The Snow Queen

The First Story: The Mirror and the Splinters

Now then, let us begin. When we reach the end of the story, we shall know more than we do now, for it all starts with a wicked goblin — one of the very worst of all, for he was the devil himself. One day he was in a fine mood, because he had made a mirror with a curious power. Everything good and beautiful reflected in it shrank away almost to nothing, while everything worthless and ugly stood out sharp and grew even worse. The loveliest landscapes looked like boiled spinach in it, and the best of people turned hideous, or seemed to stand on their heads with no bodies at all. Their faces were so twisted no one could recognize them, and if a person had a single freckle, you could be sure it spread over the whole of the nose and mouth. This was tremendously amusing, said the devil. When a good, kind thought passed through someone's mind, a grin appeared in the mirror, and the devil laughed with delight at his clever invention.

All who went to his school — for he kept a goblin school — spread the word everywhere that a wonder had happened; now at last, they said, one could see what the world and its people were really like. They ran about with the mirror, until there was not a land nor a person left that had not been shown distorted in it. Then they wanted to fly up to heaven itself, to mock the angels and the dear Lord. But the higher they flew with the mirror, the more wildly it grinned, until they could scarcely hold it. Higher and higher they rose, closer to God and the angels, and then the mirror shook so terribly in its grinning that it slipped from their hands and fell to the earth, where it shattered into a hundred million, a billion pieces, and more.

And now it caused far greater misfortune than before, for some of the fragments were hardly as big as a grain of sand, and these flew out into the wide world. Wherever one of them lodged in a person's eye, it stayed there, and from that moment the person saw everything crooked, or had eyes only for what was wrong with a thing — for each tiny splinter kept all the power the whole mirror had held. Some people even got a splinter in the heart, and that was the most terrible of all, for the heart turned to a lump of ice. A few pieces were so large that they were used as windowpanes, though it was a poor thing to look at your friends through them. Others were made into spectacles, and it went badly indeed when people put them on to see rightly and be fair. The wicked one laughed till his belly shook, so pleasantly did it tickle him. And still there were little splinters of glass floating about in the air. Now you shall hear what happened.

The Second Story: A Little Boy and a Little Girl

In the great city, where there are so many houses and people that there is not room for everyone to have even a small garden, and where most must be content with a few flowers in flowerpots, there lived two poor children who had a garden a little larger than a flowerpot. They were not brother and sister, but they were as fond of each other as if they had been. Their parents lived directly across from one another in two attic rooms. Where the roof of one house nearly touched the roof of the next, and the water-pipe ran along between them, there was a little window in each house, so that by stepping across the gutter you could go from one window to the other.

Each family had a large wooden box outside, and in it grew kitchen herbs they used, and one little rose-bush; there was a bush in each box, and both grew splendidly. One day the parents thought to set the boxes across the gutter, so that they reached almost from one window to the other and looked like two little banks of flowers. Pea-vines hung down over the boxes, and the rose-bushes sent out long shoots that twined about the windows and bent toward one another, almost like a triumphal arch of leaves and blossoms. Since the boxes were very high, and the children knew they must not climb up on them, they were often allowed to step out to each other and sit on their little stools beneath the roses; and there they played wonderfully.

In winter that pleasure came to an end. The windows were often frozen quite over, but then the children would warm copper pennies on the stove and hold the warm penny against the frozen glass, and there would be a lovely peep-hole, round and clear, and behind each hole shone a soft, mild eye — the little boy at his window and the little girl at hers. His name was Kay, and hers was Gerda. In summer they could reach each other with a single jump; in winter they had first to go down the many stairs and up the many stairs, while the snow flew outside.

"Those are the white bees swarming," said Kay's old grandmother one snowy day.

"Have they a queen bee too?" asked the little boy, for he knew that the real bees have one.

"Indeed they have," said the grandmother. "She flies where the swarm is thickest. She is the largest of them all, and never rests upon the earth; she flies up again into the black clouds. Many a midnight she passes through the streets of the town and looks in at the windows, and then the ice freezes on the panes in wonderful shapes, like flowers."

"Yes, we have seen that," said both children, and so they knew it was true.

"Can the Snow Queen come in here?" asked the little girl.

"Just let her come," said the boy. "I'll set her on the warm stove, and then she'll melt."

But the grandmother smoothed his hair and told other stories.

That evening, when little Kay was home and half undressed, he climbed on a chair by the window and peeped through the little hole. A few snowflakes were falling outside, and one of them, the largest, settled on the edge of one of the flower-boxes. The snowflake grew and grew, until at last it became a whole woman, dressed in the finest white gauze, made of millions of star-shaped flakes. She was beautiful and delicate, but she was of ice — of glittering, dazzling ice. Yet she was alive; her eyes shone like two clear stars, but there was no peace or rest in them. She nodded toward the window and beckoned with her hand. The little boy was frightened and sprang down from the chair, and just then it seemed as if a great bird flew past outside.

The next day there was a clear frost — and then came the spring. The sun shone, green shoots came up, the swallows built their nests, the windows were opened, and the children sat again in their little garden high up in the roof-gutter, above all the storeys of the house.

How gloriously the roses bloomed that summer! The little girl had learned a hymn in which there was something about roses, and she thought of their own roses, and she sang it to the little boy, and he sang too:

"Roses bloom and cease to be, But we shall the Christ-child see."

And the little ones held each other by the hand, and kissed the roses, and looked into God's bright sunshine, and spoke to it as if the Christ-child were there. What splendid summer days those were, how lovely it was out among the fresh rose-bushes, which seemed as if they would never stop blooming!

One day Kay and Gerda sat looking at a picture-book of animals and birds, and just as the clock in the great church tower struck five, Kay cried, "Oh! something stabbed my heart — and something has flown into my eye!"

The little girl put her arm about his neck. He blinked; there was nothing to see.

"I think it is gone," he said. But it was not gone. It was one of those grains of glass that had sprung from the mirror — the magic mirror, we remember it well — the ugly glass that made everything great and good look small and ugly, while all that was wicked and bad stood out plainly, and every little fault was quickly noticed. Poor Kay had got a splinter right into his heart too. Soon it would turn to a lump of ice. It no longer hurt, but the splinter was there.

"Why are you crying?" he said. "It makes you look ugly. There's nothing wrong with me. Ugh!" he cried suddenly. "That rose has a worm in it. And look, this one is quite crooked. They are ugly roses, after all — just like the box they stand in." And he kicked the box with his foot and tore off both the roses.

"Kay, what are you doing?" cried the little girl. And when he saw how frightened she was, he tore off another rose and jumped in at his own window, away from dear little Gerda.

After that, when she came with the picture-book, he said it was fit only for babies in swaddling clothes; and when the grandmother told stories, he always broke in with a "but"; and if he could manage it, he would follow behind her, put on a pair of spectacles, and mimic her speech exactly, so that people laughed. Soon he could imitate the way everyone in the street walked and talked. Whatever was odd or unlovely in a person, Kay could copy it, and people said, "That boy certainly has a fine head on him!" But it was the glass in his eye and the glass in his heart that made him tease even little Gerda, who loved him with her whole heart.

His games grew quite different now; they were very knowing. One winter's day, when snow was falling, he came with a great magnifying glass, held out the blue tail of his coat, and let the snowflakes fall on it.

"Look through the glass, Gerda," he said. And every snowflake seemed much larger, like a splendid flower or a ten-pointed star; it was beautiful to see. "Look how clever it is," said Kay. "Much more interesting than real flowers! There's not a single fault in them; they're quite perfect — if only they wouldn't melt."

Soon after, Kay came in with big gloves and his sledge on his back, and shouted in Gerda's ear, "I've been given leave to sledge in the great square, where the other boys play!" And off he went.

Out in the square, the boldest boys would often tie their sledges to the farmers' carts and ride along with them a good way. That was fine sport. While they were all at play, a great sledge came by, painted all in white, and in it sat someone wrapped in a rough white fur and wearing a rough white cap. The sledge drove twice round the square, and Kay quickly tied his own little sledge to it, and away he rode along behind. It went faster and faster, straight into the next street. The driver turned and nodded to Kay in a friendly way, as if they knew each other; every time Kay wished to untie his little sledge, the driver nodded again, and so Kay stayed put. They drove out through the town gate. Then the snow began to fall so thickly that the little boy could not see a hand's-breadth before him, but on they went. He let the cord slip quickly, to get free of the great sledge, but it was no use — his little carriage held fast, and away they flew like the wind. He called out loudly, but no one heard him; the snow whirled, and the sledge flew on. Now and then it gave a great bound, as if over ditches and hedges. The boy was terrified; he tried to say his prayers, but all he could remember was his multiplication table.

The snowflakes grew larger and larger, until at last they looked like great white hens. All at once they sprang aside, the great sledge stopped, and the one who drove it rose up. The fur and cap were made entirely of snow; and there stood a lady, tall and slender and dazzling white — the Snow Queen.

"We have driven well," she said. "But why do you shiver? Creep into my fur." And she set him beside her in the sledge and wrapped the fur about him, and he felt as if he were sinking into a snowdrift.

"Are you still cold?" she asked, and kissed him on the forehead. Oh! that kiss was colder than ice; it went straight to his heart, which was already half a lump of ice. He felt as if he must die — but only for a moment; then it was quite pleasant, and he no longer felt the cold about him.

"My sledge! Don't forget my sledge!" That was his first thought, and it was tied to one of the white hens, which flew behind with the sledge on its back. The Snow Queen kissed Kay once more, and by then he had forgotten little Gerda, his grandmother, and everyone at home.

"Now you shall have no more kisses," she said, "or I should kiss you to death."

Kay looked at her; she was so beautiful — a wiser, lovelier face he could not imagine. She no longer seemed made of ice, as she had when she sat outside his window and beckoned to him. In his eyes she was perfect, and he felt no fear at all. He told her he could do sums in his head, even with fractions, and that he knew the country's square miles and the number of its people; and she smiled all the while. Then it seemed to him that what he knew was not enough after all, and he looked up into the vast air, and she flew with him high up onto a black cloud, while the storm howled and roared as if it were singing old songs. They flew over forests and lakes, over sea and land; below them the cold wind rushed, the wolves howled, the snow crackled; over them flew the black, screaming crows; but high above shone the moon, large and clear, and through the long, long winter night Kay gazed at it, and by day he slept at the feet of the Snow Queen.

The Third Story: The Flower Garden of the Woman Who Could Do Magic

But how did little Gerda fare when Kay did not come back? Where had he gone? No one knew, no one could say. The boys only told that they had seen him tie his sledge to a great one that drove down the street and out through the town gate. No one knew where he had ended up. Many tears were shed, and little Gerda wept most bitterly and long. Then she said he was dead, drowned in the river that flowed near the school. Oh, those were long, dark winter days.

At last came the spring, with warmer sunshine.

"Kay is dead and gone," said little Gerda.

"I don't believe it," said the sunshine.

"He is dead and gone," she said to the swallows.

"We don't believe it," they answered; and at last little Gerda did not believe it either.

"I will put on my new red shoes," she said one morning, "the ones Kay has never seen, and then I will go down to the river and ask it about him."

It was very early. She kissed her old grandmother, who was still asleep, put on the red shoes, and went all alone out of the town gate to the river.

"Is it true that you have taken my little playmate? I will give you my red shoes if you will give him back to me." And it seemed to her that the waves nodded strangely. So she took off her red shoes, which she loved best of all, and threw them both into the river. But they fell close to the bank, and the little waves carried them back to her — it was just as if the river would not take the dearest thing she had, since it could not give her Kay in return. But she thought she had not thrown the shoes far enough, so she climbed into a boat that lay among the reeds, went out to its far end, and threw the shoes into the water from there. But the boat was not tied fast, and her movement sent it sliding away from the shore. She saw it and hurried to get out, but before she could reach the bank the boat was more than a yard off, and drifting away faster and faster.

Then little Gerda was very frightened and began to cry, but no one heard her except the sparrows, and they could not carry her to land, though they flew along the shore singing, as if to comfort her, "Here we are, here we are!" The boat drifted with the current; little Gerda sat quite still, only her stockings on her feet; her little red shoes floated after her, but could not catch the boat, which went faster.

The banks on both sides were pretty, with lovely flowers, old trees, and slopes where sheep and cows were grazing; but not a person was to be seen. "Perhaps the river will carry me to little Kay," thought Gerda, and that cheered her, so she sat up and looked at the beautiful green banks for many hours. At last she came to a great cherry orchard, in which stood a little house with strange red and blue windows. It had a thatched roof, and outside stood two wooden soldiers, who shouldered arms to her as she sailed by.

Gerda called out to them, thinking they were alive, but of course they did not answer. She drew quite near them, for the river pushed the boat straight toward the land. Gerda called still louder, and out of the house came a very, very old woman, leaning on a crutch-stick. She wore a big sun-hat painted all over with the loveliest flowers.

"You poor little child," said the old woman, "however did you come out upon the great rushing river, and drift so far into the wide world?" And she stepped into the water, caught the boat with her crutch, drew it to land, and lifted little Gerda out.

Gerda was glad to be on dry ground again, though she was a little afraid of the strange old woman. "Come, tell me who you are, and how you came here," said she.

And Gerda told her everything, while the old woman shook her head and said, "Hm, hm." When Gerda had finished and asked whether she had seen little Kay, the woman said he had not come that way, but he would very likely come; so she must not be sad, but taste the cherries and look at the flowers, which were finer than any picture-book, for each one could tell a story. Then she took Gerda by the hand, led her into the little house, and closed the door.

The windows were set very high, and the panes were red and blue and yellow, so the daylight shone in with all sorts of strange colors. On the table stood the finest cherries, and Gerda ate as many as she liked, for she was allowed to. While she ate, the old woman combed her hair with a golden comb, and the hair curled and shone a lovely yellow around her small, friendly face, which was round and looked like a rose.

"I have long wished for a dear little girl just like you," said the old woman. "Now you'll see how well we shall live together." And as she combed Gerda's hair, Gerda thought less and less of her foster-brother Kay; for the old woman could do magic — though she was no wicked witch; she did magic only a little, for her own pleasure, and now because she wanted to keep little Gerda. So she went into the garden and stretched out her crutch toward all the rose-bushes, and however finely they bloomed, they all sank down into the black earth, so that one could not tell where they had stood. The old woman was afraid that if Gerda saw the roses she would think of her own, and remember little Kay, and run away.

Then she led Gerda out into the flower garden. What fragrance, what splendor! Every flower one could think of, for every season of the year, stood there in fullest bloom; no picture-book could be brighter or lovelier. Gerda jumped for joy and played until the sun went down behind the tall cherry trees; then she was given a beautiful bed with red silk cushions stuffed with violets, and she slept and dreamed as sweetly as any queen on her wedding day.

The next day she played again with the flowers in the warm sunshine, and so many days passed. Gerda knew every flower, and yet, however many there were, it seemed to her that one was missing, though she could not tell which. One day she sat looking at the old woman's sun-hat with its painted flowers, and the loveliest of them all was a rose. The old woman had forgotten to wipe it from the hat when she made the others sink into the earth. But so it is when one has not one's wits together!

"What — are there no roses here?" said Gerda, and she ran among the beds and searched and searched; but there was not one to be found. Then she sat down and wept, and her tears fell just where a rose-bush had sunk down, and when the warm tears wetted the earth, the bush shot up at once, as full of bloom as when it had vanished. Gerda threw her arms about it, kissed the roses, and thought of the glorious roses at home, and with them of little Kay.

"Oh, how I have been kept back!" said the little girl. "I meant to look for little Kay. Do you know where he is?" she asked the roses. "Do you think he is dead?"

"Dead he is not," answered the roses. "We have been down in the earth, where all the dead lie, and Kay was not there."

"Thank you," said little Gerda, and she went to the other flowers, looked into their cups, and asked, "Do you know where little Kay is?"

But every flower stood in the sun and dreamed its own fairy tale, and Gerda heard many, many of them; yet none knew anything of Kay.

And what did the tiger-lily say? "Do you hear the drum — boom, boom? There are only two notes, always boom, boom. Hear the women's song of mourning, hear the call of the priests. In her long red robe the Hindu woman stands upon the funeral pile; the flames leap up around her and her dead husband. But the Hindu woman thinks of the living one in the ring of watchers — of him whose eyes burn hotter than the flames, whose fiery gaze touches her heart more than the flames that will soon burn her body to ashes. Can the flame of the heart die in the flame of the funeral pile?"

"I don't understand that at all," said little Gerda.

"That is my story," said the tiger-lily.

What did the bindweed say? "Over the narrow footpath hangs an old knight's castle; thick evergreen climbs the crumbling red walls, leaf upon leaf, up to the balcony, and there stands a beautiful maiden. She leans over the railing and looks down the road. No rose on the branch is fresher than she; no apple-blossom, carried off by the wind, floats more lightly than she. How her rich silk gown rustles! 'Will he not come?'"

"Is it Kay you mean?" asked little Gerda.

"I speak only of my story, my dream," answered the bindweed.

What did the little snowdrop say? "Between two trees a long board hangs on ropes; that is a swing. Two pretty little girls — their dresses white as snow, long green ribbons fluttering from their hats — sit upon it and swing. Their brother, who is bigger than they, stands on the swing, one arm about the rope to steady himself, for in one hand he holds a little bowl and in the other a clay pipe; he is blowing soap-bubbles. The swing goes to and fro, and the bubbles rise with lovely changing colors; the last one still hangs from the pipe and sways in the wind. On goes the swing; and a little black dog, light as the bubbles, rises on its hind legs and wants to get up too. The swing does not stop, the dog falls, barks, and is angry; they tease it, the bubbles burst. A swinging board, a bursting picture of foam — that is my song."

"It may be pretty, what you tell," said little Gerda, "but you say it so sadly, and you don't mention little Kay at all."

What did the hyacinths say? "There were three lovely sisters, clear and delicate. One wore red, one wore blue, one wore white; hand in hand they danced by the still lake in the bright moonlight. They were not elves, they were children of men. The sweet fragrance drew them, and they vanished into the wood; the fragrance grew stronger, and three coffins, in which lay the three lovely maidens, glided from the thicket across the lake. The glow-worms flew about them like little floating lights. Do the dancing maidens sleep, or are they dead? The scent of the flower says they are dead. The evening bell tolls their dirge."

"You make me quite sad," said little Gerda. "Your scent is so strong; I must think of the dead maidens. Oh, is little Kay really dead? The roses have been down in the earth, and they say no."

"Ding, dong," rang the hyacinth bells. "We do not toll for little Kay; we do not know him. We sing only our own song, the only one we know."

Then Gerda went to the buttercup, shining out among the bright green leaves. "You are a little bright sun," said Gerda. "Tell me, do you know where I can find my playmate?"

And the buttercup shone so beautifully and looked up at Gerda again. What song could a buttercup sing? It was not about Kay either.

"In a little courtyard the dear sun of God shone warm on the first day of spring; its beams slid down the white walls of the neighbor's house, and close by grew the first yellow flower, gleaming golden in the warm rays. The old grandmother sat outside in her chair; her granddaughter, a poor and pretty serving-maid, came home from a short visit and kissed the grandmother. There was gold, heart's gold, in that blessed kiss — gold on the lips, gold in the ground, gold in the morning hour. See, that is my little story," said the buttercup.

"My poor old grandmother!" sighed Gerda. "Yes, she surely longs for me and grieves for me, just as she did for little Kay. But I shall soon be home again, and I'll bring Kay with me. It's no use asking the flowers; they know only their own songs, and give me no answer." And she tucked up her little dress so she could run faster; but the narcissus struck against her leg as she jumped over it, so she stopped, looked at the tall yellow flower, and asked, "Perhaps you know something?" And she bent right down to it. And what did it say?

"I can see myself! I can see myself!" said the narcissus. "Oh, how sweet I smell! Up in a little attic room, half dressed, stands a little dancer; she stands now on one leg, now on both; she treads the whole world under her feet — she is nothing but an illusion. She pours water from a teapot onto a piece of cloth she holds; it is her bodice — cleanliness is a fine thing. The white dress hangs on the peg; that too has been washed in the teapot and dried on the roof. She puts it on and ties a saffron-yellow kerchief round her neck, and now the dress looks whiter still. One leg outstretched! See how she shows herself off upon a stem! I can see myself! I can see myself!"

"What do I care for that?" said Gerda. "You need not tell me such stuff." And she ran to the far end of the garden.

The door was shut, but she pressed the rusty latch until it gave way; the door sprang open, and little Gerda ran out with bare feet into the wide world. She looked back three times, but no one was following. At last she could run no more, and she sat down on a great stone. When she looked about her, the summer was over; it was late autumn. She had not noticed this in the beautiful garden, where there was always sunshine and flowers of every season.

"Goodness, how long I have lingered!" said little Gerda. "It has grown to autumn — I must not rest!" And she got up to go on.

Oh, how sore and weary her little feet were! Everything around looked cold and harsh; the long willow-leaves were quite yellow, and the dew dripped down like water; leaf after leaf fell; only the blackthorn still bore fruit, but the sloes were sour and set the teeth on edge. Oh, how gray and heavy the wide world seemed!

The Fourth Story: The Prince and the Princess

Gerda had to rest again, and there, on the snow just across from where she sat, a great crow came hopping. It had sat a long while watching her and wagging its head; now it said, "Caw, caw — good day, good day!" That was the best it could manage, but it meant kindly toward the little girl, and it asked where she was going, all alone in the wide world. The word "alone" Gerda understood very well, and felt how much lay in it; so she told the crow her whole life and fate, and asked if it had seen Kay.

The crow nodded very thoughtfully and said, "That might be — that might be."

"What? Do you think so?" cried the little girl, and she nearly hugged the crow to death, so hard did she kiss it.

"Gently, gently!" said the crow. "I believe I know — I think it may be little Kay; but by now he has surely forgotten you for the princess."

"Does he live with a princess?" asked Gerda.

"Yes, listen," said the crow. "But it is so hard to speak your language. Do you understand crow-talk? Then I could tell it better."

"No, I never learned it," said Gerda, "but my grandmother understood it, and could speak it too. If only I had learned it!"

"Never mind," said the crow. "I'll tell it as well as I can, though it will go badly." And it told her what it knew.

"In this kingdom where we now sit lives a princess who is dreadfully clever; she has read all the newspapers in the world, and forgotten them again, she is so clever. Not long ago she sat on her throne — which is not so pleasant a seat as people say — and began to sing a song that went, 'Why should I not be married?' 'There's something in that,' she thought, and so she wished to marry; but she wanted a husband who knew how to answer when he was spoken to, not one who only stood about and looked grand, for that was too dull. So she called all her ladies of the court together by beat of drum, and when they heard what she wanted, they were greatly pleased. 'How we like this,' they said; 'we were thinking of it only the other day.' You may believe every word I say," added the crow, "for I have a tame sweetheart who goes freely about the palace, and she told me everything."

His sweetheart was, of course, a crow too; for a crow seeks a crow, and a crow it remains.

"Newspapers came out at once, with a border of hearts and the princess's initials, saying that any young man who was handsome was free to come to the palace and speak with the princess; and whoever spoke so that one could hear he felt at home, and who spoke best of all, that one the princess would take for a husband. Yes, yes," said the crow, "you may believe me, it is as sure as I sit here. Young men came streaming in; there was crowding and running about, but no one had luck the first day, nor the second. They could all speak well out in the street, but when they came in through the palace gate and saw the guards in silver, and the footmen in gold up the stairs, and the great lighted halls, they grew flustered. And when they stood before the throne where the princess sat, they could say nothing but the last word she had spoken, and she had no wish to hear it twice. It was as if the people had swallowed something to make them sleepy while inside, until they came out into the street again. There was a whole line stretching from the town gate to the palace. I went to see it myself," said the crow. "They grew hungry and thirsty, but at the palace they got not so much as a glass of water. A few of the wisest had brought bread and butter, but they wouldn't share with their neighbors; they thought, 'Let him look hungry, then the princess won't take him.'"

"But Kay — little Kay!" said Gerda. "When did he come? Was he in the crowd?"

"Wait, wait! Now we come to him. On the third day there came a little fellow, without horse or carriage, marching cheerily straight up to the palace. His eyes shone like yours; he had beautiful long hair, but poor clothes."

"That was Kay!" rejoiced Gerda. "Oh, then I have found him!" And she clapped her hands.

"He had a little knapsack on his back," said the crow.

"No, that must have been his sledge," said Gerda, "for he went away with the sledge."

"It may be," said the crow; "I didn't look closely. But I know from my tame sweetheart that when he came in at the palace gate and saw the guards in silver, and up the stairs the footmen in gold, he was not the least abashed. He nodded and said to them, 'It must be dull to stand on the stairs; I'd rather go in.' The halls blazed with light; privy councilors and excellencies walked barefoot carrying golden vessels; it was enough to make one solemn. His boots creaked mightily, but he was not afraid at all."

"That is certainly Kay!" said Gerda. "I know he had new boots; I heard them creak in grandmother's room."

"Creak they did!" said the crow. "And he went boldly up to the princess herself, who sat on a pearl as big as a spinning-wheel; and all the ladies of the court with their maids, and the maids' maids, and all the cavaliers with their servants, and the servants' servants, who each kept a page — all stood ranged round about, and the nearer the door they stood, the prouder they looked. The servant's page, who always goes in slippers, one hardly dared look at, so proudly he stood in the doorway."

"How dreadful that must be!" said little Gerda. "And Kay did win the princess?"

"Had I not been a crow, I would have taken her myself, engaged though I am. He is said to have spoken as well as I do when I speak crow-talk — so I heard from my tame sweetheart. He was cheerful and charming; he had not come to woo, but only to hear the princess's wisdom, and he thought well of her, and she thought well of him."

"Yes, surely that was Kay!" said Gerda. "He was so clever, he could do sums in his head, even with fractions. Oh, won't you take me into the palace?"

"That is easily said," answered the crow, "but how shall we do it? I'll talk it over with my tame sweetheart; she may give us good counsel. For I must tell you, a little girl like you never gets leave to come in."

"Oh, but I shall!" said Gerda. "When Kay hears I am there, he will come straight out and fetch me."

"Wait for me by the railing," said the crow, wagging its head, and off it flew.

It was late in the evening before the crow came back. "Caw, caw!" it said. "She sends you many greetings, and here is a little loaf for you — she took it from the kitchen, where there is bread enough, and you must be hungry. It is not possible for you to enter by the front, for you are barefoot; the guards in silver and the footmen in gold would never allow it. But don't cry — you shall get up all the same. My sweetheart knows a narrow back stair that leads to the bedchamber, and she knows where to find the key."

They went into the garden, into the great avenue where the leaves were falling one after another; and as the lights in the palace went out, one after another, the crow led little Gerda to a back door that stood ajar.

Oh, how Gerda's heart beat with fear and longing! It was as if she were doing something wicked, and yet all she wanted was to know if it was little Kay. Surely it must be — she thought so vividly of his clever eyes, his long hair; she could see just how he smiled, as he used to when they sat among the roses at home. He would surely be glad to see her, to hear what a long way she had come for his sake, to know how sad they had all been at home when he did not return. Oh, what fear and what joy!

Now they were on the stairs, where a little lamp burned on a cupboard; and there in the middle of the floor stood the tame crow, turning her head from side to side and studying Gerda, who curtseyed as her grandmother had taught her.

"My betrothed has spoken so well of you, my little miss," said the tame crow. "Your life-story, as one calls it, is very touching. Will you take the lamp? I'll go before you. We'll go straight along here, and meet no one."

"It seems as if someone were coming behind us," said Gerda, as something rushed past her like shadows on the wall: horses with flying manes and slender legs, huntsmen, ladies and gentlemen on horseback.

"Those are only dreams," said the crow. "They come to carry the great folk's thoughts off to the hunt. That's just as well, for you can look at them more safely in their beds. But I hope, when you come to honor and rank, you'll show a grateful heart."

"That goes without saying," said the crow from the forest.

Now they came into the first hall, hung with rose-red satin and artificial flowers up the walls; here the dreams rushed past so quickly that Gerda could not see the great folk. Each hall was grander than the last — enough to bewilder anyone. At last they reached the bedchamber. Here the ceiling was like a great palm-tree, with leaves of costly glass, and in the middle of the floor, hanging from a thick golden stem, were two beds, each shaped like a lily. One was white — the princess lay in it — and the other was red, and in it Gerda must look for little Kay. She bent one of the red leaves aside and saw a brown neck. Oh, that must be Kay! She called his name aloud and held the lamp toward him — the dreams on horseback came rushing back into the room — he woke, turned his head, and — it was not little Kay.

The prince was only like him in the neck; but he was young and handsome. And out of the white lily-bed the princess blinked and asked who was there. Then little Gerda wept and told her whole story, and all the crows had done for her.

"You poor child," said the prince and the princess; and they praised the crows and said they were not angry with them, but that they must not do it again; still, they should be rewarded.

"Would you like to fly free," said the princess, "or would you rather have fixed posts as court crows, with all that falls in the kitchen?"

Both crows bowed and begged for the fixed posts, for they thought of their old age and said it would be good to have something laid by for their old days.

Then the prince got out of his bed and let Gerda sleep in it — he could do no more. She folded her little hands and thought, "How good people and animals are!" Then she closed her eyes and slept sweetly. All the dreams came flying back, looking like angels of God, and they drew a little sledge on which Kay sat and nodded; but it was only a dream, and it was gone the moment she woke.

The next day she was dressed from head to foot in silk and velvet, and was invited to stay at the palace and enjoy fine days; but she asked only for a little carriage with a horse, and a pair of little boots, so that she might drive out into the wide world again and seek Kay. And she was given boots and a muff too, and was neatly dressed; and when she was ready to go, there stood at the door a new coach of pure gold, with the prince's and princess's arms shining on it like a star; the coachman, footmen, and outriders — for there were outriders too — sat on horseback with gold crowns on their heads. The prince and princess themselves helped her into the coach and wished her all good fortune. The forest crow, who was now married, went with her the first three miles, sitting beside her, for she could not bear to ride backwards; the other crow stood in the doorway flapping her wings, for she could not come along — she had suffered from headaches ever since she got her fixed post and too much to eat. Inside, the coach was lined with sugared pretzels, and under the seat were fruit and gingerbread-nuts.

"Farewell, farewell!" cried the prince and the princess; and little Gerda wept, and the crow wept. So it went for the first three miles; then the crow said farewell too, and that was the hardest parting. It flew up into a tree and beat its black wings as long as it could see the coach, which shone like the bright sunshine.

The Fifth Story: The Little Robber Girl

They drove on through the dark forest, but the coach shone like a torch, and it caught the eyes of some robbers, who could not bear to let it pass.

"It's gold, it's gold!" they cried, and rushed out, seized the horses, struck the little jockeys, the coachman, and the footmen dead, and dragged little Gerda out of the carriage.

"She is fat, she is pretty, she has been fed on nut-kernels," said the old robber-woman, who had a long bristly beard and eyebrows that hung down over her eyes. "She is as good as a little fat lamb — how nice she'll taste!" And she drew out her bright knife, and it glittered horribly.

"Ow!" the woman cried the next moment; for her own daughter, who hung on her back and was as wild and naughty as could be, had bitten her in the ear. "You ugly brat!" said the mother, and had no time to slaughter Gerda.

"She shall play with me," said the little robber girl. "She shall give me her muff and her pretty dress, and sleep with me in my bed." And she bit again, so hard that the robber-woman sprang into the air and spun about, and all the robbers laughed and said, "See how she dances with her cub!"

"I want to ride in the coach," said the little robber girl; and she had to have her way, for she was quite spoiled and very stubborn. She and Gerda sat inside, and they drove over stumps and stones deeper into the wood. The little robber girl was about as big as Gerda, but stronger, broader-shouldered, and with darker skin; her eyes were black and looked almost sad. She put her arm round Gerda's waist and said, "They shall not slaughter you as long as I am not vexed with you. You are a princess, I suppose?"

"No," said Gerda, and told her all she had gone through, and how dearly she loved little Kay.

The robber girl looked at her very earnestly, gave a little nod, and said, "They shall not slaughter you, even if I do get angry with you — then I'll do it myself!" And she wiped Gerda's eyes and stuck both her own hands into the beautiful muff, which was soft and warm.

Now the coach stopped; they were in the middle of the courtyard of a robbers' castle, cracked from top to bottom. Ravens and crows flew out of the open holes, and great bulldogs, each of which looked as if it could swallow a man, leaped high in the air — but they did not bark, for that was forbidden. In the great old smoky hall a bright fire burned on the stone floor; the smoke drifted along the ceiling and found its own way out; a great cauldron of soup was boiling, and hares and rabbits were roasting on the spit.

"Tonight you shall sleep with me and all my little animals," said the robber girl. They had food and drink, and then went to a corner where straw and carpets were spread. Above, on laths and perches, sat more than a hundred pigeons, all seeming asleep, though they turned a little when the two little girls came near.

"These are all mine," said the little robber girl, and she snatched the nearest, held it by the feet, and shook it till it flapped its wings. "Kiss it!" she cried, and flapped it in Gerda's face. "There sit the wood-rascals," she went on, pointing to a row of bars set before a hole high in the wall. "Those two are wood-pigeons; they'd fly off at once if they weren't shut up tight. And here stands my old darling, Bae." And she dragged out a reindeer by the horn; it wore a bright copper ring round its neck and was tied fast. "We have to keep him close too, or he'd run away from us. Every evening I tickle his neck with my sharp knife, and that frightens him terribly." And the little girl drew a long knife from a crack in the wall and slid it along the reindeer's neck; the poor beast kicked out, the little robber girl laughed, and then she pulled Gerda down into bed with her.

"Will you keep the knife by you while you sleep?" asked Gerda, looking at it rather fearfully.

"I always sleep with the knife," said the little robber girl. "One never knows what may happen. But now tell me again what you told me before about little Kay, and why you went out into the wide world." And Gerda told it once more, while the wood-pigeons cooed in their cage above and the other pigeons slept. The little robber girl laid one arm round Gerda's neck, held the knife in the other, and was soon fast asleep and snoring. But Gerda could not close her eyes at all; she did not know whether she was to live or die. The robbers sat round the fire, singing and drinking, and the robber-woman tumbled about. It was a dreadful thing for the little girl to see.

Then the wood-pigeons said, "Coo, coo — we have seen little Kay. A white hen carried his sledge; he sat in the Snow Queen's carriage, which drove low over the wood while we lay in our nest. She breathed on us young pigeons, and all died but the two of us. Coo, coo."

"What are you saying up there?" cried Gerda. "Where was the Snow Queen going? Do you know anything of it?"

"She was surely traveling to Lapland, for there is always snow and ice there. Ask the reindeer tied there by the rope."

"There is ice and snow, and it is glorious and good!" said the reindeer. "There you may leap freely about the great shining valleys. There the Snow Queen has her summer tent, but her strongest castle is up toward the North Pole, on an island called Spitsbergen."

"Oh, Kay, little Kay!" sighed Gerda.

"You must lie still," said the robber girl, "or I'll put the knife into you."

In the morning Gerda told her all the wood-pigeons had said, and the little robber girl looked grave, nodded her head, and said, "It's all the same, it's all the same. Do you know where Lapland is?" she asked the reindeer.

"Who should know better than I?" said the beast, its eyes sparkling. "There I was born and bred; there I ran about the snowfields."

"Listen," said the robber girl to Gerda. "You see that all our menfolk are away; only mother is here, and she'll stay; but toward noon she drinks from the great bottle and afterwards dozes a little — then I'll do something for you." Then she jumped out of bed, threw her arms round her mother's neck, pulled her by the beard, and cried, "Good morning, my own dear billy-goat!" And the mother flicked her nose till it was red and blue — and all of it out of pure love.

When the mother had drunk from her bottle and dropped off to sleep, the little robber girl went to the reindeer and said, "I could take great pleasure in tickling you many more times with the sharp knife, for you look so funny then; but no matter. I'll untie your cord and help you out, so you can run to Lapland; but you must put your legs to good use and carry this little girl to the Snow Queen's castle, where her playmate is. You heard what she told me, for she spoke loud enough, and you were listening."

The reindeer sprang up for joy. The little robber girl lifted Gerda onto its back and had the good sense to tie her fast, and even to give her her own little cushion to sit on. "Here are your fur boots," she said, "for it will be cold; but the muff I keep, it is too pretty. Still, you shan't freeze for want of it. Here are my mother's big mittens; they reach right up to your elbows. Put them on. Now your hands look just like my ugly mother's."

And Gerda wept for joy.

"I can't bear to see you snivel!" said the little robber girl. "Now you ought to look glad. And here are two loaves and a ham, so you won't go hungry." These were tied on behind the reindeer. Then the little robber girl opened the door, coaxed in all the great dogs, and cut the cord with her sharp knife, saying to the reindeer, "Now run! But mind you take good care of the little girl." And Gerda stretched out her hands in the big mittens toward the robber girl and said, "Farewell." Then the reindeer bounded away over stumps and stones, through the great forest, over marshes and plains, as fast as it could. The wolves howled and the ravens screamed; up in the sky quivered red flames of light. "Those are my old northern lights," said the reindeer. "See how they shine!" And on it ran, faster still, day and night. The loaves were eaten, and the ham too, and then they were in Lapland.

The Sixth Story: The Lapp Woman and the Finn Woman

They stopped at a little house; it was very poor — the roof sloped almost to the ground, and the door was so low that the family had to crawl in and out. There was no one at home but an old Lapp woman, cooking fish over a whale-oil lamp; and the reindeer told her Gerda's whole story — but first its own, which seemed to it far more important — and Gerda was so pinched with cold she could not speak.

"Oh, you poor things," said the Lapp woman, "you have far to go yet! You must travel more than a hundred miles into Finland, for the Snow Queen lives out there and burns Bengal lights every evening. I'll write a few words on a dried codfish, for I have no paper, and you shall take it to the Finn woman up there; she can give you better directions than I."

When Gerda had warmed herself and had food and drink, the Lapp woman wrote a few words on a dried codfish, told Gerda to take good care of it, tied her fast on the reindeer again, and off it sprang. Flash, flash went the lovely blue northern lights all night long; and at last they came to Finland and knocked at the Finn woman's chimney, for she had not even a door. Inside it was so hot that the Finn woman went almost naked; she was small and grimy. At once she loosened little Gerda's clothes and took off the mittens and boots — or Gerda would have been too hot — and she laid a piece of ice on the reindeer's head, and then read what was written on the codfish. She read it three times, and knew it by heart, and then popped the fish into the soup-pot, for it could be eaten, and she never wasted anything.

The reindeer told its own story first, then little Gerda's; and the Finn woman blinked her clever eyes, but said nothing.

"You are so clever," said the reindeer. "I know you can tie all the winds of the world with a bit of thread; when the sailor loosens one knot, he gets a fair wind; loosen the second, and it blows hard; loosen the third and fourth, and there comes such a storm that the forests fall. Won't you give the little girl a drink that will give her the strength of twelve men, to overcome the Snow Queen?"

"The strength of twelve men?" said the Finn woman. "That would be of little use." She went to a shelf, took down a great rolled-up skin, and unrolled it; strange letters were written on it, and she read till the water ran down her forehead.

But the reindeer begged so hard for little Gerda, and Gerda looked at the Finn woman with such pleading, tearful eyes, that the woman began to blink her eyes again, and drew the reindeer into a corner, and whispered to it while she laid fresh ice on its head:

"Little Kay is indeed with the Snow Queen, and he finds everything there to his taste and liking, and believes it is the best place in the world; but that is because he has a splinter of glass in his heart and a grain of glass in his eye. These must come out, or he will never be human again, and the Snow Queen will keep her power over him."

"But can't you give little Gerda something to give her power over it all?"

"I can give her no greater power than she already has. Don't you see how great it is? Don't you see how men and animals must serve her, and how well she has come through the world barefoot? She cannot get her power from us; it lies in her heart, and it is this: that she is a dear, innocent child. If she cannot reach the Snow Queen herself and get the glass out of little Kay, then we can do nothing. Two miles from here the Snow Queen's garden begins; you can carry the little girl that far and set her down by the great bush that stands in the snow with red berries on it. Don't stand about gossiping — hurry back!" And then the Finn woman lifted little Gerda onto the reindeer, which ran off as fast as it could.

"Oh, I have left my boots! I have left my mittens!" cried little Gerda, for she felt it in the cutting cold. But the reindeer dared not stop; it ran until it reached the bush with the red berries. There it set Gerda down and kissed her on the mouth, and great bright tears ran down its cheeks; and then it ran back as fast as it could.

There stood poor Gerda, without shoes, without gloves, in the middle of the dreadful, ice-cold land of Finland. She ran forward as fast as she could, and then came a whole regiment of snowflakes. But they did not fall from the sky, which was clear and bright with northern lights; the snowflakes ran along the ground, and the nearer they came the larger they grew. Gerda remembered how large and lovely the snowflakes had looked through the magnifying glass; but here they were far larger and more terrible, for they were alive — they were the Snow Queen's outposts, and they had the strangest shapes. Some looked like great ugly porcupines; others like knots of serpents thrusting out their heads; still others like little fat bears with bristling fur; but all were dazzling white, all were living snowflakes.

Then little Gerda said her Lord's Prayer; the cold was so great that she could see her own breath, coming from her mouth like smoke. The breath grew thicker and thicker, and took the shape of little angels, that grew larger the moment they touched the earth; and all wore helmets on their heads and carried spears and shields in their hands. Their number grew and grew, and by the time Gerda had finished her prayer, a whole legion stood about her. They thrust their spears at the horrible snowflakes, so that they shattered into a hundred pieces, and little Gerda went safely and bravely on. The angels stroked her hands and feet, and she felt less how cold it was, and hurried on to the Snow Queen's castle.

But now we must first see what Kay is doing. He was not thinking of little Gerda at all — least of all that she was standing outside the castle.

The Seventh Story: The Snow Queen's Palace, and What Happened There

The walls of the castle were made of drifting snow, and the windows and doors of the cutting winds. There were more than a hundred halls in it, all shaped just as the snow had blown together; the largest stretched for many miles. The strong northern lights lit them all, and how large and empty they were, how icy-cold and glittering! There were never any merry-makings here, not even a little bears' ball with the storm for music, at which the polar bears might have walked on their hind legs and shown their fine manners; never a little game of tag or slap-hands; never a coffee-gossip among the young lady white-foxes. Empty, vast, and cold were the Snow Queen's halls. The northern lights flamed so exactly that you could count when they stood highest and when they stood lowest. In the middle of this endless, empty hall of snow lay a frozen lake, cracked into a thousand pieces; but each piece was so like the others that it was a perfect work of art. In the middle of it sat the Snow Queen when she was at home, and then she said she sat in the Mirror of Reason, and that it was the one and only, and the finest, in the world.

Little Kay was quite blue with cold, indeed almost black, but he did not notice, for she had kissed the shivers of frost away from him, and his heart was like a lump of ice. He was dragging some sharp flat pieces of ice to and fro, and fitting them together in every way, for he wanted to make something out of them. It was like the game where we lay little wooden tablets into figures — the Chinese puzzle. Kay too made figures, the most intricate ones; this was the ice-game of reason. In his eyes the figures were splendid and of the highest importance — that was the grain of glass sitting in his eye. He laid whole figures that spelled a written word, but he could never manage to lay the one word he wanted: the word "Eternity." The Snow Queen had said, "If you can find out this figure, you shall be your own master, and I will give you the whole world and a new pair of skates." But he could not do it.

"Now I am off to the warm lands," said the Snow Queen. "I will go and peep into the black pots" — those were the fire-spouting mountains Etna and Vesuvius. "I'll whiten them a little; that's part of the business, and it's good for the lemons and the grapes." And away flew the Snow Queen, and Kay sat all alone in the many-mile-long, empty hall of ice, looking at his pieces of ice and thinking so hard that something cracked within him. He sat so stiff and still that one might have thought him frozen dead.

Just then it happened that little Gerda came through the great gate into the castle. Cutting winds raged there, but she said her prayer, and the winds sank down as if they meant to sleep. She stepped into the great, empty, cold hall — and there she saw Kay. She knew him at once, flew to him, threw her arms round his neck, and held him tight, crying, "Kay! Dear little Kay! I have found you at last!"

But he sat quite still, stiff and cold.

Then little Gerda wept hot tears, which fell on his breast; they sank into his heart, they melted the lump of ice and burned away the little splinter of glass within it. He looked at her, and she sang:

"Roses bloom and cease to be, But we shall the Christ-child see."

Then Kay burst into tears; he wept so hard that the grain of glass floated out of his eye. Now he knew her, and cried out for joy, "Gerda! Dear little Gerda! Where have you been so long? And where have I been?" And he looked all around him. "How cold it is here! How wide and empty it all is!" And he clung to Gerda, and she laughed and wept for joy. It was so wonderful that even the pieces of ice danced about for gladness; and when they were tired and lay down, they lay in the very letters the Snow Queen had said he must find, if he was to be his own master and have the whole world and a new pair of skates.

And Gerda kissed his cheeks, and they bloomed again; she kissed his eyes, and they shone like her own; she kissed his hands and feet, and he was healthy and merry once more. The Snow Queen might come home now if she pleased — his charter of freedom stood written there in shining pieces of ice.

Then they took each other by the hand and wandered out of the great castle. They spoke of the grandmother and of the roses up on the roof, and wherever they went the winds died down and the sun broke out. When they reached the bush with the red berries, the reindeer stood there waiting, and it had brought another young reindeer with it, whose udder was full; and this gave the children its warm milk and kissed them on the mouth. Then the reindeer carried Kay and Gerda first to the Finn woman, where they warmed themselves in the hot room and were told about the journey home; and then to the Lapp woman, who had sewn new clothes for them and put their sledge in order.

The reindeer and the young one bounded along beside them and followed as far as the border of the land, where the first green shoots came up. There they took leave of the reindeer and the Lapp woman. "Farewell!" they all said. The first little birds began to twitter, the forest was full of green buds, and out of it, on a splendid horse that Gerda knew — it had once been harnessed to the golden coach — came riding a young girl with a shining red cap on her head and pistols in her belt. It was the little robber girl, who had grown tired of staying home, and was now going first to the north, and later, if that did not suit her, to some other part of the world. She knew Gerda at once, and Gerda knew her; and what a joy that was.

"You're a fine fellow, to go gadding about like this!" she said to little Kay. "I'd like to know whether you deserve that anyone should run to the end of the world for your sake!"

But Gerda patted her cheeks and asked after the prince and princess.

"They've gone traveling in foreign lands," said the robber girl.

"And the crow?" asked Gerda.

"Oh, the crow is dead," she answered. "His tame sweetheart is a widow now, and goes about with a bit of black wool round her leg; she moans most pitifully, but it's all nonsense. But now tell me how you fared, and how you got hold of him."

And Gerda and Kay told her all about it.

"Snip, snap, snurry, all's well now!" said the robber girl, and she took them both by the hands and promised that if ever she passed through their town, she would come up and visit them. And with that she rode away into the wide world. But Gerda and Kay went on hand in hand, and wherever they went it was glorious spring, with flowers and green leaves; the church bells rang, and they knew the tall towers of the great city — it was the one they lived in. They went in and up to the grandmother's door, up the stairs, into the room, where everything stood in its old place; the clock went tick, tock, and the hands turned. But as they came through the door they saw that they had grown up, into a man and a woman. The roses from the roof-gutter bloomed in at the open window, and there stood the little children's chairs, and Kay and Gerda sat down, each on his own, and held each other by the hand. The cold, empty splendor of the Snow Queen's palace they had forgotten, like a heavy dream. The grandmother sat in God's bright sunshine and read aloud from the Bible: "Except ye become as little children, ye shall in no wise enter into the kingdom of God."

And Kay and Gerda looked into each other's eyes, and all at once they understood the old song:

"Roses bloom and cease to be, But we shall the Christ-child see."

And there they both sat, grown up, and yet children — children at heart; and it was summer, warm, blessed summer.