Emperor sat, a golden rod had been set up on which the Nightingale was to perch. The whole Court was present, and the little Kitchen-maid was allowed to stand behind the door, for she had now the actual title of a Court Kitchen Maid. All were there in their smartest clothes, and they all looked towards the little grey bird to which the Emperor nodded.
And the Nightingale sang so delightfully that tears sprang into the Emperor's eyes and rolled down his cheeks; and then the Nightingale sang even more beautifully. The song went straight to the heart, and the Emperor was so delighted that he declared that the Nightingale should have his golden slipper to hang round its neck. But the Nightingale declined. It had already had its reward.
“I have seen tears in the Emperor's eyes. That to me is the richest tribute. An Emperor's tears have a wonderful power. God knows my reward is great enough,” and again its sweet, glorious voice was heard.
“That is the most delightful coquetting I have ever known,” said the ladies sitting round, and they took water into their mouths, in order to gurgle when anyone spoke to them, and they really thought they were like the Nightingale. Even the footmen and the chambermaids sent word that they, too, were satisfied, and that means a great deal, for these are the people whom it is most difficult to please. There was no doubt as to the Nightingale's success. It was sure to stay at Court, and have its own cage, with liberty to go out twice in the daytime, and once at night. Twelve servants went out with it, and each held a silk ribbon which was tied to the bird's leg, and they held it very tightly. There was not much pleasure in
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 going out under those conditions. The whole town was talking of the wonderful bird, and when two people met, one said: “Nightin-” and the other said “gale,” and they sighed and understood one another. Eleven cheese-mongers' children were called after the bird, though none of them had a note in his voice. One day a large parcel came for the Emperor. Outside was written the word: “Nightingale.”
“Here we have a new book about our wonderful bird,” said the Emperor. But it was not a book; it was a little work of art which lay in a box—an artificial Nightingale, which was supposed to look like the real one, but it was set in diamonds, rubies and sapphires. As soon as you wound it up, it could sing one of the pieces which the real bird sang, and its tail moved up and down and glittered with silver and gold. Round its neck was a ribbon on which was written: “The Emperor of Japan's Nightingale is miserable compared with the Emperor of China's.”
“That is delightful,” they all said, and on the messenger who had brought the artificial bird they bestowed the title of “Imperial Nightingale-Bringer-in-Chief.”
“Let them sing together, and what a duet that will be!”
And so they had to sing, but the thing would not work, because the real Nightingale could only sing in its own way, and the artificial Nightingale could only play by clock-work.
“That is not its fault,” said the Band Master. “Time is its strong point, and it has quite my method.”
Then the artificial Nightingale had to sing alone. It had just as much success as the real bird, and then it was so much handsomer to look at: it glittered like
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 bracelets and breast-pins. It sang the same tune three and thirty times, and it was still not tired: the people would willingly have listened to the whole performance over again from the start. But the Emperor suggested that the real Nightingale should sing for a while. But where was it? Nobody had noticed that it had flown out of the open window back to its green woods.
“But what is the meaning of all this?” said the Emperor. All the courtiers upbraided the Nightingale and said that it was a most ungrateful creature.
“We have the better of the two,” they said, and the artificial Nightingale had to sing again, and this was the thirty-fourth time they heard the same tune. But they did not know it properly even then, because it was so difficult, and the bandmaster praised the wonderful bird in the highest terms, and even asserted that it was superior to the real bird, not only as regarded the outside, with the many lovely diamonds, but also the inside as well.
“You see, ladies and gentlemen, and above all your Imperial Majesty, that with the real Nightingale, you can never predict what may happen, but with the artificial bird, everything is settled upon beforehand; so it remains and it cannot be changed. One can account for it. One can rip it open and show the human ingenuity, explaining how the cylinders lie, how they work, and how one thing is the result of another.”
“That is just what we think,” they all exclaimed, and the Bandmaster received permission to exhibit the bird to the people on the following Sunday. The Emperor said they were to hear it sing. They listened, and were as much delighted as if they had been drunk with tea, which is a thoroughly Chinese
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 habit, and they all said “Oh!” and stuck their forefingers in the air, and nodded their heads. But the poor Fisherman who had heard the real Nightingale, said: “It sounds quite well, and a little like it, but there is something missing. I do not know what it is.”
The real Nightingale was banished from the Kingdom. The artificial bird had its place on a silken cushion close to the Emperor's bed. All the presents it had received, the gold and precious stones, lay all round it, and it had been honoured with the title of High Imperial Bedroom Singer—in the first rank, on the left side, for even the Emperor considered that side the grander on which the heart is placed, and even an Emperor has his heart on the left side. The Bandmaster wrote twenty-five volumes about the wonderful artificial bird. The book was very learned and very long, filled with the most difficult words in the Chinese language, and everybody said that he had read it and understood it, for otherwise he would have been considered stupid, and would have been trampled upon.
And thus a whole year passed away. The Emperor, the Court and all the other Chinese knew every little gurgle in the artificial bird's song, and just for this reason, they were all the better pleased with it. They could sing it themselves—which they did. The boys in the street sang “zizizi” and “cluck, cluck,” and even the Emperor sang it. Yes, it was certainly beautiful. But one evening, while the bird was singing, and the Emperor lay in bed listening to it, there was a whirring sound inside the bird, and something whizzed; all the wheels ran round, and the music stopped. The Emperor sprang out of bed and sent for the Court Physician, but what could he do? Then
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 they sent for the watch-maker, and after much talk and examination, he patched the bird up, but he said it must be spared as much as possible, because the hammers were so worn out and he could not put new ones in so that the music could be counted on. This was a great grief. The bird could only be allowed to sing once a year, and even that was risky, but on these occasions the Bandmaster would make a little speech, introducing difficult words, saying the bird was as good as it ever had been: and that was true.
Five years passed away, and a great sorrow had come over the land. The people all really cared for their Emperor: now he was ill and it was said he could not live. A new Emperor had been chosen, and the people stood about the streets, and questioned the Lord-in-Waiting about their Emperor's condition.
“P!” he said, and shook his head.
The Emperor lay pale and cold on his great, gorgeous bed: the whole Court believed that he was dead, and they all hastened to pay homage to the new Emperor. The footmen hurried off to discuss matters, and the chambermaids gave a great coffee party. Cloth had been laid down in all the rooms and passages, so that not a footstep should be heard and it was all fearfully quiet. But the Emperor was not yet dead. He lay stiff and pale in the sumptuous bed, with its long, velvet curtains, and the heavy gold tassels: just above was an open window, and the moon shone in upon the Emperor and the artificial bird. The poor Emperor could hardly breathe: it was as if something were weighing him down: he opened his eyes and saw it was Death, sitting on his chest, wearing his golden crown, holding in one hand the golden sword, and in the other the splendid banner: and from the folds of the velvet curtains strange faces
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 peered forth, some terrible to look on, others mild and friendly: these were the Emperor's good and bad deeds, which gazed upon him now that Death sat upon his heart.
“Do you remember this?” whispered one after the other. “Do you remember that?” They told him so much that the sweat poured down his face.
“I never knew that,” said the Emperor. “Play music! music! Beat the great Chinese drum!” he called out, “so that I may not hear what they are saying!”
But they kept on, and Death nodded his head, like a Chinaman, at everything they said.
“Music, music,” cried the Emperor. “You little precious bird! Sing to me, ah! sing to me! I have given you gold and costly treasures. I have hung my golden slipper about your neck. Sing to me. Sing to me!”
But the bird stood still: there was no one to wind him up, and therefore he could not sing. But Death went on, staring at the Emperor with his great hollow sockets, and it was terribly still.
Then, suddenly, close to the window, came the sound of a lovely song. It was the little live Nightingale which perched on the branches outside. It had heard of its Emperor's plight, and had therefore flown hither to bring him comfort and hope, and as he sang, the faces became paler and the blood coursed more freely through the Emperor's weak body, and Death himself listened and said: “Go on, little Nightingale. Go on.”
“And will you give me the splendid sword, and the rich banner and the Emperor's crown?”
And Death gave all these treasures for a song. And still the Nightingale sang on. He sang of the quiet
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 churchyard, where the white roses grow, where the Elder flowers bloom, and where the grass is kept moist by the tears of the survivors, and there came to Death such a longing to see his garden, that he floated out of the window, in the form of a white, cold mist.
“Thank you, thank you,” said the Emperor. “You heavenly little bird, I know you well! I banished you from the land, and you have charmed away the evil spirits from my bed, and you have driven Death from my heart. How shall I reward you?”
“You have rewarded me,” said the Nightingale. “I received tears from your eyes the first time I sang, and I never forget that. These are jewels which touch the heart of the singer. But sleep now, that you may wake fresh and strong. I will sing to you,” and it sang, and the Emperor fell into a sweet sleep. The sun shone in upon him through the window, and he woke feeling strong and healthy. None of his servants had come back, because they thought he was dead, but the Nightingale was still singing.
“You will always stay with me,” said the Emperor. “You shall only sing when it pleases you, and I will break the artificial Nightingale into a thousand pieces.”
“Do not do that,” said the Nightingale.
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 “It has done the best it could. Keep it with you. I cannot build my nest in a palace, but let me come just as I please. I will sit on the branch near the window, and sing to you that you may be joyful and thoughtful too. I will sing to you of the happy folk, and of those that suffer; I will sing of the evil and of the good, which is being hidden from you. The little singing bird flies hither and thither, to the poor fisherman, to the peasant's hut, to many who live far from you and the Court. Your heart is dearer to me than your crown, and yet the crown has a breath of sanctity too. I will come; I will sing to you, but one thing you must promise.”
“All that you ask,” said the Emperor and stood there in his imperial robes which he had put on himself, and held the heavy golden sword on his heart.
“I beg you, let no one know that you have a little bird who tells you everything. It will be far better thus,” and the Nightingale flew away.
The servants came to look upon their dead Emperor: they stood there and the Emperor said “Good morning.”
(From Hans. C. Andersen, translated from the Danish by Marie L. Shedlock.)
The Swineherd.
There was once upon a time a needy prince. He owned a Kingdom—a very small one, but it was large enough to support a wife, and he made up his mind to marry. Now, it was really very bold on his part to say of the King's daughter: “Will you marry me?” But he dared to do so, for his name was known far and wide, and there were hundreds of princesses who would willingly have said: “Yes, with thanks.” But, whether she would say so, was another matter. We shall hear what happened.
On the grave of the Prince's father there grew a rose-tree—such a wonderful rose-tree! It only bloomed once in five years, and then it only bore one rose—but what a rose! Its perfume was so sweet that whoever smelt it forgot all his cares and sorrows. The Prince had also a Nightingale which could sing as if all the delicious melodies in the world were contained in its little throat. The rose and the Nightingale were both to be given to the Princess and were therefore
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 placed in two silver cases and sent to her. The Emperor had them carried before him into the great hall where the Princess was playing at “visiting” with her ladies-in-waiting. This was their chief occupation; and when she saw the great cases with the presents in them, she clapped her hands with joy.
“If it were only a little pussy-cat,” she cried. But out came the beautiful rose.
“How elegantly it is made,” said all the ladies of the Court.
“It is more than elegant,” said the Emperor; “it is nice.”
“Fie, papa,” she said, “it is not made at all; it is a natural rose.”
“Fie,” said all the ladies of the court; “it is a natural rose.”
“Let us see what the other case contains before we lose our temper,” said the Emperor, and then out came the little Nightingale and sang so sweetly that nobody right off could think of any bad thing to say of it.
“Superbe, charmant,” cried the ladies of the Court, for they all chattered French, one worse than the other.
“How the bird reminds me of the late Empress' musical-box!” said an old Lord-in-Waiting. “Ah me! The same tone, the same execution——”
“The very same,” said the Emperor, and he cried like a little child.
“I hope it is not a real bird,” said the Princess.
“Oh yes; it is a real bird,” said those who had brought it.
“Then let the bird fly away,” she said, and she would on no account allow the Prince to come in.
But he was not to be discouraged. He smeared his
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 face with black and brown, drew his cap over his forehead, and knocked at the Palace door. The Emperor opened it.
“Good day, Emperor,” he said. “Could I not get some work at the Palace?”
“There are so many who apply for positions here!” said the Emperor. “Now let me see: I am in want of a swineherd. I have a good many pigs to keep.”
So the Prince was appointed as Imperial Swineherd. He had a wretched little room near the pig-sty and here he was obliged to stay. But the whole day he sat and worked, and by the evening he had made a neat little pipkin, and round it was a set of bells, and as soon as the pot began to boil, the bells fell to jingling most sweetly and played the old melody:
“Ah, my dear Augustus,
All is lost, all is lost;”
but the most wonderful thing was that when you held your finger in the steam of the pipkin, you could immediately smell what dinner was cooking on every hearth in the town—that was something very different from a rose.
The Princess was walking out with her ladies-in-Waiting, and when she heard the melody, she stopped short, and looked much rejoiced, for she could play “Ah, my dear Augustus.” That was the only tune she knew, but she could play it with one finger. “Why, that is what I can play,” she said. “What a cultivated swineherd he must be. Go down and ask him how much his instrument costs.”
So one of the Ladies-in-Waiting was obliged to go down, but she put on pattens first.
“What do you charge for your instrument?” asked the Lady-in-Waiting.
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“I will have ten kisses from the Princess,” said the Swineherd.
“Good gracious!” said the Lady-in-Waiting.
“I will not take less,” said the Swineherd.
“Well, what did he say?” asked the Princess.
“I really cannot tell you,” said the Lady-in-Waiting. “It is too dreadful.”
“Then you can whisper it,” said the Princess.
So she whispered it.
“He is very rude,” said the Princess, and she walked away. But when she had walked a few steps the bells sounded so sweetly:
“Ah, my dear Augustus,
All is lost, all is lost.”
“Listen,” said the Princess, “ask him whether he will have his kisses from my Ladies-in-Waiting.”
“No, thank you,” said the Swineherd. “I will have ten kisses from the Princess, or I will keep my pipkin.”
“How tiresome it is,” said the Princess; “but you must stand round me, so that nobody shall see.”
So the Ladies-in-Waiting stood round her, and they spread out their dresses. The Swineherd got the kisses, and she got the pipkin.
How delighted she was. All the evening, and the whole of the next day that pot was made to boil. And you might have known what everybody was cooking on every hearth in the town from the Chamberlain's to the shoemaker's. The court ladies danced and clapped their hands.
“We know who is to have fruit, soup and pancakes. We know who is going to have porridge, and cutlets. How very interesting it is!”
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“Most, interesting, indeed,” said the first Lady-of-Honour.
“Yes, but hold your tongues, because I am the Emperor's daughter.”
“Of course we will,” they cried in one breath.
The Swineherd, or rather the Prince, though they did not know but that he was a real swineherd, did not let the day pass without doing something, and he made a rattle which could play all the waltzes and the polkas and the hop-dances which had been known since the creation of the world.
“But this is superb,” said the Princess, who was just passing: “I have never heard more beautiful composition. Go and ask him the cost of the instrument. But I will give no more kisses.”
“He insists on a hundred kisses from the Princess,” said the Ladies-in-Waiting who had been down to ask.
“I think he must be quite mad,” said the Princess, and she walked away. But when she had taken a few steps, she stopped short, and said: “One must encourage the fine arts, and I am the Emperor's daughter. Tell him he may have ten kisses, as before, and the rest he can take from my Ladies-in-Waiting.”
“Yes, but we object to that,” said the Ladies-in-Waiting.
“That is nonsense,” said the Princess. “If I can kiss him, surely you can do the same. Go down at once. Don't I pay you board and wages?”
So the Ladies-in-Waiting were obliged to go down to the Swineherd again.
“A hundred kisses from the Princess, or each keeps his own.”
“Stand round me,” she said. And all the Ladies-in-Waiting stood round her, and the Swineherd began to kiss her.
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“What can all that crowd be down by the pigsty?” said the Emperor, stepping out on to the balcony. He rubbed his eyes and put on his spectacles. “It is the court-ladies up to some of their tricks. I must go down and look after them.” He pulled up his slippers (for they were shoes which he had trodden down at the heel).
Heavens! How he hurried! As soon as he came into the garden he walked very softly, and the Ladies-in-Waiting had so much to do counting the kisses, so that everything should be done fairly, and that the Swineherd should neither get too many nor too few, that they never noticed the Emperor at all. He stood on tiptoe.
“What is this all about?” he said, when he saw the kissing that was going on, and he hit them on the head with his slipper, just as the Swineherd was getting the eighty-sixth kiss. “Heraus,” said the Emperor, for he was angry, and both the Princess and the Swineherd were turned out of his Kingdom.
The Princess wept, the Swineherd scolded, and the rain streamed down.
“Ah! wretched creature that I am,” said the Princess. “If I had only taken the handsome Prince! Ah me, how unhappy I am!”
Then the Swineherd went behind a tree, washed the black and brown off his face, threw off his ragged clothes, and stood forth in his royal apparel, looking so handsome that she was obliged to curtsey.
“I have learned to despise you,” he said.
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 “You would not have an honourable Prince. You could not appreciate a rose or a Nightingale, but to get a toy, you kissed the Swineherd. Now you have your reward.”
So he went into his Kingdom, shut the door and bolted it, and she had to stand outside singing:
“Ah, you dear Augustus,
All, all is lost.”
(From the Danish of Hans C. Andersen, translated by Marie L. Shedlock.)
The Princess and the Pea.
There was once a Prince who wished to marry a Princess, but she must be a real Princess. He travelled all over the world to find such a one; but there was always something the matter. There were plenty of Princesses, but whether they were real or not, he could not be quite certain. There was always something that was not quite right. So he came home again, feeling very sad, for he was so anxious to have a real Princess.
One evening a terrible storm came on: it lightened, and thundered and the rain came down in torrents. It was quite terrible. Then there came a knocking at the town-gate, and the old King went down to open it. There, outside, stood a Princess. But gracious! the rain and bad weather had made her look dreadful. The water was running out of her hair on to her clothes, into the tips of her shoes and out at the heels, and yet she said she was a real Princess.
“We shall soon find out about that,” thought the old Queen. But she said never a word. She went into the bedroom, took off all the bed-clothes and put a pea on the bedstead. Then she took twenty
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mattresses and laid them on the pea and twenty eider-down quilts upon the mattresses. And the Princess was to sleep there at night.
In the morning they came to her and asked her how she had slept.
“Oh! dreadfully,” said the Princess. “I scarcely closed my eyes the whole night long. Heaven knows what could have been in the bed. I have lain upon something hard, so that my whole body is black and blue. It is quite dreadful.”
So they could see now that she was a real Princess, because she had felt the pea through twenty mattresses and twenty eider-down quilts. Nobody but a real Princess could be so sensitive.
So the Prince married her, for now he knew that he had found a real Princess, and the pea was sent to an Art Museum, where it can still be seen, if nobody has taken it away.
Now, mark you: This is a true story.
(Translated from the Danish of Hans C. Andersen by Marie L. Shedlock.)
I give the following story, quoted by Professor Ker in his Romanes Lecture, 1906, as an encouragement to those who develop the art of story-telling.
The Story of Sturla.
Then Sturla got ready to sail away with the king, and his name was put on the list. He went on board before many men had come; he had a sleeping bag and a travelling chest, and took his place on the fore-deck. A little later the king came on to the quay,
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 and a company of men with him. Sturla rose and bowed, and bade the king ‘hail,’ but the king answered nothing, and went aft along the ship to the quarter-deck. They sailed that day to go south along the coast. But in the evening when men unpacked their provisions Sturla sat still, and no one invited him to mess. Then a servant of the king's came and asked Sturla if he had any meat and drink. Sturla said ‘No.’ Then the king's servant went to the king and spoke with him, out of hearing: and then went forward to Sturla and said: “You shall go to mess with Thorir Mouth and Erlend Maw.” They took him into their mess, but rather stiffly. When men were turning in to sleep, a sailor of the king's asked who should tell them stories. There was little answer. Then he said: “Sturla the Icelander, will you tell stories?” “As you will,” said Sturla. So he told them the story of Huld, better and fuller than any one there had ever heard it told before. Then many men pushed forward to the fore-deck, wanting to hear as clearly as might be, and there was a great crowd. The queen asked: “What is that crowd on deck there?” A man answered: “The men are listening to the story that the Icelander tells.” “What story is that?” said she. He answers: “It is about a great troll-wife, and it is a good story and well told.” The king bade her pay no heed to that, and go to sleep. She says: “I think this Icelander must be a good fellow, and less to blame than he is reported.” The king was silent.
So the night passed, and the next morning there was no wind for them, and the king's ship lay in the same place. Later in the day, when men sat at their drink, the king sent dishes from his table to Sturla. Sturla's messmates were pleased with this:
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 “You bring better luck than we thought, if this sort of thing goes on.” After dinner the queen sent for Sturla and asked him to come to her and bring the troll-wife story along with him. So Sturla went aft to the quarter-deck, and greeted the king and queen. The king answered little, the queen well and cheerfully. She asked him to tell the same story he had told overnight. He did so, for a great part of the day. When he had finished, the queen thanked him, and many others besides, and made him out in their minds to be a learned man and sensible. But the king said nothing; only he smiled a little. Sturla thought he saw that the king's whole frame of mind was brighter than the day before. So he said to the king that he had made a poem about him, and another about his father: “I would gladly get a hearing for them.” The queen said: “Let him recite his poem; I am told that he is the best of poets, and his poem will be excellent.” The king bade him say on, if he would, and repeat the poem he professed to have made about him. Sturla chanted it to the end. The queen said: “To my mind that is a good poem.” The king said to her: “Can you follow the poem clearly?” “I would be fain to have you think so, Sir,” said the queen. The king said: “I have learned that Sturla is good at verses.” Sturla took his leave of the king and queen and went to his place. There was no sailing for the king all that day. In the evening before he went to bed he sent for Sturla. And when he came he greeted the king and said: “What will you have me to do, Sir?” The king called for a silver goblet full of wine, and drank some and gave it to Sturla and said: “A health to a friend in wine!” (Vin skal til vinar drekka.) Sturla said: “God be praised for it!” “Even so,” says the king,
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 “and now I wish you to say the poem you have made about my father.” Sturla repeated it: and when it was finished men praised it much, and most of all the queen. The king said: “To my thinking, you are a better reciter than the Pope.”
Sturlunga Saga, vol. ii, pp. 269 sqq.
A Saga.
In the grey beginnings of the world, or ever the flower of justice had rooted in the heart, there lived among the daughters of men two children, sisters, of one house.
In childhood did they leap and climb and swim with the men children of their race, and were nurtured on the same stories of gods and heroes.
In maidenhood they could do all that a maiden might and more—delve could they no less than spin, hunt no less than weave, brew pottage and helm ships, wake the harp and tell the stars, face all danger and laugh at all pain.
Joyous in toil-time and rest-time were they as the days and years of their youth came and went. Death had spared their house, and unhappiness knew they none. Yet often as at falling day they sat before sleep round the hearth of red fire, listening with the household to the brave songs of gods and heroes, there would surely creep into their hearts a shadow—the thought that whatever the years of their lives, and whatever the generous deeds, there would for them, as women, be no escape at the last from the dire mists of Hela, the fogland beyond the grave for all such as die not in battle; no escape for them from Hela, and no place for ever for them or for their kind among the glory-crowned, sword-shriven heroes of echoing Valhalla.
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That shadow had first fallen in their lusty childhood, had slowly gathered darkness through the overflowing days of maidenhood, and now, in the strong tide of full womanhood, often lay upon their future as the moon in Odin's wrath lies upon the sun.
But stout were they to face danger and laugh at pain, and for all the shadow upon their hope they lived brave and songful days—the one a homekeeper and in her turn a mother of men; the other unhusbanded, but gentle to ignorance and sickness and sorrow through the width and length of the land.
And thus, facing life fearlessly and ever with a smile, those two women lived even unto extreme old age, unto the one's children's children's children, labouring truly unto the end and keeping strong hearts against the dread day of Hela, and the fate-locked gates of Valhalla.
But at the end a wonder.
As these sisters looked their last upon the sun, the one in the ancestral homestead under the eyes of love, the other in a distant land among strange faces, behold the wind of Thor, and out of the deep of heaven the white horses of Odin, All-Father, bearing Valkyrie, shining messengers of Valhalla. And those two world-worn women, faithful in all their lives, were caught up in death in divine arms and borne far from the fogs of Hela to golden thrones among the battle heroes, upon which the Nornir, sitting at the loom of life, had from all eternity graven their names.
And from that hour have the gates of Valhalla been thrown wide to all faithful endeavour whether of man or of women.
John Russell,
Headmaster of the King Alfred School.
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The Legend of St. Christopher.
Christopher was of the lineage of the Canaaneans and he was of a right great stature, and had a terrible and fearful cheer and countenance. And he was twelve cubits of length. And, as it is read in some histories, when he served and dwelled with the king of Canaaneans, it came in his mind that he would seek the greatest prince that was in the world and him he would serve and obey.
And so far he went that he came to a right great king, of whom the renown generally was that he was the greatest of the world. And when the king saw him he received him into his service and made him to dwell in his court.
Upon a time a minstrel sang before him a song in which he named oft the devil. And the king which was a Christian man, when he heard him name the devil, made anon the sign of the cross in his visage. And when Christopher saw that, he had great marvel what sign it was and wherefore the king made it. And he demanded it of him. And because the king would not say, he said, “If thou tell me not, I shall no longer dwell with thee.” And then the king told to him saying, “Alway when I hear the devil named, I fear that he should have power over me, and I garnish me with this sign that he grieve not nor annoy me.” Then Christopher said to him, “Thou doubtest the devil that he hurt thee not? Then is the devil more mighty and greater than thou art. I am then deceived of my hope and purpose; for I supposed that I had found the most mighty and the most greatest lord of the world. But I commend thee to God, for I will go seek him to be my lord and I his servant.”
And then he departed from this king and hasted him to seek the devil. And as he went by a great
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 desert he saw a great company of knights. Of which a knight cruel and horrible came to him and demanded whither he went. And Christopher answered to him and said, “I go to seek the devil for to be my master.” And he said, “I am he that thou seekest.” And then Christopher was glad and bound himself to be his servant perpetual, and took him for his master and lord.
And as they went together by a common way, they found there a cross erect and standing. And anon as the devil saw the cross, he was afeard and fled, and left the right way and brought Christopher about by a sharp desert, and after, when they were past the cross, he brought him to the highway that they had left. And when Christopher saw that, he marvelled and demanded whereof he doubted that he had left high and fair way and had gone so far about by so hard desert. And the devil would not tell to him in no wise. Then Christopher said to him, “If thou wilt not tell me I shall anon depart from thee and shall serve thee no more.” Therefore the devil was constrained to tell him, and said, “There was a man called Christ which was hanged on the cross, and when I see his sign, I am sore afeard and flee from it wheresomever I find it.” To whom Christopher said, “Then he is greater and more mightier than thou, when thou art afraid of his sign. And I see well that I have laboured in vain since I have not founden the greatest lord of all the earth. And I will serve thee no longer. Go thy way then: for I will go seek Jesus Christ.”
And when he had long sought and demanded where he should find Christ, at the last he came into a great desert to an hermit that dwelled there. And this hermit preached to him of Jesus Christ and informed
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 him in the faith diligently. And he said to him, “This king whom thou desirest to serve, requireth this service that thou must oft fast.” And Christopher said to him, “Require of me some other thing and I shall do it. For that which thou requirest I may not do.” And the hermit said, “Thou must then wake and make many prayers.” And Christopher said to him, “I wot not what it is. I may do no such thing.” And then the hermit said unto him, “Knowest thou such a river in which many be perished and lost?” To whom Christopher said, “I know it well.” Then said the hermit, “Because thou art noble and high of stature and strong in thy members, thou shalt be resident by that river and shalt bear over all them that shall pass there. Which shall be a thing right convenable to Our Lord Jesus Christ, whom thou desirest to serve, and I hope He shall shew Himself to thee.” Then said Christopher, “Certes, this service may I well do, and I promise to Him for to do it.”
Then went Christopher to this river, and made there his habitation for him. And he bare a great pole in his hand instead of a staff, by which he sustained him in the water; and bare over all manner of people without ceasing. And there he abode, thus doing many days.
And on a time, as he slept in his lodge, he heard the voice of a child which called him and said, “Christopher, come out and bear me over.” Then he awoke and went out; but he found no man. And when he was again in his house, he heard the same voice, and he ran out and found nobody. The third time he was called, and came thither, and found a child beside the rivage of the river: which prayed him goodly to bear him over the water. And then Christopher lift up the child on his shoulders and
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 took his staff and entered into the river for to pass. And the water of the river arose and swelled more and more. And the child was heavy as lead. And always as he went further the water increased and grew more, and the child more and more waxed heavy: in so much that Christopher had great anguish and feared to be drowned. And when he was escaped with great pain and passed the water, and set the child aground, he said to the child, “Child, thou hast put me in great peril. Thou weighest almost as I had had all the world upon me. I might bear no greater burden.” And the child answered, “Christopher, marvel thou no thing. For thou hast not only borne all the world upon thee; but thou hast borne Him that created and made all the world upon thy shoulders. I am Jesus Christ, the King to whom thou servest in this work. And that thou mayest know that I say to thee truth, set thy staff in the earth by the house, and thou shalt see to-morrow that it shall bear flowers and fruit.” And anon he vanished from his eyes.
And then Christopher set his staff in the earth and when he arose on the morrow, he found his staff like a palm-tree bearing flowers, leaves and dates.
Arthur in the Cave.
Once upon a time a Welshman was walking on London Bridge, staring at the traffic and wondering why there were so many kites hovering about. He had come to London, after many adventures with thieves and highwaymen, which need not be related here, in charge of a herd of black Welsh cattle. He had sold them with much profit, and with jingling gold in his pocket he was going about to see the sights of the city.
He was carrying a hazel staff in his hand, for you
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 must know that a good staff is as necessary to a drover as teeth are to his dogs. He stood still to gaze at some wares in a shop (for at that time London Bridge was shops from beginning to end), when he noticed that a man was looking at his stick with a long fixed look. The man after a while came to him and asked him where he came from.
“I come from my own country,” said the Welshman, rather surlily, for he could not see what business the man had to ask such a question.
“Do not take it amiss,” said the stranger: “if you will only answer my questions, and take my advice, it will be greater benefit to you than you imagine. Do you remember where you cut that stick?”
The Welshman was still suspicious, and said: “What does it matter where I cut it?”
“It matters,” said the questioner, “because there is a treasure hidden near the spot where you cut that stick. If you can remember the place and conduct me to it, I will put you in possession of great riches.”
The Welshman now understood he had to deal with a sorcerer, and he was greatly perplexed as to what to do. On the one hand, he was tempted by the prospect of wealth; on the other hand, he knew that the sorcerer must have derived his knowledge from devils, and he feared to have anything to do with the powers of darkness. The cunning man strove hard to persuade him, and at length made him promise to shew the place where he cut his hazel staff.
The Welshman and the magician journeyed together to Wales. They went to Craig y Dinas, the Rock of the Fortress, at the head of the Neath valley, near Pont Nedd Fechan, and the Welshman, pointing to the stock or root of an old hazel, said:
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 “This is where I cut my stick.”
“Let us dig,” said the sorcerer. They digged until they came to a broad, flat stone. Prising this up, they found some steps leading downwards. They went down the steps and along a narrow passage until they came to a door. “Are you brave?” asked the sorcerer, “will you come in with me?”
“I will,” said the Welshman, his curiosity getting the better of his fear.
They opened the door, and a great cave opened out before them. There was a faint red light in the cave, and they could see everything. The first thing they came to was a bell.
“Do not touch that bell,” said the sorcerer, “or it will be all over with us both.”
As they went further in, the Welshman saw that the place was not empty. There were soldiers lying down asleep, thousands of them, as far as ever the eye could see. Each one was clad in bright armour, the steel helmet of each was on his head, the shining shield of each was on his arm, the sword of each was near his hand, each had his spear stuck in the ground near him, and each and all were asleep.
In the midst of the cave was a great round table at which sat warriors whose noble features and richly-dight armour proclaimed that they were not as the roll of common men.
Each of these, too, had his head bent down in sleep. On a golden throne on the further side of the round table was a king of gigantic stature and august presence. In his hand, held below the hilt, was a mighty sword with scabbard and haft of gold studded with gleaming gems; on his head was a crown set with precious stones which flashed and glinted like so many points of fire. Sleep had set its seal on his eyelids also.
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“Are they asleep?” asked the Welshman, hardly believing his own eyes. “Yes, each and all of them,” answered the sorcerer. “But, if you touch yonder bell, they will all awake.”
“How long have they been asleep?”
“For over a thousand years.”
“Who are they?”
“Arthur's warriors, waiting for the time to come when they shall destroy all the enemy of the Cymry and repossess the strand of Britain, establishing their own king once more at Caer Lleon.”
“Who are these sitting at the round table?”
“These are Arthur's knights—Owain, the son of Urien; Cai, the son of Cynyr; Gnalchmai, the son of Gwyar; Peredir, the son of Efrawe; Geraint, the son of Erbin; Trystan, the son of March; Bedwyr, the son of Bedrawd; Ciernay, the son of Celyddon; Edeyrn, the son of Nudd; Cymri, the son of Clydno.”
“And on the golden throne?” broke in the Welshman.
“Is Arthur himself, with his sword Excalibur in his hand,” replied the sorcerer.
Impatient by this time at the Welshman's questions, the sorcerer hastened to a great heap of yellow gold on the floor of the cave. He took up as much as he could carry, and bade his companion do the same. “It is time for us to go,” he then said, and he led the way towards the door by which they had entered.
But the Welshman was fascinated by the sight of the countless soldiers in their glittering arms—all asleep.
“How I should like to see them all awaking!” he said to himself. “I will touch the bell—I must see them all arising from their sleep.”
When they came to the bell, he struck it until it rang through the whole place. As soon as it rang,
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 lo! the thousands of warriors leapt to their feet and the ground beneath them shook with the sound of the steel arms. And a great voice came from their midst: “Who rang the bell? Has the day come?”
The sorcerer was so much frightened that he shook like an aspen leaf. He shouted in answer: “No, the day has not come. Sleep on.”
The mighty host was all in motion, and the Welshman's eyes were dazzled as he looked at the bright steel arms which illumined the cave as with the light of myriad flames of fire.
“Arthur,” said the voice again, “awake; the bell has rung, the day is breaking. Awake, Arthur the Great.”
“No,” shouted the sorcerer, “it is still night. Sleep on, Arthur the Great.”
A sound came from the throne. Arthur was standing, and the jewels in his crown shone like bright stars above the countless throng. His voice was strong and sweet like the sound of many waters, and he said: “My warriors, the day has not come when the Black Eagle and the Golden Eagle shall go to war. It is only a seeker after gold who has rung the bell. Sleep on, my warriors; the morn of Wales has not yet dawned.”
A peaceful sound like the distant sigh of the sea came over the cave, and in a trice the soldiers were all asleep again. The sorcerer hurried the Welshman out of the cave, moved the stone back to its place and vanished.
Many a time did the Welshman try to find his way into the cave again, but though he dug over every inch of the hill, he has never again found the entrance to Arthur's Cave.
From “The Welsh Fairy Book,” by W. Jenkyn Thomas. Fisher Unwin.
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Hafiz the Stone-cutter.
There was once a stone-cutter whose name was Hafiz, and all day long he chipped, chipped, chipped at his block. And often he grew very weary of his task and he would say to himself impatiently, “Why should I go on chip-chip-chipping at my block? Why should I not have pleasure and amusement as other folk have?”
One day, when the sun was very hot and when he felt specially weary, he suddenly heard the sound of many feet, and, looking up from his work, he saw a great procession coming his way. It was the King, mounted on a splendid charger, all his soldiers to the right, in their shining armour, and the servants to the left, dressed in gorgeous clothing, ready to do his behests.
And Hafiz said: “How splendid to be a King! If only I could be a King, if only for ten minutes, so that I might know what it feels like!” And then, even as he spoke, he seemed to be dreaming, and in his dream he sang this little song:
Ah me! Ah me!
If Hafiz only the King could be!
And then a voice from the air around seemed to answer him and to say:
Be thou the King.[54]
And Hafiz became the King, and he it was that sat on the splendid charger, and they were his soldiers to the right and his servants to the left. And Hafiz said: “I am King, and there is no one stronger in the whole world than I.”
But soon, in spite of the golden canopy over his
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 head, Hafiz began to feel the terrible heat of the rays of the sun, and soon he noticed that the soldiers and servants were weary, that his horse drooped, and that he, Hafiz, was overcome, and he said angrily: “What! Is there something stronger in the world than a King?” And, almost without knowing it, he again sang his song—more boldly than the first time:
Ah me! Ah me!
If Hafiz only the Sun could be!
And the Voice answered:
Be thou the Sun.
And Hafiz became the Sun, and shone down upon the Earth, but, because he did not know how to shine very wisely, he shone very fiercely, so that the crops dried up, and folk grew sick and died. And then there arose from the East a little cloud which slipped between Hafiz and the Earth, so that he could no longer shine down upon it, and he said: “Is there something stronger in the world than the Sun?”
Ah me! Ah me!
If Hafiz only the Cloud could be!
And the Voice said:
Be thou the cloud.
And Hafiz became the Cloud, and rained down water upon the Earth, but, because he did not know how to do so wisely, there fell so much rain that all the little rivulets became great rivers, and all the great rivers overflowed their banks, and carried everything before them in swift torrent—all except one great rock which stood unmoved. And Hafiz said: “Is there something stronger than the Cloud?”
Ah me! Ah me!
If Hafiz only the Rock could be!
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And the Voice said:
Be thou the Rock.
And Hafiz became the Rock, and the Cloud disappeared and the waters went down.
And Hafiz the Rock saw coming towards him a man—but he could not see his face. As the man approached he suddenly raised a hammer and struck Hafiz, so that he felt it through all his stony body. And Hafiz said: “Is there something stronger in the world than the Rock?”
Ah me! Ah me!
If Hafiz only that man might be!
And the Voice said:
Be thou—Thyself.
And Hafiz seized the hammer and said:
“The Sun was stronger than the King, the Cloud was stronger than the Sun, the Rock was stronger than the Cloud, but I, Hafiz, was stronger than all.”
Adapted and arranged for narration by M. C. S.
FOOTNOTES:
[54] The melody to be crooned at first and to grow louder at each incident.
To Your Good Health.
(From the Russian.)
Long long ago there lived a King who was such a mighty monarch that whenever he sneezed everyone in the whole country had to say, “To your good health!” Everyone said it except the Shepherd with the bright blue eyes, and he would not say it.
The King heard of this and was very angry, and sent for the Shepherd to appear before him.
The Shepherd came and stood before the throne, where the King sat looking very grand and powerful. But, however grand or powerful he might be, the Shepherd did not feel a bit afraid of him.
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“Say at once, 'To my good health!'” cried the King.
“To my good health,” replied the Shepherd.
“To mine—to mine, you rascal, you vagabond!” stormed the King.
“To mine, to mine, Your Majesty,” was the answer.
“But to mine—to my own!” roared the King, and beat on his breast in a rage.
“Well, yes; to mine, of course, to my own,” cried the Shepherd, and gently tapped his breast.
The King was beside himself with fury and did not know what to do, when the Lord Chamberlain interfered:
“Say at once—say at this very moment, ‘To your hea............