AI Read to Me Presents The Snow Queen by Hans
Christian Andersen FIRST STORY. Which Treats of a Mirror and of the Splinters
Once upon a time there was a wicked sprite, indeed he was the most mischievous of all
sprites. One day he was in a very good humor, for he
had made a mirror with the power of causing all that was good and beautiful when it was
reflected therein, to look poor and mean; but that which was good-for-nothing and looked
ugly was shown magnified and increased in ugliness. In this
mirror the most beautiful landscapes
looked like boiled spinach, and the best persons were turned into frights, or appeared to stand
on their heads; their faces were so distorted that they were not to be recognised; and if
anyone had a mole, you might be sure that it would be magnified and spread over both
nose and mouth. “That's glorious fun!” said the sprite. If a good thought passed through a man's mind,
then a grin was seen in the mirror, and the sprite laughed heartily at his clever discove
ry. All the little sprites who went to his school—for
he kept a sprite school—told each other that a miracle had happened; and that now
only, as they thought, it would be possible to see how the world really looked. They ran about with the mirror; and at last
there was not a land or a person who was not represented distorted in the mirror. So then they thought they would fly up to
the sky, and have a joke there. The higher they flew with the mirror, the
more terribly it grinned: they could hardl
y hold it fast. Higher and higher still they flew, nearer
and nearer to the stars, when suddenly the mirror shook so terribly with grinning, that
it flew out of their hands and fell to the earth, where it was dashed in a hundred million
and more pieces. And now it worked much more evil than before;
for some of these pieces were hardly so large as a grain of sand, and they flew about in
the wide world, and when they got into people's eyes, there they stayed; and then people saw
everything pervert
ed, or only had an eye for that which was evil. This happened because the very smallest bit
had the same power which the whole mirror had possessed. Some persons even got a splinter in their
heart, and then it made one shudder, for their heart became like a lump of ice. Some of the broken pieces were so large that
they were used for windowpanes, through which one could not see one's friends. Other pieces were put in spectacles; and that
was a sad affair when people put on their glasses to see we
ll and rightly. Then the wicked sprite laughed till he almost
choked, for all this tickled his fancy. The fine splinters still flew about in the
air: and now we shall hear what happened next. SECOND STORY. A Little Boy and a Little Girl
In a large town, where there are so many houses, and so many people, that there is no roof
left for everybody to have a little garden; and where, on this account, most persons are
obliged to content themselves with flowers in pots; there lived two little children
,
who had a garden somewhat larger than a flower-pot. They were not brother and sister; but they
cared for each other as much as if they were. Their parents lived exactly opposite. They inhabited two garrets; and where the
roof of the one house joined that of the other, and the gutter ran along the extreme end of
it, there was to each house a small window: one needed only to step over the gutter to
get from one window to the other. The children's parents had large wooden boxes
there, in which ve
getables for the kitchen were planted, and little rosetrees besides:
there was a rose in each box, and they grew splendidly. They now thought of placing the boxes across
the gutter, so that they nearly reached from one window to the other, and looked just like
two walls of flowers. The tendrils of the peas hung down over the
boxes; and the rose-trees shot up long branches, twined round the windows, and then bent towards
each other: it was almost like a triumphant arch of foliage and flowers. The
boxes were very high, and the children
knew that they must not creep over them; so they often obtained permission to get out
of the windows to each other, and to sit on their little stools among the roses, where
they could play delightfully. In winter there was an end of this pleasure. The windows were often frozen over; but then
they heated copper farthings on the stove, and laid the hot farthing on the windowpane,
and then they had a capital peep-hole, quite nicely rounded; and out of each pe
eped a gentle
friendly eye—it was the little boy and the little girl who were looking out. His name was Kay, hers was Gerda. In summer, with one jump, they could get to
each other; but in winter they were obliged first to go down the long stairs, and then
up the long stairs again: and out-of-doors there was quite a snow-storm. “It is the white bees that are swarming,”
said Kay's old grandmother. “Do the white bees choose a queen?” asked
the little boy; for he knew that the honey-bees always have
one. “Yes,” said the grandmother, “she flies
where the swarm hangs in the thickest clusters. She is the largest of all; and she can never
remain quietly on the earth, but goes up again into the black clouds. Many a winter's night she flies through the
streets of the town, and peeps in at the windows; and they then freeze in so wondrous a manner
that they look like flowers.” “Yes, I have seen it,” said both the children;
and so they knew that it was true. “Can the Snow Queen come in?” said the
l
ittle girl. “Only let her come in!” said the little
boy. “Then I'd put her on the stove, and she'd
melt.” And then his grandmother patted his head and
told him other stories. In the evening, when little Kay was at home,
and half undressed, he climbed up on the chair by the window, and peeped out of the little
hole. A few snow-flakes were falling, and one, the
largest of all, remained lying on the edge of a flower-pot. The flake of snow grew larger and larger;
and at last it was like a young lady
, dressed in the finest white gauze, made of a million
little flakes like stars. She was so beautiful and delicate, but she
was of ice, of dazzling, sparkling ice; yet she lived; her eyes gazed fixedly, like two
stars; but there was neither quiet nor repose in them. She nodded towards the window, and beckoned
with her hand. The little boy was frightened, and jumped
down from the chair; it seemed to him as if, at the same moment, a large bird flew past
the window. The next day it was a sharp fros
t—and then
the spring came; the sun shone, the green leaves appeared, the swallows built their
nests, the windows were opened, and the little children again sat in their pretty garden,
high up on the leads at the top of the house. That summer the roses flowered in unwonted
beauty. The little girl had learned a hymn, in which
there was something about roses; and then she thought of her own flowers; and she sang
the verse to the little boy, who then sang it with her:
“The rose in the valley is blo
oming so sweet, And angels descend there the children to greet.” And the children held each other by the hand,
kissed the roses, looked up at the clear sunshine, and spoke as though they really saw angels
there. What lovely summer-days those were! How delightful to be out in the air, near
the fresh rose-bushes, that seem as if they would never finish blossoming! Kay and Gerda looked at the picture-book full
of beasts and of birds; and it was then—the clock in the church-tower was just striking
f
ive—that Kay said, “Oh! I feel such a sharp pain in my heart; and
now something has got into my eye!” The little girl put her arms around his neck. He winked his eyes; now there was nothing
to be seen. “I think it is out now,” said he; but
it was not. It was just one of those pieces of glass from
the magic mirror that had got into his eye; and poor Kay had got another piece right in
his heart. It will soon become like ice. It did not hurt any longer, but there it was. “What are you crying for?”
asked he. “You look so ugly! There's nothing the matter with me. Ah,” said he at once, “that rose is cankered! And look, this one is quite crooked! After all, these roses are very ugly! They are just like the box they are planted
in!” And then he gave the box a good kick with
his foot, and pulled both the roses up. “What are you doing?” cried the little
girl; and as he perceived her fright, he pulled up another rose, got in at the window, and
hastened off from dear little Gerda. Afterwards, when
she brought her picture-book,
he asked, “What horrid beasts have you there?” And if his grandmother told them stories,
he always interrupted her; besides, if he could manage it, he would get behind her,
put on her spectacles, and imitate her way of speaking; he copied all her ways, and then
everybody laughed at him. He was soon able to imitate the gait and manner
of everyone in the street. Everything that was peculiar and displeasing
in them—that Kay knew how to imitate: and at such times all t
he people said, “The
boy is certainly very clever!” But it was the glass he had got in his eye;
the glass that was sticking in his heart, which made him tease even little Gerda, whose
whole soul was devoted to him. His games now were quite different to what
they had formerly been, they were so very knowing. One winter's day, when the flakes of snow
were flying about, he spread the skirts of his blue coat, and caught the snow as it fell. “Look through this glass, Gerda,” said
he. And every flake
seemed larger, and appeared
like a magnificent flower, or beautiful star; it was splendid to look at! “Look, how clever!” said Kay. “That's much more interesting than real
flowers! They are as exact as possible; there is not
a fault in them, if they did not melt!” It was not long after this, that Kay came
one day with large gloves on, and his little sledge at his back, and bawled right into
Gerda's ears, “I have permission to go out into the square where the others are playing”;
and off he was i
n a moment. There, in the market-place, some of the boldest
of the boys used to tie their sledges to the carts as they passed by, and so they were
pulled along, and got a good ride. It was so capital! Just as they were in the very height of their
amusement, a large sledge passed by: it was painted quite white, and there was someone
in it wrapped up in a rough white mantle of fur, with a rough white fur cap on his head. The sledge drove round the square twice, and
Kay tied on his sledge as quickl
y as he could, and off he drove with it. On they went quicker and quicker into the
next street; and the person who drove turned round to Kay, and nodded to him in a friendly
manner, just as if they knew each other. Every time he was going to untie his sledge,
the person nodded to him, and then Kay sat quiet; and so on they went till they came
outside the gates of the town. Then the snow began to fall so thickly that
the little boy could not see an arm's length before him, but still on he went: w
hen suddenly
he let go the string he held in his hand in order to get loose from the sledge, but it
was of no use; still the little vehicle rushed on with the quickness of the wind. He then cried as loud as he could, but no
one heard him; the snow drifted and the sledge flew on, and sometimes it gave a jerk as though
they were driving over hedges and ditches. He was quite frightened, and he tried to repeat
the Lord's Prayer; but all he could do, he was only able to remember the multiplication
ta
ble. The snow-flakes grew larger and larger, till
at last they looked just like great white fowls. Suddenly they flew on one side; the large
sledge stopped, and the person who drove rose up. It was a lady; her cloak and cap were of snow. She was tall and of slender figure, and of
a dazzling whiteness. It was the Snow Queen. “We have travelled fast,” said she; “but
it is freezingly cold. Come under my bearskin.” And she put him in the sledge beside her,
wrapped the fur round him, and he felt as t
hough he were sinking in a snow-wreath. “Are you still cold?” asked she; and then
she kissed his forehead. Ah! it was colder than ice; it penetrated to his
very heart, which was already almost a frozen lump; it seemed to him as if he were about
to die—but a moment more and it was quite congenial to him, and he did not remark the
cold that was around him. “My sledge! Do not forget my sledge!” It was the first thing he thought of. It was there tied to one of the white chickens,
who flew along with
it on his back behind the large sledge. The Snow Queen kissed Kay once more, and then
he forgot little Gerda, grandmother, and all whom he had left at his home. “Now you will have no more kisses,” said
she, “or else I should kiss you to death!” Kay looked at her. She was very beautiful; a more clever, or
a more lovely countenance he could not fancy to himself; and she no longer appeared of
ice as before, when she sat outside the window, and beckoned to him; in his eyes she was perfect,
he did n
ot fear her at all, and told her that he could calculate in his head and with fractions,
even; that he knew the number of square miles there were in the different countries, and
how many inhabitants they contained; and she smiled while he spoke. It then seemed to him as if what he knew was
not enough, and he looked upwards in the large huge empty space above him, and on she flew
with him; flew high over the black clouds, while the storm moaned and whistled as though
it were singing some old tune
. On they flew over woods and lakes, over seas,
and many lands; and beneath them the chilling storm rushed fast, the wolves howled, the
snow crackled; above them flew large screaming crows, but higher up appeared the moon, quite
large and bright; and it was on it that Kay gazed during the long long winter's night;
while by day he slept at the feet of the Snow Queen. THIRD STORY. Of the Flower-Garden At the Old Woman's Who
Understood Witchcraft But what became of little Gerda when Kay did
not ret
urn? Where could he be? Nobody knew; nobody could give any intelligence. All the boys knew was, that they had seen
him tie his sledge to another large and splendid one, which drove down the street and out of
the town. Nobody knew where he was; many sad tears were
shed, and little Gerda wept long and bitterly; at last she said he must be dead; that he
had been drowned in the river which flowed close to the town. Oh! those were very long and dismal winter evenings! At last spring came, with its wa
rm sunshine. “Kay is dead and gone!” said little Gerda. “That I don't believe,” said the Sunshine. “Kay is dead and gone!” said she to the
Swallows. “That I don't believe,” said they: and
at last little Gerda did not think so any longer either. “I'll put on my red shoes,” said she,
one morning; “Kay has never seen them, and then I'll go down to the river and ask there.” It was quite early; she kissed her old grandmother,
who was still asleep, put on her red shoes, and went alone to the river. “I
s it true that you have taken my little
playfellow? I will make you a present of my red shoes,
if you will give him back to me.” And, as it seemed to her, the blue waves nodded
in a strange manner; then she took off her red shoes, the most precious things she possessed,
and threw them both into the river. But they fell close to the bank, and the little
waves bore them immediately to land; it was as if the stream would not take what was dearest
to her; for in reality it had not got little Kay; bu
t Gerda thought that she had not thrown
the shoes out far enough, so she clambered into a boat which lay among the rushes, went
to the farthest end, and threw out the shoes. But the boat was not fastened, and the motion
which she occasioned, made it drift from the shore. She observed this, and hastened to get back;
but before she could do so, the boat was more than a yard from the land, and was gliding
quickly onward. Little Gerda was very frightened, and began
to cry; but no one heard her excep
t the sparrows, and they could not carry her to land; but
they flew along the bank, and sang as if to comfort her, “Here we are! Here we are!” The boat drifted with the stream, little Gerda
sat quite still without shoes, for they were swimming behind the boat, but she could not
reach them, because the boat went much faster than they did. The banks on both sides were beautiful; lovely
flowers, venerable trees, and slopes with sheep and cows, but not a human being was
to be seen. “Perhaps the rive
r will carry me to little
Kay,” said she; and then she grew less sad. She rose, and looked for many hours at the
beautiful green banks. Presently she sailed by a large cherry-orchard,
where was a little cottage with curious red and blue windows; it was thatched, and before
it two wooden soldiers stood sentry, and presented arms when anyone went past. Gerda called to them, for she thought they
were alive; but they, of course, did not answer. She came close to them, for the stream drifted
the boat
quite near the land. Gerda called still louder, and an old woman
then came out of the cottage, leaning upon a crooked stick. She had a large broad-brimmed hat on, painted
with the most splendid flowers. “Poor little child!” said the old woman. “How did you get upon the large rapid river,
to be driven about so in the wide world!” And then the old woman went into the water,
caught hold of the boat with her crooked stick, drew it to the bank, and lifted little Gerda
out. And Gerda was so glad to b
e on dry land again;
but she was rather afraid of the strange old woman. “But come and tell me who you are, and how
you came here,” said she. And Gerda told her all; and the old woman
shook her head and said, “A-hem! a-hem!” and when Gerda had told her everything,
and asked her if she had not seen little Kay, the woman answered that he had not passed
there, but he no doubt would come; and she told her not to be cast down, but taste her
cherries, and look at her flowers, which were finer than any
in a picture-book, each of
which could tell a whole story. She then took Gerda by the hand, led her into
the little cottage, and locked the door. The windows were very high up; the glass was
red, blue, and green, and the sunlight shone through quite wondrously in all sorts of colors. On the table stood the most exquisite cherries,
and Gerda ate as many as she chose, for she had permission to do so. While she was eating, the old woman combed
her hair with a golden comb, and her hair curled and s
hone with a lovely golden color
around that sweet little face, which was so round and so like a rose. “I have often longed for such a dear little
girl,” said the old woman. “Now you shall see how well we agree together”;
and while she combed little Gerda's hair, the child forgot her foster-brother Kay more
and more, for the old woman understood magic; but she was no evil being, she only practised
witchcraft a little for her own private amusement, and now she wanted very much to keep little
Gerda
. She therefore went out in the garden, stretched
out her crooked stick towards the rose-bushes, which, beautifully as they were blowing, all
sank into the earth and no one could tell where they had stood. The old woman feared that if Gerda should
see the roses, she would then think of her own, would remember little Kay, and run away
from her. She now led Gerda into the flower-garden. Oh, what odour and what loveliness was there! Every flower that one could think of, and
of every season, stood t
here in fullest bloom; no picture-book could be gayer or more beautiful. Gerda jumped for joy, and played till the
sun set behind the tall cherry-tree; she then had a pretty bed, with a red silken coverlet
filled with blue violets. She fell asleep, and had as pleasant dreams
as ever a queen on her wedding-day. The next morning she went to play with the
flowers in the warm sunshine, and thus passed away a day. Gerda knew every flower; and, numerous as
they were, it still seemed to Gerda that one
was wanting, though she did not know which. One day while she was looking at the hat of
the old woman painted with flowers, the most beautiful of them all seemed to her to be
a rose. The old woman had forgotten to take it from
her hat when she made the others vanish in the earth. But so it is when one's thoughts are not collected. “What!” said Gerda. “Are there no roses here?” and she ran about amongst the flowerbeds,
and looked, and looked, but there was not one to be found. She then sat down a
nd wept; but her hot tears
fell just where a rose-bush had sunk; and when her warm tears watered the ground, the
tree shot up suddenly as fresh and blooming as when it had been swallowed up. Gerda kissed the roses, thought of her own
dear roses at home, and with them of little Kay. “Oh, how long I have stayed!” said the
little girl. “I intended to look for Kay! Don't you know where he is?” she asked of the roses. “Do you think he is dead and gone?” “Dead he certainly is not,” said the Roses. “We
have been in the earth where all the
dead are, but Kay was not there.” “Many thanks!” said little Gerda; and
she went to the other flowers, looked into their cups, and asked, “Don't you know where
little Kay is?” But every flower stood in the sunshine, and
dreamed its own fairy tale or its own story: and they all told her very many things, but
not one knew anything of Kay. Well, what did the Tiger-Lily say? “Hearest thou not the drum? Bum! Bum! Those are the only two tones. Always bum! Bum! Har
k to the plaintive song of the old woman,
to the call of the priests! The Hindoo woman in her long robe stands upon
the funeral pile; the flames rise around her and her dead husband, but the Hindoo woman
thinks on the living one in the surrounding circle; on him whose eyes burn hotter than
the flames—on him, the fire of whose eyes pierces her heart more than the flames which
soon will burn her body to ashes. Can the heart's flame die in the flame of
the funeral pile?” “I don't understand that at
all,” said
little Gerda. “That is my story,” said the Lily. What did the Convolvulus say? “Projecting over a narrow mountain-path
there hangs an old feudal castle. Thick evergreens grow on the dilapidated walls,
and around the altar, where a lovely maiden is standing: she bends over the railing and
looks out upon the rose. No fresher rose hangs on the branches than
she; no appleblossom carried away by the wind is more buoyant! How her silken robe is rustling! “'Is he not yet come?'” “Is it Kay
that you mean?” asked little
Gerda. “I am speaking about my story—about my
dream,” answered the Convolvulus. What did the Snowdrops say? “Between the trees a long board is hanging—it
is a swing. Two little girls are sitting in it, and swing
themselves backwards and forwards; their frocks are as white as snow, and long green silk
ribands flutter from their bonnets. Their brother, who is older than they are,
stands up in the swing; he twines his arms round the cords to hold himself fast, for
in on
e hand he has a little cup, and in the other a clay-pipe. He is blowing soap-bubbles. The swing moves, and the bubbles float in
charming changing colors: the last is still hanging to the end of the pipe, and rocks
in the breeze. The swing moves. The little black dog, as light as a soap-bubble,
jumps up on his hind legs to try to get into the swing. It moves, the dog falls down, barks, and is
angry. They tease him; the bubble bursts! A swing, a bursting bubble—such is my song!” “What you relate m
ay be very pretty, but
you tell it in so melancholy a manner, and do not mention Kay.” What do the Hyacinths say? “There were once upon a time three sisters,
quite transparent, and very beautiful. The robe of the one was red, that of the second
blue, and that of the third white. They danced hand in hand beside the calm lake
in the clear moonshine. They were not elfin maidens, but mortal children. A sweet fragrance was smelt, and the maidens
vanished in the wood; the fragrance grew stronger—three
coffins, and in them three lovely maidens,
glided out of the forest and across the lake: the shining glow-worms flew around like little
floating lights. Do the dancing maidens sleep, or are they
dead? The odour of the flowers says they are corpses;
the evening bell tolls for the dead!” “You make me quite sad,” said little Gerda. “I cannot help thinking of the dead maidens. Oh! is little Kay really dead? The Roses have been in the earth, and they
say no.” “Ding, dong!” sounded the Hyacinth bells
. “We do not toll for little Kay; we do not
know him. That is our way of singing, the only one we
have.” And Gerda went to the Ranunculuses, that looked
forth from among the shining green leaves. “You are a little bright sun!” said Gerda. “Tell me if you know where I can find my
playfellow.” And the Ranunculus shone brightly, and looked
again at Gerda. What song could the Ranunculus sing? It was one that said nothing about Kay either. “In a small court the bright sun was shining
in the first day
s of spring. The beams glided down the white walls of a
neighbor's house, and close by the fresh yellow flowers were growing, shining like gold in
the warm sun-rays. An old grandmother was sitting in the air;
her grand-daughter, the poor and lovely servant just come for a short visit. She knows her grandmother. There was gold, pure virgin gold in that blessed
kiss. There, that is my little story,” said the
Ranunculus. “My poor old grandmother!” sighed Gerda. “Yes, she is longing for me, no doubt
: she
is sorrowing for me, as she did for little Kay. But I will soon come home, and then I will
bring Kay with me. It is of no use asking the flowers; they only
know their own old rhymes, and can tell me nothing.” And she tucked up her frock, to enable her
to run quicker; but the Narcissus gave her a knock on the leg, just as she was going
to jump over it. So she stood still, looked at the long yellow
flower, and asked, “You perhaps know something?” and she bent down to the Narcissus. And what
did it say? “I can see myself—I can see myself! Oh, how odorous I am! Up in the little garret there stands, half-dressed,
a little Dancer. She stands now on one leg, now on both; she
despises the whole world; yet she lives only in imagination. She pours water out of the teapot over a piece
of stuff which she holds in her hand; it is the bodice; cleanliness is a fine thing. The white dress is hanging on the hook; it
was washed in the teapot, and dried on the roof. She puts it on, ties a saffron-c
olored kerchief
round her neck, and then the gown looks whiter. I can see myself—I can see myself!” “That's nothing to me,” said little Gerda. “That does not concern me.” And then off she ran to the further end of
the garden. The gate was locked, but she shook the rusted
bolt till it was loosened, and the gate opened; and little Gerda ran off barefooted into the
wide world. She looked round her thrice, but no one followed
her. At last she could run no longer; she sat down
on a large stone, and w
hen she looked about her, she saw that the summer had passed; it
was late in the autumn, but that one could not remark in the beautiful garden, where
there was always sunshine, and where there were flowers the whole year round. “Dear me, how long I have staid!” said
Gerda. “Autumn is come. I must not rest any longer.” And she got up to go further. Oh, how tender and wearied her little feet
were! All around it looked so cold and raw: the
long willow-leaves were quite yellow, and the fog dripped f
rom them like water; one
leaf fell after the other: the sloes only stood full of fruit, which set one's teeth
on edge. Oh, how dark and comfortless it was in the
dreary world! FOURTH STORY. The Prince and Princess
Gerda was obliged to rest herself again, when, exactly opposite to her, a large Raven came
hopping over the white snow. He had long been looking at Gerda and shaking
his head; and now he said, “Caw! Caw!” Good day! Good day! He could not say it better; but he felt a
sympathy for the li
ttle girl, and asked her where she was going all alone. The word “alone” Gerda understood quite
well, and felt how much was expressed by it; so she told the Raven her whole history, and
asked if he had not seen Kay. The Raven nodded very gravely, and said, “It
may be—it may be!” “What, do you really think so?” cried the little girl; and she nearly squeezed
the Raven to death, so much did she kiss him. “Gently, gently,” said the Raven. “I think I know; I think that it may be
little Kay. But now h
e has forgotten you for the Princess.” “Does he live with a Princess?” asked
Gerda. “Yes—listen,” said the Raven; “but
it will be difficult for me to speak your language. If you understand the Raven language I can
tell you better.” “No, I have not learnt it,” said Gerda;
“but my grandmother understands it, and she can speak gibberish too. I wish I had learnt it.” “No matter,” said the Raven; “I will
tell you as well as I can; however, it will be bad enough.” And then he told all he knew. “In the
kingdom where we now are there lives
a Princess, who is extraordinarily clever; for she has read all the newspapers in the
whole world, and has forgotten them again—so clever is she. She was lately, it is said, sitting on her
throne—which is not very amusing after all—when she began humming an old tune, and it was
just, 'Oh, why should I not be married?' 'That song is not without its meaning,' said
she, and so then she was determined to marry; but she would have a husband who knew how
to give a
n answer when he was spoken to—not one who looked only as if he were a great
personage, for that is so tiresome. She then had all the ladies of the court drummed
together; and when they heard her intention, all were very pleased, and said, 'We are very
glad to hear it; it is the very thing we were thinking of.' You may believe every word I say,” said
the Raven; “for I have a tame sweetheart that hops about in the palace quite free,
and it was she who told me all this. “The newspapers appeared fo
rthwith with
a border of hearts and the initials of the Princess; and therein you might read that
every good-looking young man was at liberty to come to the palace and speak to the Princess;
and he who spoke in such wise as showed he felt himself at home there, that one the Princess
would choose for her husband. “Yes, Yes,” said the Raven, “you may
believe it; it is as true as I am sitting here. People came in crowds; there was a crush and
a hurry, but no one was successful either on the first o
r second day. They could all talk well enough when they
were out in the street; but as soon as they came inside the palace gates, and saw the
guard richly dressed in silver, and the lackeys in gold on the staircase, and the large illuminated
saloons, then they were abashed; and when they stood before the throne on which the
Princess was sitting, all they could do was to repeat the last word they had uttered,
and to hear it again did not interest her very much. It was just as if the people within
were under
a charm, and had fallen into a trance till they came out again into the street; for then—oh,
then—they could chatter enough. There was a whole row of them standing from
the town-gates to the palace. I was there myself to look,” said the Raven. “They grew hungry and thirsty; but from
the palace they got nothing whatever, not even a glass of water. Some of the cleverest, it is true, had taken
bread and butter with them: but none shared it with his neighbor, for each thought, 'Let
him l
ook hungry, and then the Princess won't have him.'” “But Kay—little Kay,” said Gerda, “when
did he come? Was he among the number?” “Patience, patience; we are just come to
him. It was on the third day when a little personage
without horse or equipage, came marching right boldly up to the palace; his eyes shone like
yours, he had beautiful long hair, but his clothes were very shabby.” “That was Kay,” cried Gerda, with a voice
of delight. “Oh, now I've found him!” and she clapped
her hands for joy
. “He had a little knapsack at his back,”
said the Raven. “No, that was certainly his sledge,” said
Gerda; “for when he went away he took his sledge with him.” “That may be,” said the Raven; “I did
not examine him so minutely; but I know from my tame sweetheart, that when he came into
the court-yard of the palace, and saw the body-guard in silver, the lackeys on the staircase,
he was not the least abashed; he nodded, and said to them, 'It must be very tiresome to
stand on the stairs; for my part
, I shall go in.' The saloons were gleaming with lustres—privy
councillors and excellencies were walking about barefooted, and wore gold keys; it was
enough to make any one feel uncomfortable. His boots creaked, too, so loudly, but still
he was not at all afraid.” “That's Kay for certain,” said Gerda. “I know he had on new boots; I have heard
them creaking in grandmama's room.” “Yes, they creaked,” said the Raven. “And on he went boldly up to the Princess,
who was sitting on a pearl as large as
a spinning-wheel. All the ladies of the court, with their attendants
and attendants' attendants, and all the cavaliers, with their gentlemen and gentlemen's gentlemen,
stood round; and the nearer they stood to the door, the prouder they looked. It was hardly possible to look at the gentleman's
gentleman, so very haughtily did he stand in the doorway.” “It must have been terrible,” said little
Gerda. “And did Kay get the Princess?” “Were I not a Raven, I should have taken
the Princess myself, alt
hough I am promised. It is said he spoke as well as I speak when
I talk Raven language; this I learned from my tame sweetheart. He was bold and nicely behaved; he had not
come to woo the Princess, but only to hear her wisdom. She pleased him, and he pleased her.” “Yes, yes; for certain that was Kay,”
said Gerda. “He was so clever; he could reckon fractions
in his head. Oh, won't you take me to the palace?” “That is very easily said,” answered the
Raven. “But how are we to manage it? I'll speak t
o my tame sweetheart about it:
she must advise us; for so much I must tell you, such a little girl as you are will never
get permission to enter.” “Oh, yes I shall,” said Gerda; “when
Kay hears that I am here, he will come out directly to fetch me.” “Wait for me here on these steps,” said
the Raven. He moved his head backwards and forwards and
flew away. The evening was closing in when the Raven
returned. “Caw—caw!” said he. “She sends you her compliments; and here
is a roll for you. She took it
out of the kitchen, where there
is bread enough. You are hungry, no doubt. It is not possible for you to enter the palace,
for you are barefooted: the guards in silver, and the lackeys in gold, would not allow it;
but do not cry, you shall come in still. My sweetheart knows a little back stair that
leads to the bedchamber, and she knows where she can get the key of it.” And they went into the garden in the large
avenue, where one leaf was falling after the other; and when the lights in the pala
ce had
all gradually disappeared, the Raven led little Gerda to the back door, which stood half open. Oh, how Gerda's heart beat with anxiety and
longing! It was just as if she had been about to do
something wrong; and yet she only wanted to know if little Kay was there. Yes, he must be there. She called to mind his intelligent eyes, and
his long hair, so vividly, she could quite see him as he used to laugh when they were
sitting under the roses at home. “He will, no doubt, be glad to see you—to
hear what a long way you have come for his sake; to know how unhappy all at home were
when he did not come back.” Oh, what a fright and a joy it was! They were now on the stairs. A single lamp was burning there; and on the
floor stood the tame Raven, turning her head on every side and looking at Gerda, who bowed
as her grandmother had taught her to do. “My intended has told me so much good of
you, my dear young lady,” said the tame Raven. “Your tale is very affecting. If you will take the lamp,
I will go before. We will go straight on, for we shall meet
no one.” “I think there is somebody just behind us,”
said Gerda; and something rushed past: it was like shadowy figures on the wall; horses
with flowing manes and thin legs, huntsmen, ladies and gentlemen on horseback. “They are only dreams,” said the Raven. “They come to fetch the thoughts of the
high personages to the chase; 'tis well, for now you can observe them in bed all the better. But let me find, when you enjoy honor and
disti
nction, that you possess a grateful heart.” “Tut! That's not worth talking about,” said the
Raven of the woods. They now entered the first saloon, which was
of rose-colored satin, with artificial flowers on the wall. Here the dreams were rushing past, but they
hastened by so quickly that Gerda could not see the high personages. One hall was more magnificent than the other;
one might indeed well be abashed; and at last they came into the bedchamber. The ceiling of the room resembled a large
palm-
tree with leaves of glass, of costly glass; and in the middle, from a thick golden
stem, hung two beds, each of which resembled a lily. One was white, and in this lay the Princess;
the other was red, and it was here that Gerda was to look for little Kay. She bent back one of the red leaves, and saw
a brown neck. Oh! that was Kay! She called him quite loud by name, held the
lamp towards him—the dreams rushed back again into the chamber—he awoke, turned
his head, and—it was not little Kay! The Pri
nce was only like him about the neck;
but he was young and handsome. And out of the white lily leaves the Princess
peeped, too, and asked what was the matter. Then little Gerda cried, and told her her
whole history, and all that the Ravens had done for her. “Poor little thing!” said the Prince and
the Princess. They praised the Ravens very much, and told
them they were not at all angry with them, but they were not to do so again. However, they should have a reward. “Will you fly about here at li
berty,”
asked the Princess; “or would you like to have a fixed appointment as court ravens,
with all the broken bits from the kitchen?” And both the Ravens nodded, and begged for
a fixed appointment; for they thought of their old age, and said, “It is a good thing to
have a provision for our old days.” And the Prince got up and let Gerda sleep
in his bed, and more than this he could not do. She folded her little hands and thought, “How
good men and animals are!” and she then fell asleep and slep
t soundly. All the dreams flew in again, and they now
looked like the angels; they drew a little sledge, in which little Kay sat and nodded
his head; but the whole was only a dream, and therefore it all vanished as soon as she
awoke. The next day she was dressed from head to
foot in silk and velvet. They offered to let her stay at the palace,
and lead a happy life; but she begged to have a little carriage with a horse in front, and
for a small pair of shoes; then, she said, she would again go fo
rth in the wide world
and look for Kay. Shoes and a muff were given her; she was,
too, dressed very nicely; and when she was about to set off, a new carriage stopped before
the door. It was of pure gold, and the arms of the Prince
and Princess shone like a star upon it; the coachman, the footmen, and the outriders,
for outriders were there, too, all wore golden crowns. The Prince and the Princess assisted her into
the carriage themselves, and wished her all success. The Raven of the woods, who w
as now married,
accompanied her for the first three miles. He sat beside Gerda, for he could not bear
riding backwards; the other Raven stood in the doorway, and flapped her wings; she could
not accompany Gerda, because she suffered from headache since she had had a fixed appointment
and ate so much. The carriage was lined inside with sugar-plums,
and in the seats were fruits and gingerbread. “Farewell! Farewell!” cried Prince and Princess; and Gerda wept,
and the Raven wept. Thus passed the fir
st miles; and then the
Raven bade her farewell, and this was the most painful separation of all. He flew into a tree, and beat his black wings
as long as he could see the carriage, that shone from afar like a sunbeam. FIFTH STORY. The Little Robber Maiden
They drove through the dark wood; but the carriage shone like a torch, and it dazzled
the eyes of the robbers, so that they could not bear to look at it. “'Tis gold! 'Tis gold!” they cried; and they rushed forward, seized
the horses, knocked do
wn the little postilion, the coachman, and the servants, and pulled
little Gerda out of the carriage. “How plump, how beautiful she is! She must have been fed on nut-kernels,”
said the old female robber, who had a long, scrubby beard, and bushy eyebrows that hung
down over her eyes. “She is as good as a fatted lamb! How nice she will be!” And then she drew out a knife, the blade of
which shone so that it was quite dreadful to behold. “Oh!” cried the woman at the same moment. She had been bitten
in the ear by her own
little daughter, who hung at her back; and who was so wild and unmanageable, that it
was quite amusing to see her. “You naughty child!” said the mother:
and now she had not time to kill Gerda. “She shall play with me,” said the little
robber child. “She shall give me her muff, and her pretty
frock; she shall sleep in my bed!” And then she gave her mother another bite,
so that she jumped, and ran round with the pain; and the Robbers laughed, and said, “Look,
how she is danci
ng with the little one!” “I will go into the carriage,” said the
little robber maiden; and she would have her will, for she was very spoiled and very headstrong. She and Gerda got in; and then away they drove
over the stumps of felled trees, deeper and deeper into the woods. The little robber maiden was as tall as Gerda,
but stronger, broader-shouldered, and of dark complexion; her eyes were quite black; they
looked almost melancholy. She embraced little Gerda, and said, “They
shall not kill you
as long as I am not displeased with you. You are, doubtless, a Princess?” “No,” said little Gerda; who then related
all that had happened to her, and how much she cared about little Kay. The little robber maiden looked at her with
a serious air, nodded her head slightly, and said, “They shall not kill you, even if
I am angry with you: then I will do it myself”; and she dried Gerda's eyes, and put both her
hands in the handsome muff, which was so soft and warm. At length the carriage stopped. Th
ey were in the midst of the court-yard of
a robber's castle. It was full of cracks from top to bottom;
and out of the openings magpies and rooks were flying; and the great bull-dogs, each
of which looked as if he could swallow a man, jumped up, but they did not bark, for that
was forbidden. In the midst of the large, old, smoking hall
burnt a great fire on the stone floor. The smoke disappeared under the stones, and
had to seek its own egress. In an immense caldron soup was boiling; and
rabbits
and hares were being roasted on a spit. “You shall sleep with me to-night, with
all my animals,” said the little robber maiden. They had something to eat and drink; and then
went into a corner, where straw and carpets were lying. Beside them, on laths and perches, sat nearly
a hundred pigeons, all asleep, seemingly; but yet they moved a little when the robber
maiden came. “They are all mine,” said she, at the
same time seizing one that was next to her by the legs and shaking it so that its wings
fluttered. “Kiss it,” cried the little girl, and
flung the pigeon in Gerda's face. “Up there is the rabble of the wood,”
continued she, pointing to several laths which were fastened before a hole high up in the
wall; “that's the rabble; they would all fly away immediately, if they were not well
fastened in. And here is my dear old Bac”; and she laid
hold of the horns of a reindeer, that had a bright copper ring round its neck, and was
tethered to the spot. “We are obliged to lock this fellow in
too,
or he would make his escape. Every evening I tickle his neck with my sharp
knife; he is so frightened at it!” and the little girl drew forth a long knife,
from a crack in the wall, and let it glide over the Reindeer's neck. The poor animal kicked; the girl laughed,
and pulled Gerda into bed with her. “Do you intend to keep your knife while
you sleep?” asked Gerda; looking at it rather fearfully. “I always sleep with the knife,” said
the little robber maiden. “There is no knowing what may h
appen. But tell me now, once more, all about little
Kay; and why you have started off in the wide world alone.” And Gerda related all, from the very beginning:
the Wood-pigeons cooed above in their cage, and the others slept. The little robber maiden wound her arm round
Gerda's neck, held the knife in the other hand, and snored so loud that everybody could
hear her; but Gerda could not close her eyes, for she did not know whether she was to live
or die. The robbers sat round the fire, sang and d
rank;
and the old female robber jumped about so, that it was quite dreadful for Gerda to see
her. Then the Wood-pigeons said, “Coo! Coo! We have seen little Kay! A white hen carries his sledge; he himself
sat in the carriage of the Snow Queen, who passed here, down just over the wood, as we
lay in our nest. She blew upon us young ones; and all died
except we two. Coo! Coo!” “What is that you say up there?” cried little Gerda. “Where did the Snow Queen go to? Do you know anything about it?” “She
is no doubt gone to Lapland; for there
is always snow and ice there. Only ask the Reindeer, who is tethered there.” “Ice and snow is there! There it is, glorious and beautiful!” said
the Reindeer. “One can spring about in the large shining
valleys! The Snow Queen has her summer-tent there;
but her fixed abode is high up towards the North Pole, on the Island called Spitzbergen.” “Oh, Kay! Poor little Kay!” sighed Gerda. “Do you choose to be quiet?” said the
robber maiden. “If you don't, I shall m
ake you.” In the morning Gerda told her all that the
Wood-pigeons had said; and the little maiden looked very serious, but she nodded her head,
and said, “That's no matter—that's no matter. Do you know where Lapland lies!” she asked of the Reindeer. “Who should know better than I?” said
the animal; and his eyes rolled in his head. “I was born and bred there—there I leapt
about on the fields of snow.” “Listen,” said the robber maiden to Gerda. “You see that the men are gone; but my mother
is stil
l here, and will remain. However, towards morning she takes a draught
out of the large flask, and then she sleeps a little: then I will do something for you.” She now jumped out of bed, flew to her mother;
with her arms round her neck, and pulling her by the beard, said, “Good morrow, my
own sweet nanny-goat of a mother.” And her mother took hold of her nose, and
pinched it till it was red and blue; but this was all done out of pure love. When the mother had taken a sup at her flask,
and was hav
ing a nap, the little robber maiden went to the Reindeer, and said, “I should
very much like to give you still many a tickling with the sharp knife, for then you are so
amusing; however, I will untether you, and help you out, so that you may go back to Lapland. But you must make good use of your legs; and
take this little girl for me to the palace of the Snow Queen, where her playfellow is. You have heard, I suppose, all she said; for
she spoke loud enough, and you were listening.” The Reindeer
gave a bound for joy. The robber maiden lifted up little Gerda,
and took the precaution to bind her fast on the Reindeer's back; she even gave her a small
cushion to sit on. “Here are your worsted leggins, for it will
be cold; but the muff I shall keep for myself, for it is so very pretty. But I do not wish you to be cold. Here is a pair of lined gloves of my mother's;
they just reach up to your elbow. On with them! Now you look about the hands just like my
ugly old mother!” And Gerda wept for j
oy. “I can't bear to see you fretting,” said
the little robber maiden. “This is just the time when you ought to
look pleased. Here are two loaves and a ham for you, so
that you won't starve.” The bread and the meat were fastened to the
Reindeer's back; the little maiden opened the door, called in all the dogs, and then
with her knife cut the rope that fastened the animal, and said to him, “Now, off with
you; but take good care of the little girl!” And Gerda stretched out her hands with the
large
wadded gloves towards the robber maiden, and said, “Farewell!” and the Reindeer
flew on over bush and bramble through the great wood, over moor and heath, as fast as
he could go. “Ddsa! Ddsa!” was heard in the sky. It was just as if somebody was sneezing. “These are my old northern-lights,” said
the Reindeer, “look how they gleam!” And on he now sped still quicker—day and
night on he went: the loaves were consumed, and the ham too; and now they were in Lapland. SIXTH STORY. The Lapland Woman an
d the Finland Woman
Suddenly they stopped before a little house, which looked very miserable. The roof reached to the ground; and the door
was so low, that the family were obliged to creep upon their stomachs when they went in
or out. Nobody was at home except an old Lapland woman,
who was dressing fish by the light of an oil lamp. And the Reindeer told her the whole of Gerda's
history, but first of all his own; for that seemed to him of much greater importance. Gerda was so chilled that she cou
ld not speak. “Poor thing,” said the Lapland woman,
“you have far to run still. You have more than a hundred miles to go before
you get to Finland; there the Snow Queen has her country-house, and burns blue lights every
evening. I will give you a few words from me, which
I will write on a dried haberdine, for paper I have none; this you can take with you to
the Finland woman, and she will be able to give you more information than I can.” When Gerda had warmed herself, and had eaten
and drunk, th
e Lapland woman wrote a few words on a dried haberdine, begged Gerda to take
care of them, put her on the Reindeer, bound her fast, and away sprang the animal. “Ddsa! Ddsa!” was again heard in the air; the most charming
blue lights burned the whole night in the sky, and at last they came to Finland. They knocked at the chimney of the Finland
woman; for as to a door, she had none. There was such a heat inside that the Finland
woman herself went about almost naked. She was diminutive and dirty. Sh
e immediately loosened little Gerda's clothes,
pulled off her thick gloves and boots; for otherwise the heat would have been too great—and
after laying a piece of ice on the Reindeer's head, read what was written on the fish-skin. She read it three times: she then knew it
by heart; so she put the fish into the cupboard—for it might very well be eaten, and she never
threw anything away. Then the Reindeer related his own story first,
and afterwards that of little Gerda; and the Finland woman winke
d her eyes, but said nothing. “You are so clever,” said the Reindeer;
“you can, I know, twist all the winds of the world together in a knot. If the seaman loosens one knot, then he has
a good wind; if a second, then it blows pretty stiffly; if he undoes the third and fourth,
then it rages so that the forests are upturned. Will you give the little maiden a potion,
that she may possess the strength of twelve men, and vanquish the Snow Queen?” “The strength of twelve men!” said the
Finland woman. “
Much good that would be!” Then she went to a cupboard, and drew out
a large skin rolled up. When she had unrolled it, strange characters
were to be seen written thereon; and the Finland woman read at such a rate that the perspiration
trickled down her forehead. But the Reindeer begged so hard for little
Gerda, and Gerda looked so imploringly with tearful eyes at the Finland woman, that she
winked, and drew the Reindeer aside into a corner, where they whispered together, while
the animal got some
fresh ice put on his head. “'Tis true little Kay is at the Snow Queen's,
and finds everything there quite to his taste; and he thinks it the very best place in the
world; but the reason of that is, he has a splinter of glass in his eye, and in his heart. These must be got out first; otherwise he
will never go back to mankind, and the Snow Queen will retain her power over him.” “But can you give little Gerda nothing to
take which will endue her with power over the whole?” “I can give her no more
power than what
she has already. Don't you see how great it is? Don't you see how men and animals are forced
to serve her; how well she gets through the world barefooted? She must not hear of her power from us; that
power lies in her heart, because she is a sweet and innocent child! If she cannot get to the Snow Queen by herself,
and rid little Kay of the glass, we cannot help her. Two miles hence the garden of the Snow Queen
begins; thither you may carry the little girl. Set her down by the la
rge bush with red berries,
standing in the snow; don't stay talking, but hasten back as fast as possible.” And now the Finland woman placed little Gerda
on the Reindeer's back, and off he ran with all imaginable speed. “Oh! I have not got my boots! I have not brought my gloves!” cried little Gerda. She remarked she was without them from the
cutting frost; but the Reindeer dared not stand still; on he ran till he came to the
great bush with the red berries, and there he set Gerda down, kissed her
mouth, while
large bright tears flowed from the animal's eyes, and then back he went as fast as possible. There stood poor Gerda now, without shoes
or gloves, in the very middle of dreadful icy Finland. She ran on as fast as she could. There then came a whole regiment of snow-flakes,
but they did not fall from above, and they were quite bright and shining from the Aurora
Borealis. The flakes ran along the ground, and the nearer
they came the larger they grew. Gerda well remembered how large and
strange
the snow-flakes appeared when she once saw them through a magnifying-glass; but now they
were large and terrific in another manner—they were all alive. They were the outposts of the Snow Queen. They had the most wondrous shapes; some looked
like large ugly porcupines; others like snakes knotted together, with their heads sticking
out; and others, again, like small fat bears, with the hair standing on end: all were of
dazzling whiteness—all were living snow-flakes. Little Gerda repeated
the Lord's Prayer. The cold was so intense that she could see
her own breath, which came like smoke out of her mouth. It grew thicker and thicker, and took the
form of little angels, that grew more and more when they touched the earth. All had helms on their heads, and lances and
shields in their hands; they increased in numbers; and when Gerda had finished the Lord's
Prayer, she was surrounded by a whole legion. They thrust at the horrid snow-flakes with
their spears, so that they flew into a t
housand pieces; and little Gerda walked on bravely
and in security. The angels patted her hands and feet; and
then she felt the cold less, and went on quickly towards the palace of the Snow Queen. But now we shall see how Kay fared. He never thought of Gerda, and least of all
that she was standing before the palace. SEVENTH STORY. What Took Place in the Palace of the Snow
Queen, and what Happened Afterward. The walls of the palace were of driving snow,
and the windows and doors of cutting winds.
There were more than a hundred halls there,
according as the snow was driven by the winds. The largest was many miles in extent; all
were lighted up by the powerful Aurora Borealis, and all were so large, so empty, so icy cold,
and so resplendent! Mirth never reigned there; there was never
even a little bear-ball, with the storm for music, while the polar bears went on their
hind legs and showed off their steps. Never a little tea-party of white young lady
foxes; vast, cold, and empty were the
halls of the Snow Queen. The northern-lights shone with such precision
that one could tell exactly when they were at their highest or lowest degree of brightness. In the middle of the empty, endless hall of
snow, was a frozen lake; it was cracked in a thousand pieces, but each piece was so like
the other, that it seemed the work of a cunning artificer. In the middle of this lake sat the Snow Queen
when she was at home; and then she said she was sitting in the Mirror of Understanding,
and that th
is was the only one and the best thing in the world. Little Kay was quite blue, yes nearly black
with cold; but he did not observe it, for she had kissed away all feeling of cold from
his body, and his heart was a lump of ice. He was dragging along some pointed flat pieces
of ice, which he laid together in all possible ways, for he wanted to make something with
them; just as we have little flat pieces of wood to make geometrical figures with, called
the Chinese Puzzle. Kay made all sorts of figu
res, the most complicated,
for it was an ice-puzzle for the understanding. In his eyes the figures were extraordinarily
beautiful, and of the utmost importance; for the bit of glass which was in his eye caused
this. He found whole figures which represented a
written word; but he never could manage to represent just the word he wanted—that word
was “eternity”; and the Snow Queen had said, “If you can discover that figure,
you shall be your own master, and I will make you a present of the whole wo
rld and a pair
of new skates.” But he could not find it out. “I am going now to warm lands,” said the
Snow Queen. “I must have a look down into the black
caldrons.” It was the volcanoes Vesuvius and Etna that
she meant. “I will just give them a coating of white,
for that is as it ought to be; besides, it is good for the oranges and the grapes.” And then away she flew, and Kay sat quite
alone in the empty halls of ice that were miles long, and looked at the blocks of ice,
and thought and thought
till his skull was almost cracked. There he sat quite benumbed and motionless;
one would have imagined he was frozen to death. Suddenly little Gerda stepped through the
great portal into the palace. The gate was formed of cutting winds; but
Gerda repeated her evening prayer, and the winds were laid as though they slept; and
the little maiden entered the vast, empty, cold halls. There she beheld Kay: she recognised him,
flew to embrace him, and cried out, her arms firmly holding him the while, “K
ay, sweet
little Kay! Have I then found you at last?” But he sat quite still, benumbed and cold. Then little Gerda shed burning tears; and
they fell on his bosom, they penetrated to his heart, they thawed the lumps of ice, and
consumed the splinters of the looking-glass; he looked at her, and she sang the hymn:
“The rose in the valley is blooming so sweet, And angels descend there the children to greet.” Hereupon Kay burst into tears; he wept so
much that the splinter rolled out of his eye, and
he recognised her, and shouted, “Gerda,
sweet little Gerda! Where have you been so long? And where have I been?” He looked round him. “How cold it is here!” said he. “How empty and cold!” And he held fast by Gerda, who laughed and
wept for joy. It was so beautiful, that even the blocks
of ice danced about for joy; and when they were tired and laid themselves down, they
formed exactly the letters which the Snow Queen had told him to find out; so now he
was his own master, and he would have the wh
ole world and a pair of new skates into
the bargain. Gerda kissed his cheeks, and they grew quite
blooming; she kissed his eyes, and they shone like her own; she kissed his hands and feet,
and he was again well and merry. The Snow Queen might come back as soon as
she liked; there stood his discharge written in resplendent masses of ice. They took each other by the hand, and wandered
forth out of the large hall; they talked of their old grandmother, and of the roses upon
the roof; and wherever th
ey went, the winds ceased raging, and the sun burst forth. And when they reached the bush with the red
berries, they found the Reindeer waiting for them. He had brought another, a young one, with
him, whose udder was filled with milk, which he gave to the little ones, and kissed their
lips. They then carried Kay and Gerda—first to
the Finland woman, where they warmed themselves in the warm room, and learned what they were
to do on their journey home; and they went to the Lapland woman, who made
some new clothes
for them and repaired their sledges. The Reindeer and the young hind leaped along
beside them, and accompanied them to the boundary of the country. Here the first vegetation peeped forth; here
Kay and Gerda took leave of the Lapland woman. “Farewell! Farewell!” they all said. And the first green buds appeared, the first
little birds began to chirrup; and out of the wood came, riding on a magnificent horse,
which Gerda knew (it was one of the leaders in the golden carriage), a yo
ung damsel with
a bright-red cap on her head, and armed with pistols. It was the little robber maiden, who, tired
of being at home, had determined to make a journey to the north; and afterwards in another
direction, if that did not please her. She recognised Gerda immediately, and Gerda
knew her too. It was a joyful meeting. “You are a fine fellow for tramping about,”
said she to little Kay; “I should like to know, faith, if you deserve that one should
run from one end of the world to the other
for your sake?” But Gerda patted her cheeks, and inquired
for the Prince and Princess. “They are gone abroad,” said the other. “But the Raven?” asked little Gerda. “Oh! The Raven is dead,” she answered. “His tame sweetheart is a widow, and wears
a bit of black worsted round her leg; she laments most piteously, but it's all mere
talk and stuff! Now tell me what you've been doing and how
you managed to catch him.” And Gerda and Kay both told their story. And “Schnipp-schnapp-schnurre-basselurre,”
said the robber maiden; and she took the hands of each, and promised that if she should some
day pass through the town where they lived, she would come and visit them; and then away
she rode. Kay and Gerda took each other's hand: it was
lovely spring weather, with abundance of flowers and of verdure. The church-bells rang, and the children recognised
the high towers, and the large town; it was that in which they dwelt. They entered and hastened up to their grandmother's
room, where everything wa
s standing as formerly. The clock said “tick! tack!” and the finger
moved round; but as they entered, they remarked that they were now grown up. The roses on the leads hung blooming in at
the open window; there stood the little children's chairs, and Kay and Gerda sat down on them,
holding each other by the hand; they both had forgotten the cold empty splendor of the
Snow Queen, as though it had been a dream. The grandmother sat in the bright sunshine,
and read aloud from the Bible: “Unless ye b
ecome as little children, ye cannot enter
the kingdom of heaven.” And Kay and Gerda looked in each other's eyes,
and all at once they understood the old hymn: “The rose in the valley is blooming so sweet,
And angels descend there the children to greet.” There sat the two grown-up persons; grown-up,
and yet children; children at least in heart; and it was summer-time; summer, glorious summer! The end. This concludes this reading of The Snow Queen
by Hans Christian Andersen If you enjoyed it, plea
se like and subscribe. To request our next book or shop our store,
visit AiReadtome.com. Thanks for listening.
Comments
Let the gentle lullaby of the night soothe everyone's weary souls. Embrace the darkness, for it holds the promise of a brighter tomorrow. Sweet dreams.☺✨🌜💞😴🌟💞🌟💤
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