Chapter XXV: Section IV: Fairy Stories--Modern Fantastic Tales (1)

INTRODUCTORY

The difficulties of classification are very apparent here, and once more it must be noted that illustrative and practical purposes rather than logical ones are served by the arrangement adopted. The modern fanciful story is here placed next to the real folk story instead of after all the groups of folk products. The Hebrew stories at the beginning belong quite as well, perhaps even better, in Section V, while the stories at the end of Section VI shade off into the more modern types of short tales. Then the fact that other groups of modern stories are to follow later, illustrating more realistic studies of life and the very recent and remarkably numerous writings centering around animal life, limits the list here. Many of the animal stories might, with equal propriety, be placed under the head of the fantastic.

_The child's natural literature._ The world has lost certain secrets as the price of an advancing civilization. It is a commonplace of observation that no one can duplicate the success of Mother Goose, whether she be thought of as the maker of jingles or the teller of tales. The conditions of modern life preclude the generally naive attitude that produced the folk rhymes, ballads, tales, proverbs, fables, and myths. The folk saw things simply and directly. The complex, analytic, questioning mind is not yet, either in or out of stories. The motives from which people act are to them plain and not mixed. Characters are good or bad. They feel no need of elaborately explaining their joys and sorrows. Such experiences come with the day's work. "To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new." The zest of life with them is emphatic. Their humor is fresh, unbounded, sincere; there is no trace of cynicism. In folk literature we do not feel the presence of a "writer" who is mightily concerned about maintaining his reputation for wisdom, originality, or style. Hence the freedom from any note of straining after effect, of artificiality. In the midst of a life limited to fundamental needs, their literature deals with fundamentals. On the whole, it was a literature for entertainment. A more learned upper class may have concerned itself then about "problems" and "purposes," as the whole world does now, but the literature of the folk had no such interests.

Without discussing the limits of the culture-epoch theory of human development as a complete guide in education, it is clear that the young child passes through a period when his mind looks out upon the world in a manner analogous to that of the folk as expressed in their literature. Quarrel with the fact as we may, it still remains a fact that his nature craves these old stories and will not be satisfied with something "just as good."

_The modern fairy story._ The advance of civilization has been accompanied by a wistful longing for the simplicities left by the way. In some periods this interest in the past has been more marked than in others. When the machinery of life has weighed too heavily on the human spirit, men have turned for relief to a contemplation of the "good old times" and have preached crusades of a "return to nature." Many modern writers have tried to recapture some of the power of the folk tale by imitating its method. In many cases they have had a fair degree of success: in one case, that of Hans Christian Andersen, the success is admittedly very complete. As a rule, however, the sharpness of the sense of wonder has been blunted, and many imitators of the old fairy tale succeed in keeping only the shell. Another class of modern fantastic tale is that of the _pourquoi_ story, which has the explanation of something as its object. Such tales grow out of the attempt to use the charm of old stories as a means of conveying instruction, somewhat after the method of those parents who covered up our bitter medicine with some of our favorite jam. Even "Little Red Riding Hood," as we saw, has been turned into a flower myth. So compelling is this pedagogical motive that so-called nature myths have been invented or made from existing stories in great numbers. The practical results please many teachers, but it may be questioned whether the gain is sufficient to compensate children for the distorting results upon masterpieces.

_Wide range of the modern fairy tale._ The bibliography will suggest something of the treasures in the field of the modern fanciful story. From the delightful nonsense of _Alice in Wonderland_ and the "travelers' tales" of _Baron Munchausen_ to the profound seriousness of _The King of the Golden River_ and _Why the Chimes Rang_ is a far cry. There are the rich fancies of Barrie and Maeterlinck, at the same time delicate as the promises of spring and brilliant as the fruitions of summer. One may be blown away to the land of Oz, he may lose his shadow with Peter Schlemihl, he may outdo the magic carpet with his Traveling-Cloak, he may visit the courts of kings with his Wonderful Chair; Miss Muffet will invite us to her Christmas party, Lemuel Gulliver will lead us to lands not marked in the school atlas; on every side is a world of wonder.

_Some qualities of these modern tales._ Every age produces after its own fashion, and we must expect to find the modern user of the fairy-story method expressing through it the qualities of his own outlook upon the world. Interest in the picturesque aspects of landscape will be emphasized, as in the early portions of "The Story of Fairyfoot" and, with especial magnificence of style, throughout _The King of the Golden River_. There will appear the saddened mood of the modern in the face of the human miseries that make happiness a mockery, as in "The Happy Prince." The destructive effects of the possessive instinct upon all that is finest in human nature is reflected in "The Prince's Dream." That the most valuable efforts are often those performed with least spectacular settings may be discerned in "The Knights of the Silver Shield," while the lesson of kindly helpfulness is the burden of "Old Pipes and the Dryad." In many modern stories the reader is too much aware of the conscious efforts of style and structure. The thoughtful child will sometimes be too much distressed by the more somber modern story, and should not hear too many of the gloomy type.

_Andersen the consummate master._ Hans Christian Andersen is the acknowledged master of the modern story for children. What are the sources of his success? Genius is always unexplainable except in terms of itself, but some things are clear. To begin, he makes a mark--drives down a peg: "There came a soldier marching along the high road--_one, two! one, two!_" and you are off. No backing and filling, no jockeying for position, no elaborate setting of the stage. The story's the thing! Next, the language is the language of common oral speech, free and unrestrained. The rigid forms of the grammar are eschewed. There is no beating around the bush. Seeing through the eyes of the child, he uses the language that is natural to such sight: "Aha! there sat the dog with eyes as big as mill-wheels." In quick dramatic fashion the story unrolls before your vision: "So the soldier cut the witch's head off. There she lay!" No agonizing over the cruelty of it, the lack of sympathy. It is a joke after the child's own heart, and with a hearty laugh at this end to an impostor, the listener is on with the story. The logic is the logic of childhood: "And everyone could see she was a real princess, for she was so lovely." When Andersen deals with some of the deeper truths of existence, as in "The Nightingale" or "The Ugly Duckling," he still manages to throw it all into the form that is natural and convincing and simple to the child. He never mounts a pedestal and becomes a grown-up philosopher. Perhaps Andersen's secret lay in the fact that some fairy godmother invested him at birth with a power to see things so completely as a child sees them that he never questioned the dignity of the method. In few of his stories is there any evidence of a constraint due to a conscious attempt to write down to the understandings of children.

SUGGESTIONS FOR READING

The most valuable discussion of the
difficulties to be mastered in writing the
literary fairy tale, and the story of the only
very complete mastery yet made, will be found
in the account of Hans Christian Andersen in
_Eminent Authors of the Nineteenth Century_, by
Georg Brandes. Now and then hints of importance
on such stories and their value for children
may be found in biographies of the more
prominent writers represented in the section
and mentioned in the bibliography, and in
magazine articles and reviews. These latter may
be located by use of the periodical indexes
found in most libraries. For the proper
attitude which the schools should have toward
fiction and fanciful writing in general,
nothing could be better than two lectures on
"Children's Reading," in _On the Art of
Reading_, by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch.

190

The rabbis of old were good story-tellers. They
were essentially teachers and they understood
that the best sermon is a story. "They were
fond of the parable, the anecdote, the apt
illustration, and their legends that have been
transmitted to us, all aglow with the light and
life of the Orient, possess perennial charm."
It is possible to find in rabbinical sources a
large number of brief stories that have the
power of entertaining as well as of emphasizing
some qualities of character that are important
in all ages. The plan of this book does not
include the wonderful stories of the Old
Testament, which are easy of access to any
teacher and may be used as experience directs.
The Hebrew stories following correspond very
nearly to the folk anecdote and are placed in
this section because of their literary form.

Dr. Abram S. Isaacs (1851--) is a professor in
New York University and is also a rabbi. The
selection that follows is from his _Stories
from the Rabbis_. (Copyrighted. Used by special
permission of The Bloch Publishing Company, New
York.) Taking advantage of the popular
superstition that a four-leaved clover is a
sign of good luck, Dr. Isaacs has grouped
together four parable-like stories, each of
which deals with wealth as a subject. The
editors are responsible for the special titles
given. The messages of these stories might be
summarized as follows: If you would be lucky,
(1) be honest because it is right to be honest,
(2) value good friends more highly than gold,
(3) let love accompany each gift of charity,
and (4) use common sense in your business
ventures.

A FOUR-LEAVED CLOVER

ABRAM S. ISAACS

1. THE RABBI AND THE DIADEM

Great was the alarm in the palace of Rome, which soon spread throughout the entire city. The Empress had lost her costly diadem, and it could not be found. They searched in every direction, but it was all in vain. Half distracted, for the mishap boded no good to her or her house, the Empress redoubled her exertions to regain her precious possession, but without result. As a last resource it was proclaimed in the public streets:

"The Empress has lost a priceless diadem. Whoever restores it within thirty days shall receive a princely reward. But he who delays, and brings it after thirty days, shall lose his head."

In those times all nationalities flocked toward Rome; all classes and creeds could be met in its stately halls and crowded thoroughfares. Among the rest was a rabbi, a learned sage from the East, who loved goodness and lived a righteous life, in the stir and turmoil of the Western world. It chanced one night as he was strolling up and down, in busy meditation, beneath the clear, moonlit sky, he saw the diadem sparkling at his feet. He seized it quickly, brought it to his dwelling, where he guarded it carefully until the thirty days had expired, when he resolved to return it to the owner.

He proceeded to the palace, and, undismayed at sight of long lines of soldiery and officials, asked for an audience with the Empress.

"What dost thou mean by this?" she inquired, when he told her his story and gave her the diadem. "Why didst thou delay until this hour? Dost thou know the penalty? Thy head must be forfeited."

"I delayed until now," the rabbi answered calmly, "so that thou mightst know that I return thy diadem, not for the sake of the reward, still less out of fear of punishment; but solely to comply with the Divine command not to withhold from another the property which belongs to him."

"Blessed be thy God!" the Empress answered, and dismissed the rabbi without further reproof; for had he not done right for right's sake?

2. FRIENDSHIP

A certain father was doubly blessed--he had reached a good old age, and had ten sons. One day he called them to his side, and after repeated expressions of affection, told them that he had acquired a fortune by industry and economy, and would give them one hundred gold pieces each before his death, so that they might begin business for themselves, and not be obliged to wait until he had passed away. It happened, however, that, soon after, he lost a portion of his property, much to his regret, and had only nine hundred and fifty gold pieces left. So he gave one hundred to each of his nine sons. When his youngest son, whom he loved most of all, asked naturally what was to be his share, the father replied:

"My son, I promised to give each of thy brothers one hundred gold pieces. I shall keep my word to them. I have fifty left. Thirty I shall reserve for my funeral expenses, and twenty will be thy portion. But understand this--I possess, in addition, ten friends, whom I give over to thee as compensation for the loss of the eighty gold pieces. Believe me, they are worth more than all the gold and silver."

The youth tenderly embraced his parent, and assured him that he was content, such was his confidence and affection. In a few days the father died, and the nine sons took their money, and without a thought of their youngest brother and the small amount he had received, followed each his own fancy. But the youngest son, although his portion was the least, resolved to heed his father's words, and hold fast to the ten friends. When a short time had elapsed he prepared a simple feast, went to the ten friends of his father, and said to them: "My father, almost in his last words, asked me to keep you, his friends, in honor. Before I leave this place to seek my fortune elsewhere, will you not share with me a farewell meal, and aid me thus to comply with his dying request?"

The ten friends, stirred by his earnestness and cordiality, accepted his invitation with pleasure, and enjoyed the repast, although they were used to richer fare. When the moment for parting arrived, however, one of them rose and spoke: "My friends, it seems to me that of all the sons of our dear friend that has gone, the youngest alone is mindful of his father's friendship for us, and reverences his memory. Let us, then, be true friends to him, for his own sake as well, and provide for him a generous sum, that he may begin business here, and not be forced to live among strangers."

The proposal, so unexpected and yet so merited, was received with applause. The youth, proud of their friendship, soon became a prosperous merchant, who never forgot that faithful friends were more valuable than gold or silver, and left an honored name to his descendants.

3. TRUE CHARITY

There lived once a very wealthy man, who cared little for money, except as a means for helping others. He used to adopt a peculiar plan in his method of charitable relief. He had three boxes made for the three different classes of people whom he desired to assist. In one box he put gold pieces, which he distributed among artists and scholars, for he honored knowledge and learning as the highest possession. In the second box he placed silver pieces for widows and orphans, for whom his sympathies were readily awakened. In the third were copper coins for the general poor and beggars--no one was turned away from his dwelling without some gift, however small.

That the man was beloved by all, need hardly be said. He rejoiced that he was enabled to do so much good, retained his modest bearing, and continued to regard his wealth as only an incentive to promote the happiness of mankind, without distinction of creed or nationality. Unhappily, his wife was just the opposite. She rarely gave food or raiment to the poor, and felt angry at her husband's liberality, which she considered shameless extravagance.

The day came when in the pressure of various duties he had to leave his house, and could not return until the morrow. Unaware of his sudden departure, the poor knocked at the door as usual for his kind gifts; but when they found him absent, they were about to go away or remain in the street, being terrified at the thought of asking his wife for alms. Vexed at their conduct, she exclaimed impetuously: "I will give to the poor according to my husband's method."

She seized the keys of the boxes, and first opened the box of gold. But how great was her terror when she gazed at its contents--frogs jumping here and there. Then she went to the silver box, and it was full of ants. With troubled heart, she opened the copper box, and it was crowded with creeping bugs. Loud then were her complaints, and bitter her tears, at the deception, and she kept her room until her husband returned.

No sooner did the man enter the room, annoyed that so many poor people were kept waiting outside, than she asked him: "Why did you give me keys to boxes of frogs, ants, and bugs, instead of gold, silver, and copper? Was it right thus to deceive your wife, and disappoint the poor?"

"Not so," rejoined her husband. "The mistake must be yours, not mine. I have given you the right keys. I do not know what you have done with them. Come, let me have them. I am guiltless of any deception." He took the keys, quickly opened the boxes, and found the coins as he had left them. "Ah, dear wife," said he, when she had regained her composure, "your heart, I fear, was not in the gift, when you wished to give to the poor. It is the feeling that prompts us to aid, not the mere money, which is the chief thing after all."

And ever after, her heart was changed. Her gifts blessed the poor of the land, and aroused their love and reverence.

4. AN EASTERN GARDEN

In an Eastern city a lovely garden flourished, whose beauty and luxuriance awakened much admiration. It was the owner's greatest pleasure to watch its growth, as leaf, flower, and tree seemed daily to unfold to brighter bloom. One morning, while taking his usual stroll through the well-kept paths, he was surprised to find that some blossoms were picked to pieces. The next day he noticed more signs of mischief, and rendered thus more observant he gave himself no rest until he had discovered the culprit. It was a little trembling bird, whom he managed to capture, and was about to kill in his anger, when it exclaimed: "Do not kill me, I beg you, kind sir. I am only a wee, tiny bird. My flesh is too little to satisfy you. I would not furnish one-hundredth of a meal to a man of your size. Let me free without any hesitation, and I shall teach you something that will be of much use to you and your friends."

"I would dearly like to put an end to you," replied the man, "for you were rapidly putting an end to my garden. It is a good thing to rid the world of such annoyances. But as I am not revengeful, and am always glad to learn something useful, I shall set you free this time." And he opened his hand to give the bird more air.

"Attention!" cried the bird. "Here are three rules which should guide you through life, and if you observe them you will find your path made easier: Do not cry over spilt milk; do not desire what is unattainable, and do not believe what is impossible."

The man was satisfied with the advice, and let the bird escape; but it had scarcely regained its liberty, when, from a high tree opposite, it exclaimed:

"What a silly man! The idea of letting me escape! If you only knew what you have lost! But it is too late now."

"What have I lost?" the man asked, angrily.

"Why, if you had killed me, as you intended, you would have found inside of me a huge pearl, as large as a goose's egg, and you would have been a wealthy man forever."

"Dear little bird," the man said in his blandest tones; "sweet little bird, I will not harm you. Only come down to me, and I will treat you as if you were my own child, and give you fruit and flowers all day. I assure you of this most sacredly."

But the bird shook its head sagely, and replied: "What a silly man, to forget so soon the advice which was given him in all seriousness. I told you not to cry over spilt milk, and here you are, worrying over what has happened. I urged you not to desire the unattainable, and now you wish to capture me again. And, finally, I asked you not to believe what is impossible, and you are rashly imagining that I have a huge pearl inside of me, when a goose's egg is larger than my whole body. You ought to learn your lessons better in the future, if you would become wise," added the bird, as with another twist of its head it flew away, and was lost in the distance.

191

A classic collection of short stories from the
ancient Hebrew sages is the little book,
_Hebrew Tales_, published in London in 1826 by
the noted Jewish scholar Hyman Hurwitz
(1770-1844). A modern handy edition of this
book (about sixty tales) is published as Vol.
II of the Library of Jewish Classics. Of
special interest is the fact that it contained
three stories by the poet Samuel Taylor
Coleridge, who had published them first in his
periodical, _The Friend_. Coleridge was much
interested in Hebrew literature, and especially
fond of speaking in parables, as those who know
"The Ancient Mariner" will readily recall. The
following is one of the three stories referred
to, and it had prefixed to it the significant
text, "The Lord helpeth man and beast." (Psalm
XXXVI, 6.)

THE LORD HELPETH MAN AND BEAST

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

During his march to conquer the world, Alexander, the Macedonian, came to a people in Africa who dwelt in a remote and secluded corner, in peaceful huts, and knew neither war nor conqueror. They led him to the hut of their chief, who received him hospitably, and placed before him golden dates, golden figs, and bread of gold.

"Do you eat gold in this country?" said Alexander.

"I take it for granted," replied the chief, "that thou wert able to find eatable food in thine own country. For what reason, then, art thou come amongst us?"

"Your gold has not tempted me hither," said Alexander, "but I would become acquainted with your manners and customs."

"So be it," rejoined the other: "sojourn among us as long as it pleaseth thee."

At the close of this conversation, two citizens entered, as into their court of justice. The plaintiff said, "I bought of this man a piece of land, and as I was making a deep drain through it, I found a treasure. This is not mine, for I only bargained for the land, and not for any treasure that might be concealed beneath it; and yet the former owner of the land will not receive it." The defendant answered, "I hope I have a conscience, as well as my fellow citizen. I sold him the land with all its contingent, as well as existing advantages, and consequently, the treasure inclusively."

The chief, who was at the same time their supreme judge, recapitulated their words, in order that the parties might see whether or not he understood them aright. Then, after some reflection, said: "Thou hast a son, friend, I believe?"

"Yes."

"And thou," addressing the other, "a daughter?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, let thy son marry _thy_ daughter, and bestow the treasure on the young couple for a marriage portion." Alexander seemed surprised and perplexed. "Think you my sentence unjust?" the chief asked him.

"Oh, no!" replied Alexander; "but it astonishes me."

"And how, then," rejoined the chief, "would the case have been decided in your country?"

"To confess the truth," said Alexander, "we should have taken both parties into custody, and have seized the treasure for the king's use."

"For the king's use!" exclaimed the chief; "does the sun shine on that country?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Does it rain there?"

"Assuredly."

"Wonderful! But are there tame animals in the country, that live on the grass and green herbs?"

"Very many, and of many kinds."

"Ay, that must, then, be the cause," said the chief: "for the sake of those innocent animals the All-gracious Being continues to let the sun shine, and the rain drop down on your country; since its inhabitants are unworthy of such blessings."

192

By almost common consent Hans Christian
Andersen (1805-1875), the Danish author, is the
acknowledged master of all modern writers of
fairy tales. He was born in poverty, the son of
a poor shoemaker. With a naturally keen
dramatic sense, his imagination was stirred by
stories from the _Arabian Nights_ and La
Fontaine's _Fables_, by French and Spanish
soldiers marching through his native city, and
by listening to the wonderful folk tales of his
country. On a toy stage and with toy actors,
these vivid impressions took actual form. The
world continued a dramatic spectacle to him
throughout his existence. His consuming
ambition was for the stage, but he had none of
the personal graces so necessary for success.
He was ungainly and awkward, like his "ugly
duckling." But when at last he began to write,
he had the power to transfer to the page the
vivid dramas in his mind, and this power
culminated in the creation of fairy stories for
children which he began to publish in 1835. It
is usual to say that Andersen, like Peter Pan,
"never grew up," and it is certain that he
never lost the power of seeing things as
children see them. Like many great writers
whose fame now rests on the suffrages of child
readers, Andersen seems at first to have felt
that the _Tales_ were slight and beneath his
dignity. They are not all of the same high
quality. Occasionally one of them becomes "too
sentimental and sickly sweet," but the best of
them have a sturdiness that is thoroughly
refreshing.

The most acute analysis of the elements of
Andersen's greatness as the ideal writer for
children is that made by his fellow-countryman
Georg Brandes in _Eminent Authors of the
Nineteenth Century_. A briefer account on
similar lines will be found in H. J. Boyesen's
_Scandinavian Literature_. A still briefer
account, eminently satisfactory for an
introduction to Andersen, by Benjamin W. Wells,
is in Warner's _Library of the World's Best
Literature_. The interested student cannot, of
course, afford to neglect Andersen's own _The
Story of My Life_. Among the more elaborate
biographies the _Life of Hans Christian
Andersen_ by R. Nisbet Bain is probably the
best. The first translation of the _Tales_ into
English was made by Mary Howitt in 1846 and, as
far as it goes, is still regarded as one of the
finest. However, Andersen has been very
fortunate in his many translators. The version
by H. W. Dulcken has been published in many
cheap forms and perhaps more widely read than
any other. In addition to the stories in the
following pages, some of those most suitable
for use are "The Little Match Girl," "The
Silver Shilling," "Five Peas in the Pod," "Hans
Clodhopper," and "The Snow Queen." The latter
is one of the longest and an undoubted
masterpiece.

The first two stories following are taken from
Mrs. Henderson's _Andersen's Best Fairy Tales_.
(Copyright. Rand McNally & Co.) This little
book contains thirteen stories in a very simple
translation and also an excellent story of
Andersen's life in a form most attractive to
children. "The Princess and the Pea" is a story
for the story's sake. The humor, perhaps
slightly satirical, is based upon the notion so
common in the old folk tales that royal
personages are decidedly more delicate than the
person of low degree. However, the tendency to
think oneself of more consequence than another
is not confined to any one class.

THE REAL PRINCESS

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

(Version by Alice Corbin Henderson)

There was once a Prince who wanted to marry a Princess. But it was only a _real_ Princess that he wanted to marry.

He traveled all over the world to find a real one. But, although there were plenty of princesses, whether they were _real_ princesses he could never discover. There was always something that did not seem quite right about them.

At last he had to come home again. But he was very sad, because he wanted to marry a _real_ Princess.

One night there was a terrible storm. It thundered and lightened and the rain poured down in torrents. In the middle of the storm there came a knocking, knocking, knocking at the castle gate. The kind old King himself went down to open the castle gate.

It was a young Princess that stood outside the gate. The wind and the rain had almost blown her to pieces. Water streamed out of her hair and out of her clothes. Water ran in at the points of her shoes and out again at the heels. Yet she said that she was a _real_ Princess.

"Well, we will soon find out about that!" thought the Queen.

She said nothing, but went into the bedroom, took off all the bedding, and put a small dried pea on the bottom of the bedstead. Then she piled twenty mattresses on top of the pea, and on top of these she put twenty feather beds. This was where the Princess had to sleep that night.

In the morning they asked her how she had slept through the night.

"Oh, miserably!" said the Princess. "I hardly closed my eyes the whole night long! Goodness only knows what was in my bed! I slept upon something so hard that I am black and blue all over. It was dreadful!"

So then they knew that she was a _real_ Princess. For, through the twenty mattresses and the twenty feather beds, she had still felt the pea. No one but a _real_ Princess could have had such a tender skin.

So the Prince took her for his wife. He knew now that he had a _real_ Princess.

As for the pea, it was put in a museum where it may still be seen if no one has carried it away.

Now this is a true story!

193

With some dozen exceptions, all of Andersen's
_Tales_ are based upon older stories, either
upon some old folk tale or upon something that
he ran across in his reading. Dr. Brandes, in
his _Eminent Authors_, shows in detail how "The
Emperor's New Clothes" came into being. "One
day in turning over the leaves of Don Manuel's
_Count Lucanor_, Andersen became charmed by the
homely wisdom of the old Spanish story, with
the delicate flavor of the Middle Ages
pervading it, and he lingered over chapter vii,
which treats of how a king was served by three
rogues." But Andersen's story is a very
different one in many ways from his Spanish
original. For one thing, the meaning is so
universal that no one can miss it. Most of us
have, in all likelihood, at some time pretended
to know what we do not know or to be what we
are not in order to save our face, to avoid the
censure or ridicule of others. "There is much
concerning which people dare not speak the
truth, through cowardice, through fear of
acting otherwise than 'all the world,' through
anxiety lest they should appear stupid. And the
story is eternally new and it never ends. It
has its grave side, but just because of its
endlessness it has also its humorous side."
When the absurd bubble of the grand procession
is punctured by the child, whose mental honesty
has not yet been spoiled by the pressure of
convention, the Emperor "held himself stiffer
than ever, and the chamberlains carried the
invisible train." For it would never do to hold
up the procession!

THE EMPEROR'S NEW CLOTHES

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

(Version by Alice Corbin Henderson)

Many years ago there lived an Emperor who thought so much of new clothes that he spent all his money on them. He did not care for his soldiers; he did not care to go to the theater. He liked to drive out in the park only that he might show off his new clothes. He had a coat for every hour of the day. They usually say of a king, "He is in the council chamber." But of the Emperor they said, "He is in the clothes closet!"

It was a gay city in which the Emperor lived. And many strangers came to visit it every day. Among these, one day, there came two rogues who set themselves up as weavers. They said they knew how to weave the most beautiful cloths imaginable. And not only were the colors and patterns used remarkably beautiful, but clothes made from this cloth could not be seen by any one who was unfit for the office he held or was too stupid for any use.

"Those would be fine clothes!" thought the Emperor. "If I wore those I could find out what men in my empire were not fit for the places they held. I could tell the clever men from the dunces! I must have some clothes woven for me at once!"

So he gave the two rogues a great deal of money that they might begin their work at once.

The rogues immediately put up two looms and pretended to be working. But there was nothing at all on their looms. They called for the finest silks and the brightest gold, but this they put into their pockets. At the empty looms they worked steadily until late into the night.

"I should like to know how the weavers are getting on with my clothes," thought the Emperor.

But he felt a little uneasy when he thought that any one who was stupid or was not fit for his office would be unable to see the cloth. Of course he had no fears for himself; but still he thought he would send some one else first, just to see how matters stood.

"I will send my faithful old Minister to the weavers," thought the Emperor. "He can see how the stuff looks, for he is a clever man, and no one is so careful in fulfilling duties as he is!"

So the good old Minister went into the room where the two rogues sat working at the empty looms.

"Mercy on us!" thought the old Minister, opening his eyes wide, "I can't see a thing!" But he didn't care to say so.

Both the rascals begged him to be good enough to step a little nearer. They pointed to the empty looms and asked him if he did not think the pattern and the coloring wonderful. The poor old Minister stared and stared as hard as he could, but he could not see anything, for, of course, there was nothing to see!

"Mercy!" he said to himself. "Is it possible that I am a dunce? I never thought so! Certainly no one must know it. Am I unfit for office? It will never do to say that I cannot see the stuff!"

"Well, sir, why do you say nothing of it?" asked the rogue who was pretending to weave.

"Oh, it is beautiful--charming!" said the old Minister, peering through his spectacles. "What a fine pattern, and what wonderful colors! I shall tell the Emperor that I am very much pleased with it."

"Well, we are glad to hear you say so," answered the two swindlers.

Then they named all the colors of the invisible cloth upon the looms, and described the peculiar pattern. The old Minister listened intently, so that he could repeat all that was said of it to the Emperor.

The rogues now began to demand more money, more silk, and more gold thread in order to proceed with the weaving. All of this, of course, went into their pockets. Not a single strand was ever put on the empty looms at which they went on working.

The Emperor soon sent another faithful friend to see how soon the new clothes would be ready. But he fared no better than the Minister. He looked and looked and looked, but still saw nothing but the empty looms.

"Isn't that a pretty piece of stuff?" asked both rogues, showing and explaining the handsome pattern which was not there at all.

"I am not stupid!" thought the man. "It must be that I am not worthy of my good position. That is, indeed, strange. But I must not let it be known!"

So he praised the cloth he did not see, and expressed his approval of the color and the design that were not there. To the Emperor he said, "It is charming!"

Soon everybody in town was talking about the wonderful cloth that the two rogues were weaving.

The Emperor began to think now that he himself would like to see the wonderful cloth while it was still on the looms. Accompanied by a number of his friends, among whom were the two faithful officers who had already beheld the imaginary stuff, he went to visit the two men who were weaving, might and main, without any fiber and without any thread.

"Isn't it splendid!" cried the two statesmen who had already been there, and who thought the others would see something upon the empty looms. "Look, your Majesty! What colors! And what a design!"

"What's this?" thought the Emperor. "I see nothing at all! Am I a dunce? Am I not fit to be Emperor? That would be the worst thing that could happen to me, if it were true."

"Oh, it is very pretty!" said the Emperor aloud. "It has my highest approval!"

He nodded his head happily, and stared at the empty looms. Never would he say that he could see nothing!

His friends, too, gazed and gazed, but saw no more than had the others. Yet they all cried out, "It is beautiful!" and advised the Emperor to wear a suit made of this cloth in a great procession that was soon to take place.

"It is magnificent, gorgeous!" was the cry that went from mouth to mouth. The Emperor gave each of the rogues a royal ribbon to wear in his buttonhole, and called them the Imperial Court Weavers.

The rogues were up the whole night before the morning of the procession. They kept more than sixteen candles burning. The people could see them hard at work, completing the new clothes of the Emperor. They took yards of stuff down from the empty looms; they made cuts in the air with big scissors; they sewed with needles without thread; and, at last, they said, "The clothes are ready!"

The Emperor himself, with his grandest courtiers, went to put on his new suit.

"See!" said the rogues, lifting their arms as if holding something. "Here are the trousers! Here is the coat! Here is the cape!" and so on. "It is as light as a spider's web. One might think one had nothing on. But that is just the beauty of it!"

"Very nice," said the courtiers. But they could see nothing; for there _was_ nothing!

"Will your Imperial Majesty be graciously pleased to take off your clothes," asked the rogues, "so that we may put on the new ones before this long mirror?"

The Emperor took off all his own clothes, and the two rogues pretended to put on each new garment as it was ready. They wrapped him about, and they tied and they buttoned. The Emperor turned round and round before the mirror.

"How well his Majesty looks in his new clothes!" said the people. "How becoming they are! What a pattern! What colors! It is a beautiful dress!"

"They are waiting outside with the canopy which is to be carried over your Majesty in the procession," said the master of ceremonies.

"I am ready," said the Emperor. "Don't the clothes fit well?" he asked, giving a last glance into the mirror as though he were looking at all his new finery.

The men who were to carry the train of the Emperor's cloak stooped down to the floor as if picking up the train, and then held it high in the air. They did not dare let it be known that they could see nothing.

So the Emperor marched along under the bright canopy. Everybody in the streets and at the windows cried out: "How beautiful the Emperor's new clothes are! What a fine train! And they fit to perfection!"

No one would let it be known that he could see nothing, for that would have proved that he was unfit for office or that he was very, very stupid. None of the Emperor's clothes had ever been as successful as these.

"But he has nothing on!" said a little child.

"Just listen to the innocent!" said its father.

But one person whispered to another what the child had said. "He has nothing on! A child says he has nothing on!"

"But he has nothing on!" at last cried all the people.

The Emperor writhed, for he knew that this was true. But he realized that it would never do to stop the procession. So he held himself stiffer than ever, and the chamberlains carried the invisible train.

194

In his story "The Nightingale," Andersen
suggests that the so-called upper class of
society may become so conventionalized as to be
unable to appreciate true beauty. Poor
fishermen and the little kitchen girl in the
story recognize the beauty of the exquisite
song of the nightingale, and Andersen shows his
regard for royalty by having the emperor
appreciate it twice. The last part of the story
is especially impressive. When Death approached
the emperor and took from him the symbols that
had made him rank above his fellows, the
emperor saw the realities of life and again
perceived the beauty of the nightingale's song.
This contact with real life made Death shrink
away. Then the emperor learned Andersen's
message to artificial society: If you would
behold true beauty, you must have it in your
own heart.

THE NIGHTINGALE

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

In China, you must know, the Emperor is a Chinaman, and all whom he has about him are Chinamen too. It happened a good many years ago, but that's just why it's worth while to hear the story before it is forgotten. The Emperor's palace was the most splendid in the world; it was made entirely of porcelain, very costly, but so delicate and brittle that one had to take care how one touched it. In the garden were to be seen the most wonderful flowers, and to the costliest of them silver bells were tied, which sounded, so that nobody should pass by without noticing the flowers. Yes, everything in the Emperor's garden was admirably arranged. And it extended so far that the gardener himself did not know where the end was. If a man went on and on, he came into a glorious forest with high trees and deep lakes. The wood extended straight down to the sea, which was blue and deep; great ships could sail, too, beneath the branches of the trees; and in the trees lived a Nightingale, which sang so splendidly that even the poor fisherman, who had many other things to do, stopped still and listened, when he had gone out at night to throw out his nets, and heard the Nightingale.

"How beautiful that is!" he said; but he was obliged to attend to his property, and thus forgot the bird. But when the next night the bird sang again, and the fisherman heard it, he exclaimed again, "How beautiful that is!"

From all the countries of the world travelers came to the city of the Emperor, and admired it, and the palace and the garden, but when they heard the Nightingale, they said, "That is the best of all!"

And the travelers told of it when they came home; and the learned men wrote many books about the town, the palace, and the garden. But they did not forget the Nightingale; that was placed highest of all; and those who were poets wrote most magnificent poems about the Nightingale in the wood by the deep lake.

The books went through all the world, and a few of them once came to the Emperor. He sat in his golden chair, and read, and read: every moment he nodded his head, for it pleased him to peruse the masterly descriptions of the city, the palace, and the garden. "But the Nightingale is the best of all," it stood written there.

"What's that?" exclaimed the Emperor. "I don't know the Nightingale at all! Is there such a bird in my empire, and even in my garden? I've never heard of that. To think that I should have to learn such a thing for the first time from books!"

And hereupon he called his cavalier. This cavalier was so grand that if anyone lower in rank than himself dared to speak to him, or to ask him any question, he answered nothing but "P!"--and that meant nothing.

"There is said to be a wonderful bird here called a Nightingale," said the Emperor. "They say it is the best thing in all my great empire. Why have I never heard anything about it?"

"I have never heard him named," replied the cavalier. "He has never been introduced at Court."

"I command that he shall appear this evening, and sing before me," said the Emperor. "All the world knows what I possess, and I do not know it myself!"

"I have never heard him mentioned," said the cavalier. "I will seek for him. I will find him."

But where was he to be found? The cavalier ran up and down all the staircases, through halls and passages, but no one among all those whom he met had heard talk of the Nightingale. And the cavalier ran back to the Emperor, and said that it must be a fable invented by the writers of books.

"Your Imperial Majesty cannot believe how much is written that is fiction, besides something that they call the black art."

"But the book in which I read this," said the Emperor, "was sent to me by the high and mighty Emperor of Japan and therefore it cannot be a falsehood. I _will_ hear the Nightingale! It must be here this evening! It has my imperial favor; and if it does not come, all the Court shall be trampled upon after the Court has supped!"

"Tsing-pe!" said the cavalier; and again he ran up and down all the staircases, and through all the halls and corridors; and half the Court ran with him, for the courtiers did not like being trampled upon.

Then there was a great inquiry after the wonderful Nightingale, which all the world knew excepting the people at Court.

At last they met with a poor little girl in the kitchen, who said:

"The Nightingale? I know it well; yes, it can sing gloriously. Every evening I get leave to carry my poor sick mother the scraps from the table. She lives down by the strand; and when I get back and am tired, and rest in the wood, then I hear the Nightingale sing. And then the water comes into my eyes, and it is just as if my mother kissed me."

"Little kitchen girl," said the cavalier, "I will get you a place in the Court kitchen, with permission to see the Emperor dine, if you will but lead us to the Nightingale, for it is announced for this evening."

So they all went out into the wood where the Nightingale was accustomed to sing; half the Court went forth. When they were in the midst of their journey a cow began to low.

"Oh!" cried the Court pages, "now we have it! That shows a wonderful power in so small a creature! I have certainly heard it before."

"No, those are cows lowing," said the little kitchen girl. "We are a long way from the place yet."

Now the frogs began to croak in the marsh.

"Glorious!" said the Chinese Court preacher. "Now I hear it--it sounds just like little church bells."

"No, those are frogs," said the little kitchen maid. "But now I think we shall soon hear it."

And then the Nightingale began to sing.

"That is it!" exclaimed the little girl. "Listen, listen! and yonder it sits."

And she pointed to a little gray bird up in the boughs.

"Is it possible?" cried the cavalier. "I should never have thought it looked like that! How simple it looks! It must certainly have lost its color at seeing such grand people around."

"Little Nightingale!" called the little kitchen maid, quite loudly, "our gracious Emperor wishes you to sing before him."

"With the greatest pleasure!" replied the Nightingale, and began to sing most delightfully.

"It sounds just like glass bells!" said the cavalier. "And look at its little throat, how it's working! It's wonderful that we should never have heard it before. That bird will be a great success at Court."

"Shall I sing once more before the Emperor?" inquired the Nightingale, for it thought the Emperor was present.

"My excellent little Nightingale," said the cavalier, "I have great pleasure in inviting you to a Court festival this evening, when you shall charm his Imperial Majesty with your beautiful singing."

"My song sounds best in the green wood," replied the Nightingale; still it came willingly when it heard what the Emperor wished.

The palace was festively adorned. The walls and the flooring, which were of porcelain, gleamed in the rays of thousands of golden lamps. The most glorious flowers, which could ring clearly, had been placed in the passages. There was a running to and fro, and a thorough draught, and all the bells rang so loudly that one could not hear one's self speak.

In the midst of the great hall, where the Emperor sat, a golden perch had been placed, on which the Nightingale was to sit. The whole Court was there, and the little cook-maid had got leave to stand behind the door, as she had now received the title of a real Court cook. All were in full dress, and all looked at the little gray bird, to which the Emperor nodded.

And the Nightingale sang so gloriously that the tears came into the Emperor's eyes, and the tears ran down over his cheeks; then the Nightingale sang still more sweetly, that went straight to the heart. The Emperor was so much pleased that he said the Nightingale should have his golden slipper to wear round its neck. But the Nightingale declined this with thanks, saying it had already received a sufficient reward.

"I have seen tears in the Emperor's eyes--that is the real treasure to me. An Emperor's tears have a peculiar power. I am rewarded enough!" And then it sang again with a sweet, glorious voice.

"That's the most amiable coquetry I ever saw!" said the ladies who stood round about, and then they took water in their mouths to gurgle when anyone spoke to them. They thought they should be nightingales too. And the lackeys and chambermaids reported that they were satisfied also; and that was saying a good deal, for they are the most difficult to please. In short, the Nightingale achieved a real success.

It was now to remain at Court, to have its own cage, with liberty to go out twice every day and once at night. Twelve servants were appointed when the Nightingale went out, each of whom had a silken string fastened to the bird's legs, which they held very tight. There was really no pleasure in an excursion of that kind.