SEVENTH STORY
What Took Place in the Palace of the Snow-Queen,
and What Happened Afterward
The walls of the palace were of driving snow, and the windows and doors of cutting winds. There were more than a hundred halls there, according as the snow was driven by the winds. The largest was many miles in extent; all were lighted up by the powerful Aurora Borealis, and all were large, empty, icy cold, and resplendent! Mirth never reigned there; there was never even a little ball for the bears, with the storm of music, while the polar bears went on their hind-legs and showed off their steps. Never a little tea-party of white young lady foxes; vast, cold, and empty were the halls of the Snow-Queen. The northern lights shone with such precision that one could tell exactly when they were at their highest or lowest degree of brightness. In the middle of the empty, endless hall of snow was a frozen lake; it was cracked in a thousand pieces, but each piece was so like the other, that it seemed the work of a cunning artificer. In the middle of this lake sat the Snow-Queen when she was at home. But just now she had gone away in a far distant land.
Little Kay was quite blue, yes, nearly black, with cold; but he did not observe it, for she had kissed away all feeling of cold from his body, and his heart was a lump of ice. He was dragging along some pointed, flat pieces of ice, which he laid together in all possible ways, for he wanted to make something with them; just as we have little flat pieces of wood to make geometrical figures with, called the Chinese Puzzle. Kay made all sorts of figures, the most complicated, for it was an ice-puzzle for the understanding. In his eyes the figures were extraordinarily beautiful, and of the utmost importance; for the bit of glass which was in his eye caused this. He found whole figures which represented a written word; but he never could manage to represent just the word he wanted—that word was “Eternity”; and the Snow-Queen had said, “If you can discover that figure, you shall be your own master, and I will make you a present of the whole world and a pair of new skates.” But he could not find it out.
“I am going now to the warm lands,” said the Snow-Queen. “I must have a look down into the black cauldrons.” It was the volcanoes Vesuvius and Etna that she meant. “I will just give them a coating of white, for that is as it ought to be; besides, it is good for the oranges and the grapes.” And then away she flew, and Kay sat quite alone in the empty halls of ice that were miles long, and looked at the blocks of ice. There he sat quite benumbed and motionless; one would have imagined he was frozen to death.
Suddenly little Gerda stepped through the great portal into the palace. The gate was formed of cutting winds; but Gerda repeated her evening prayer, and the winds were laid as though they slept; and the little maiden entered the vast, empty, cold halls. There she beheld Kay: she recognized him, flew to embrace him, and cried out, her arms firmly holding him the while, “Kay, sweet little Kay! Have I then found you at last!”
But he sat quite still, benumbed and cold. Then little Gerda shed burning tears; and they fell on his bosom, they penetrated to his heart, they thawed the lumps of ice, and consumed the splinters of the looking-glass; he looked at her, and she sang the hymn:—
“The rose in the valley is blooming so sweet,
The Christ-child is there the children to greet.”
Hereupon Kay burst into tears; he wept so much that the splinter rolled out of his eye, and he recognized her, and shouted, “Gerda, sweet little Gerda! where have you been so long? And where have I been?” He looked round him, “How cold it is here!” said he: “how empty and cold!” And he held fast by Gerda, who laughed and wept for joy. It was so beautiful, that even the blocks of ice danced about for joy; and when they were tired and laid themselves down, they formed exactly the letters which the Snow-Queen had told him to find out; so now he was his own master, and he would have the whole world and a pair of new skates into the bargain.
Gerda kissed his cheeks, and they grew quite blooming; she kissed his eyes, and they shone like her own; she kissed his hands and feet, and he was again well and merry. The Snow-Queen might come back as soon as she liked; there stood his discharge written in resplendent masses of ice.
They took each other by the hands, and wandered forth out of the large hall; they talked of their old grandmother, and of the roses upon the roof; and wherever they went, the winds ceased raging, and the sun burst forth. And when they reached the bush with the red berries, they found the Reindeer waiting for them. He had brought another, a young one, with him, whose udder was filled with milk, which he gave to the little ones, and kissed their lips. They then carried Kay and Gerda,—first to the Finland woman, where they warmed themselves in the warm room, and learned what they were to do on their journey home; and then they went to the Lapland woman, who made some new clothes for them and repaired their sledges.
The Reindeer and the young hind leaped along beside them, and accompanied them to the boundary of the country. Here the first vegetation peeped forth; here Kay and Gerda took leave of the Lapland woman. “Farewell! farewell!” said they all. And the first green buds appeared, the first little birds began to twitter; and out of the wood came, riding on a magnificent horse which Gerda knew (it was one of the leaders in the golden carriage), a young damsel with a bright red cap on her head, and armed with pistols. It was the little robber-maiden, who, tired of being at home, had determined to make a journey to the north; and afterwards in another direction, if that did not please her. She recognized Gerda immediately, and Gerda knew her, too. It was a joyful meeting.
“You are a fine fellow for tramping about,” said she to little Kay; “I should like to know whether you deserve that one should run from one end of the world to the other for your sake!”
But Gerda patted her cheeks, and inquired for the Prince and Princess.
“They are gone abroad,” said the other.
“But the Raven?” asked little Gerda.
“Oh! the Raven is dead,” answered she. “His tame sweetheart is a widow, and wears a bit of black worsted round her leg; she laments most piteously, but it’s all mere talk and stuff! Now tell me what you’ve been doing, and how you managed to catch him.”
And Gerda and Kay both told her their story.
And “Snip, snap, snorum!” said the robber-maiden; and she took the hands of each, and promised that if she should some day pass through the town where they lived, she would come and visit them; and then away she rode. Kay and Gerda took each other’s hand: it was lovely spring weather, with abundance of flowers and of verdure. The church-bells rang, and the children recognized the high towers, and the large town; it was that in which they dwelt. They entered, and hastened up to their grandmother’s room, where everything was standing as formerly. The clock said, “Tick! tock!” and the finger moved round; but as they entered, they remarked that they were now grown up. The roses on the roof hung blooming in at the open window; there stood the little children’s chairs, and Kay and Gerda sat down on them, holding each other by the hand; they both had forgotten the cold, empty splendour of the Snow-Queen, as though it had been a dream. The grandmother sat in the bright sunshine, and read aloud from the Bible: “Unless ye become as little children, ye cannot enter the kingdom of heaven.”
And Kay and Gerda looked in each other’s eyes, and all at once they understood the old hymn:—
“The rose in the valley is blooming so sweet,
The Christ-child is there the children to greet.”
There sat the two grown-up persons; grown up, and yet children; children at least in heart: and it was summer-time; summer, glorious summer!
A MERRY TALE OF THE KING AND
THE COBBLER
It was the custom of King Henry the Eighth to disguise himself and walk late in the night into the city of London, to observe how the constables, and watchmen performed their duty, not only in guarding the city gates, but also, in diligently watching the inner part of the city, to observe what went on in the streets. This he did oftimes returning home to Whitehall early in the morning without its being discovered who he was. Now, on returning home through the Strand he often took notice of a certain cobbler who was always up at work, whistling and singing every morning. So, resolving to see him, the king knocked off the heel of his shoe, by hitting it against a stone. Having so done he bounced against the stall.
“Who is there?” cried the cobbler opening his stall door. The king asked him if he could fit on his heel.
“Yes, that I can,” said the cobbler. “So sit thee down and I will do it for thee straightway.”
The cobbler laid aside his awls and old shoes to make room for the king to sit by him. The king was hardly able to keep from laughing at the cobbler’s manner. He then asked him, “Is there not a house near where I can get a cup of good ale, and the people up?”
“Yes,” said the cobbler, “there is an inn over the way, where I think the folks are up, for carriers go from there very early every morning.”
With that the king borrowed an old shoe of the cobbler and went with him over to the inn, desiring him to bring his shoe over there, as soon as he had mended it. The cobbler promised that he would; so making as much haste as he could, he carried it over to the king saying, “Honest blade, here is thy shoe. I’ll warrant thee, the heel will not come off again in haste.”
“Well,” said the king, “as thou art an honest, merry fellow, here is sixpence for thee. Come, sit down by me and I will drink with thee. Here’s a good health to the king!”
“With all my heart,” said the cobbler. “I will pledge thee that were it only in water.”
So the cobbler sat down by the king and was very merry. He sang some of his merry songs and catches at which the king laughed heartily, and was very pleasant with the cobbler, telling him, withal, that his name was Harry Tudor and that he belonged to the court and that if the cobbler would come to see him there, he would make him very welcome because he was such a merry companion. He charged him to come and not forget his name, and to ask anyone about the court for him. “For,” said the king, “I am well known there. They will bring you to me.”
Now the cobbler little dreamed that it was the king that spoke to him, much less that the king’s name was Harry Tudor. Therefore, with a great deal of confidence, he stood up, and pulled off his hat and gave the king many thanks, telling him that he was one of the most honest fellows he had ever met in all his life, and that, though he had never been at court, it would not be long before he would make a holiday and come to see him. Whereupon the king, having discharged the reckoning for what he had had, would have taken leave, but the cobbler, taking the king by the hand said, “By my faith! thou shalt not go yet; thou shalt first go and see my poor habitation, for thou art the most honest blade I ever met, and I love an honest, merry companion with all my heart.”
So the cobbler took the king with him, over the way, where he had a cellar adjoining his stall; which was handsomely furnished for a man of his calling. Into the cellar he led the king.
“There,” said he, “sit thee down, thou art welcome; but I must desire thee to speak softly for fear of waking my wife, Joan, who is in her bed nearby, for, if she should wake, she would certainly make our ears ring.”
At this speech of the cobbler’s the king laughed, and told him he would be mindful to follow his directions.
So the cobbler kindled a fire and fetched a brown loaf, from which he cut a large slice of bread. This he set before the fire. Then he brought forth a Cheshire cheese.
“Come,” said he, “wilt thou eat some cheese? There’s as much good fellowship in eating, as in drinking.” This made the king admire the freedom of the cobbler. Having eaten a piece, the cobbler began, “Here’s a health to all true hearts and merry companions,” at which the king smilingly said, “I’ll pledge thee, old friend, I’ll pledge thee.”
In this manner they ate and drank together, until almost break of day. The cobbler became very free with the king, pleasing the king with several of his old stories.
But suddenly, the cobbler’s old wife, Joan, began to show signs of waking.
“In faith,” said the cobbler, “you must be gone now, for my wife, Joan, begins to grumble. She will wake presently and I would not, for all the shoes in my shop, that she should find thee here.”
So taking the king upstairs he said, “Farewell, honest blade, it shall not be long before I make a holiday and come to see thee at court.”
The king replied, “Thou shalt be kindly welcome.”
So they parted, the king going on his way to Whitehall, and the cobbler back to his cellar where he put all things to rights before his wife, Joan, appeared. He went to work again whistling and singing as merry as he used to do, much satisfied that he had happened on such a good companion, and very much delighted at thinking of the merry time he would have when he went to court.
As soon as the king reached home, he gave orders to all about the court that if anyone inquired for him by the name of Harry Tudor, the person should be brought before him, without further examination.
To the cobbler every day seemed a month until he had been at court to see his new acquaintance. But he was much troubled how he should get leave of his wife, Joan. He could not go without her knowledge for he had resolved to make himself as fine as ever he could and his wife, Joan, always kept his holiday clothes. One evening as they sat at supper, she being in good humour, he began to lay open his mind to her and tell her the whole story of the acquaintance, repeating over and over again that Harry Tudor was the most honest man he had ever met.
“Husband,” said Joan, “because you have been so generous as to tell me the truth, I shall give you leave to take a holiday. You shall go to court and I will make you as fine as possible.”
So it was agreed that he might go the next day.
Joan arose the next morning to brush her husband’s clothes and to make him look as snug as could be. She washed and ironed his lace band, and made his shoes shine, till he could see his face in them. When this was done she made her husband arise and dressed him carefully in his best clothes.
The cobbler being thus equipped in his best strutted through the streets, like a crow, thinking himself very fine indeed. In this manner he came to court, staring at this person and that, as he walked up and down, and not knowing anyone to ask for but Harry Tudor. At last he spied one as he thought in the dress of a serving man. To him he made his address, saying, “Dost thou hear, honest fellow, dost thou know one Harry Tudor who belongs to the court?”
“Yes,” said the man, “follow me; and I will take you to him.”
With that he took him presently into the guard-chamber, telling one of the yeomen of the guard that here was a man who was inquiring for Harry Tudor.
The yeoman replied, “I know him very well, and if you please to go along with me, I will bring you to him immediately.”
So the cobbler followed the yeoman much admiring the finery of the rooms through which he passed and thinking within himself that the yeoman was not very unlike the person he inquired after. “He, whom I look for,” said he, “is a plain, merry, honest fellow. His name is Harry Tudor. I suppose he may be some fine lord or other about the court.”
“I tell you, friend,” replied the yeoman, “I do not know him very well. Do but follow me and I will bring you to him straightway.”
So they went on and soon reached the room where the king sat surrounded by many of his nobles. As soon as the yeoman had drawn aside the curtains he called out saying, “May it please your majesty, here is one that inquires for Harry Tudor.”
The cobbler hearing this and thinking he had committed no less than treason took to his heels and ran for his life. But not being acquainted with the several turnings and rooms through which he had come, he was soon overtaken and brought before the king, whom the cobbler little thought to be the person he was inquiring for. He therefore, fell on his knees saying, “May it please your Grace, I am a poor cobbler and inquired for one called Harry Tudor, who is a very honest fellow. I mended the heel of his shoe not long ago, for which he paid me nobly. I had him afterwards to my own cellar, where we were very merry, till my wife, Joan, began to wake, which put an end to our merriment, for that time. But I told him that I surely would come to court to see him, as soon as I conveniently could.”
“Well,” said the king, “rise up and be not afraid! Look well about you. Perhaps you may find the fellow in this company.”
The cobbler arose and looked wistfully upon the king and his nobles, but to no purpose; for, although he thought he saw something in the king’s face which he had seen before, yet, he could not imagine him to be Harry Tudor, the heel of whose shoe he had mended, and who had been so merry with him, both at the inn and in his own cellar.
He therefore told the king he did not expect to find Harry Tudor among such fine folks as he saw there, but the person that he looked for was a plain, honest, true-hearted fellow, adding withal, that he was sure if Harry Tudor did but know that he had come to court he would make him welcome.
At this speech of the cobbler, the king had much to do to forbear laughing; but keeping his countenance as well as he could, he said to the yeoman of the guard, “Here, take this honest cobbler down into the cellar and I will give orders that Harry Tudor shall come to him presently.”
So away went the cobbler ready to leap out of his skin for joy, not only that he had gotten off so well in his meeting with the king, but also that he should soon see his friend, Harry Tudor, again.
The cobbler had not been long in the cellar before the king came into him, in the same clothes he had on when the cobbler mended his shoe. The cobbler knew him immediately and ran to him and kissed him, saying, “Honest Harry, I have made a holiday on purpose to come and see you, but I had much to do to get leave of my wife, Joan, who was loathe I should lose so much time from my work, but I was resolved to see you. So I made myself as fine as I could. But I’ll tell you, Harry, when I came to court, I was in a pack of trouble how to find you out. At last I met a man who told me he knew you very well, and that he would bring me to you. But instead of doing so he brought me before the king, who has almost frightened me to death. But in good faith,” continued the cobbler, “I am resolved to be merry with you, since I have the good fortune to find you at last.”
“Ay, so you shall,” replied the king, “we will be as merry as princes.”
With that they drank together the king’s health.
“Honest Harry, I will pledge thee with all my heart.”
Now after the cobbler had made merry, he began to sing some of his old songs and catches. This pleased the king very much and made him laugh most heartily. All of a sudden a group of nobles came into the cellar richly dressed. They stood with heads uncovered bowing before Harry Tudor. This amazed the cobbler very much but recovering himself he looked more closely upon Harry Tudor and presently he knew him to be the king whom he had seen in the Presence Chamber.
He immediately fell upon his knees, saying, “May it please your Majesty, I am an honest cobbler and meant no harm.”
“No, no,” said the king, “nor shall receive any here, I promise you.”
He commanded the cobbler, therefore, to rise and be as merry as he was before; and though he knew him to be the king yet he should use the same freedom with him as he did when he mended his shoe. This kind speech of the king’s put the cobbler in as good humour as he was before. He told the king many of his best stories and he sang more of his jolly songs, very much to the satisfaction of the king and his nobles.
Now the king, considering the pleasant humours of the cobbler, how innocently merry he was, and free from any design, and how he laboured very hard, and took a great deal of pains for a small livelihood, was pleased, out of his princely grace and favour to allot him a liberal annuity of forty marks a year for the better support of his jolly humours and the maintenance of himself and his wife Joan. The king ordered that he should be admitted as one of the courtiers.
This was so much beyond his highest expectations that it pleased him greatly, much to the satisfaction of the king.
So after some bows and scrapes, he returned to his wife, Joan, with the joyful news of his kind reception at court.
From Gammer Gurton’s Historie.