The Red Shoes

Once there was a little girl, pretty and delicate. In summer she had to go barefoot, because she was poor, and in winter she wore big wooden shoes that rubbed her little insteps until they were quite red.

In the middle of the village lived an old shoemaker’s wife. She sat down and sewed, as well as she could, a pair of little shoes out of strips of old red cloth. They were clumsy things, but they were kindly meant, and they were for the little girl, whose name was Karen.

Karen was given the shoes on the day her mother was buried, and she wore them for the first time then. They were certainly not shoes for mourning, but she had no others, so she put her bare feet into them and walked behind the poor coffin.

Just then a great old carriage came along the road, and in it sat an old lady. She looked at the little girl and pitied her, and she said to the clergyman, “Listen, give me the little girl, and I will take care of her.”

Karen believed that all of this had happened because of the red shoes. But the old lady said they were hideous, and they were burned. Karen herself was dressed neatly and cleanly, she was taught to read and to sew, and people said that she was pretty. But the mirror said, “You are more than pretty. You are beautiful.”

One day the Queen travelled through that part of the country, and with her came her little daughter, who was a princess. All the people streamed toward the castle, Karen among them, and the little princess stood at a window in fine white clothes and let herself be looked at. She wore no train and no golden crown, but she wore splendid red morocco shoes, far finer, of course, than the ones the shoemaker’s wife had sewn for little Karen. There is nothing in the world that can be compared to red shoes.

Now Karen was old enough to be confirmed. She was given new clothes, and she was to have new shoes as well. The rich shoemaker in the town measured her little foot at his own house, in a room with tall glass cases full of pretty shoes and shining boots. It all looked lovely, but the old lady could not see well, and so she took no pleasure in it. In among the shoes stood a pair of red ones, just like those the princess had worn. How beautiful they were! The shoemaker said they had been made for a count’s daughter, but that they had not fitted her.

“That will be patent leather, I suppose?” asked the old lady. “They shine so.”

“Yes, they shine,” said Karen. They fitted, and they were bought. But the old lady did not know that they were red, for she would never have let Karen go to her confirmation in red shoes. And that was just what Karen did.

Everybody looked at her feet. As she walked from the church door up to the chancel, it seemed to her that even the old pictures on the tombs, the portraits of pastors and their wives in stiff collars and long black gowns, had fixed their eyes on her red shoes. It was only of the shoes that she thought when the clergyman laid his hand on her head and spoke of holy baptism, of the covenant with God, and of how she was now to be a grown Christian. The organ played solemnly, the sweet children’s voices sang, and the old choirmaster sang, but Karen thought only of her red shoes.

That afternoon the old lady heard from everybody that the shoes had been red. She said that it was a shameful thing, that it was not proper at all, and that in future Karen must always go to church in black shoes, even if they were old ones.

The next Sunday there was Communion. Karen looked at the black shoes, and looked at the red ones, and looked at the red ones again, and put the red ones on.

The sun shone gloriously. Karen and the old lady went along the footpath through the corn, where the dust rose a little.

At the church door stood an old soldier with a crutch and a wonderfully long beard, more red than white. He bowed down to the ground and asked the old lady whether he might wipe her shoes. Karen put out her little foot too.

“Look at those pretty dancing shoes!” said the soldier. “Sit fast when you dance,” he said to the shoes, and he struck the soles with his hand.

The old lady gave the soldier a coin, and then she went into the church with Karen.

And everybody inside looked at Karen’s red shoes, and all the pictures looked at them, and when Karen knelt at the altar and put the golden cup to her lips, she thought only of the red shoes. It seemed to her that they were swimming round in the cup, and she forgot to sing her psalm, and forgot to say her Lord’s Prayer.

Now everybody came out of the church, and the old lady stepped into her carriage. Karen was lifting her foot to climb in after her when the old soldier said, “Look at those pretty dancing shoes!”

Karen could not help herself. She had to take a few dancing steps, and once she had begun, her legs went on dancing. It was as if the shoes had taken power over them. She danced round the corner of the church and could not stop, and the coachman had to run after her and catch hold of her. He lifted her into the carriage, but her feet went on dancing, so that she kicked the good old lady hard. At last they pulled the shoes off, and her legs were still.

At home the shoes were put away in the cupboard, but Karen could not stop looking at them.

Then the old lady fell ill, and it was said that she would not get up again. She had to be nursed and waited on, and no one owed her that care more than Karen did. But there was a grand ball in the town, and Karen was invited. She looked at the red shoes, and thought that there was no sin in looking. She put the red shoes on, and thought that there was no harm in that either. And then she went to the ball, and began to dance.

But when she wanted to go to the right, the shoes danced to the left, and when she wanted to dance up the room, the shoes danced down the room, down the stairs, along the street and out through the town gate. She danced, and had to dance, far out into the dark wood.

Something shone up among the trees, and she thought it was the moon, for she saw a face. But it was the old soldier with the red beard. He sat nodding his head, and he said, “Look at those pretty dancing shoes!”

She was terrified and wanted to throw the red shoes away, but they held fast. She tore off her stockings, but the shoes had grown onto her feet. She danced, and had to dance, over field and meadow, in rain and sunshine, by night and by day, and by night it was most horrible of all.

She danced out into the open churchyard, but the dead there did not dance. They had better things to do than dance. She wanted to sit down on the pauper’s grave, where the bitter fern grows, but for her there was neither peace nor rest. And as she danced toward the open church door, she saw an angel standing there in long white robes, with wings that reached from his shoulders down to the ground. His face was stern and grave, and in his hand he held a sword, broad and shining.

“Dance you shall,” he said. “Dance in your red shoes till you are pale and cold, till your skin shrivels on your bones. Dance you shall, from door to door, and where proud and vain children live you shall knock, so that they hear you and are afraid. Dance you shall, dance…”

“Mercy!” cried Karen. But she did not hear what the angel answered, for the shoes carried her through the gate and out into the fields, over road and footbridge, and always she had to dance.

One morning she danced past a door that she knew well. Inside they were singing a psalm, and a coffin was carried out, covered with flowers. Then she knew that the old lady was dead, and she felt that she was forsaken by everyone and damned by the angel of God.

She danced, and had to dance, on through the dark night. The shoes carried her away over thorns and stumps until she was torn and bleeding. She danced across the heath to a lonely little house. Here, she knew, lived the executioner. She tapped with her finger on the windowpane and said:

“Come out! Come out! I cannot come in, for I must dance.”

And the executioner said, “I don’t suppose you know who I am. I strike the heads off wicked people, and I can hear my axe humming.”

“Do not strike off my head,” said Karen, “for then I could not repent of my sin. But strike off my feet with the red shoes.”

Then she confessed her whole sin, and the executioner struck off her feet with the red shoes. But the shoes danced away with the little feet inside them, over the field and into the deep forest.

And he carved her a pair of wooden feet and made her crutches, and taught her a psalm that sinners always sing. She kissed the hand that had held the axe and went away across the heath.

“Now I have suffered enough for the red shoes,” she said. “Now I will go to church, so that people can see me.” And she walked quickly toward the church door; but when she came to it, the red shoes were dancing there in front of her, and she was frightened and turned back.

All that week she was sorrowful and wept many bitter tears. But when Sunday came she said, “Now I have suffered and struggled enough. I am surely as good as many of those who sit in church and give themselves airs.” And she set out boldly. But she got no farther than the churchyard gate before she saw the red shoes dancing along in front of her, and she was seized with horror and turned back and repented of her sin with all her heart.

She went to the parsonage and begged to be taken into service there. She would work hard, she said, and do everything she could. She did not care about the wages, so long as she had a roof over her and was among good people. The pastor’s wife pitied her and took her into her service. And Karen was hardworking and thoughtful. She sat quietly and listened in the evening when the pastor read aloud from the Bible. All the little ones were fond of her, but when they talked of finery and grandeur and beauty, she would shake her head.

The next Sunday they were all to go to church, and they asked her whether she would like to come too. With tears in her eyes she looked sadly at her crutches. So the others went to hear God’s Word, and she went alone into her little room, which was only big enough for the bed and a chair. There she sat down with her hymn book, and as she read it with a devout heart, the wind carried the sound of the organ over to her from the church. She lifted her face, wet with tears, and said, “O God, help me!”

Then the sun shone out brightly, and right in front of her stood God’s angel in white robes, the same one she had seen that night at the church door. He no longer carried the sharp sword. He held a lovely green branch full of roses, and he touched the ceiling with it, and the ceiling rose very high, and where he had touched it a golden star shone. He touched the walls, and they opened wide, and she saw the organ playing, and the old pictures of the pastors and their wives, and the congregation sitting in the polished pews and singing from their hymn books. The church itself had come to the poor girl in her narrow room, or else the room had gone to the church. She sat in the pew with the rest of the pastor’s household, and when they had finished the psalm and looked up, they nodded and said, “It was right of you to come, Karen.”

“It was mercy,” she said.

The organ sounded, and the children’s voices in the choir were soft and lovely. The clear sunshine streamed warm through the window into the pew where Karen sat, and her heart grew so full of sunshine, of peace and joy, that it broke. Her soul flew on the sunbeams to God, and there was no one there who asked about the red shoes.