Rebels and Reformers: Biographies for Young People

by Baron Arthur Ponsonby Ponsonby; Dorothea Ponsonby

Plants were Andersen’s favorite things, as anyone can see who reads “The Fir Tree,” “Little Ida’s Flowers,” or “The Snow Queen.” “Flowers know that I love them,” he said. He likened them to sleeping children, for he loved simplicity and unconsciousness. Only in the vegetable world he felt was there complete peace and harmony, without any jarring element. When he saw a fallen tree he felt he must weep, and when the buds began to swell in the spring, he would laugh aloud for joy. After flowers, Andersen loved birds better than four-footed animals, and then children. I suppose some people might be shocked at this. He didn’t love children in the mass; there are, after all, nice and nasty children; but he had great friends among them.

When he was old, his admirers in Denmark put up a statue to him in Copenhagen, showing him as an old man with uplifted finger and a smiling face, surrounded by a host of children. It sounds all right to those who didn’t know Andersen. Well, he was quite cross about it, and said he didn’t feel like that at all. It was annoying to have himself represented as “a venerable, toothless old man, with a pack of children crowding round,” as he expressed it.

Andersen, by the time he was middle-aged, was celebrated over a great part of the world. He was fashionable in his own town of Copenhagen, and people would nudge one another in the street as he passed, saying, “There goes the Poet.” Actresses recited his stories, and he himself read them aloud at parties, which would be considered very great occasions. In some ways it sounds rather trying. He had a way of reading his favorites over and over again, and demanding absolute attention; the ladies must stop knitting, the gentlemen must cease to smoke. In spite of these rules and regulations his extraordinary way of reading, his charming voice, his faces and antics, astonished and interested his audience so much that they put up with anything, and would have been willing to stand on their heads, if he had asked them to.

Andersen was made very happy by success, and he says in his “Life,” that it made up to him for all the hard words the critics had spoken. “There came within me,” he says, “a sense of rest, a feeling that all, even the bitter in my life, had been needful for my development and fortune.”

It was a constant source of wonder and delight to him to find himself where he was. He, the son of a poor cobbler and a washerwoman, who had run about as a child in wooden shoes, now to be treated by the most important people as their equal, and to enjoy the best that the world can give. He was friends with princes, and kings were as fathers to him. On his travels, which were like fairy tale travels, he found himself welcomed in every drawing-room of every capital in Europe. He met Dumas and Victor Hugo in France; in Germany, Heine, the brothers Grimm, and Mendelssohn and Schumann; and Dickens, as we know, in England. And he didn’t meet these people in a stiff, formal way, but in their dressing-gowns, so to speak. His childlike nature drew people to him, and he was friendly and intimate with them at once. All these things appeared to him more marvelous even than the most fantastic incidents of his own fairy tales. He would often, when enjoying some quite ordinary luxury, which most people take as a matter of course, such as lying on a sofa in a new dressing-gown surrounded by books, think of his childhood and wonder.

That Andersen should have been impressed by grandeur, by kings and princes in their castles, and the trappings of wealth, is quite natural. He was pleased and amazed, as a child and as a peasant are pleased and amazed. It appealed to his romantic imagination, and the marvel of the contrast with his own childhood and early manhood never ceased to delight him, and to make him thankful. He was not a snob, for a snob is one who despises the less fortunate, but he had a real democratic feeling and never forgot that he was a peasant to start with. He knew that poor people have just as much nobility of soul as the better off, and he shows this in his stories. He is always pointing out the beauty of simple, humble things; of the things that people pass by without noticing. In a lovely but little-known story, “The Conceited Apple Blossom,” though it is only about flowers, you can think of them as people, and it becomes really an allegory on rich and poor. Andersen said about poor people that they were as defenseless as children, and therefore he felt specially tender toward them. When at his literary jubilee, celebrated at Copenhagen, he received gold snuffboxes from kings, and letters from ladies declaring their love from all over the world, he treasured most, four-leaved clovers sent him by peasants, and a waistcoat made for love by an admiring tailor.

Hans Andersen was very vain, and sometimes very silly. He thirsted for praise and encouragement, all the more so, that for so many years he had met with nothing but contempt. Praise was to him, he says, as necessary as sunshine and water to flowers, and without it he perished. Praise made him feel nice, humble, and grateful, but disagreeable criticism made him bitter and proud. He made no effort to conceal his vanity. If he had been praised he wanted everybody to know about it. Once he shouted to a friend on the other side of the street, “Well, what do you think? I am read in Spain now. Good-by!”

But Hans Andersen’s character was full of contradictions. Though acutely sensitive and easily dejected, yet he was dogged, and sometimes almost pushing in his desire to be thought a great writer. From earliest days he had been full of enterprise and energy—the energy of the spirit, for his health had never been good, and had been made worse by privations. At thirty he said he felt sixty, but at sixty he felt younger.

The great Danish writer, Brandes, has written a splendid Essay on Andersen, in which he says in reference to him, “He who possesses talent should also possess courage.” And Hans Andersen did possess these, the happiest perhaps of all combinations of qualities.

We may be glad to know that Hans Andersen was not vain of his looks; indeed, he thought himself very ugly. But he fancied that he looked distinguished. He had his hair curled every day, and he wore very high starched collars to hide his long neck, and very baggy trousers to hide his legs. But in spite of this he was always extremely odd to look at—immensely tall and shambling, with huge feet like boats, a great Roman nose, and almost invisible eyes. But this did not prevent his being simply idolized by the ladies of Denmark, several of whom wrote and asked him to marry them!