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First Story, Which Tells of the Mirror and Its Fragments. Now then! Let us begin. When we reach the end of the story, we shall know more than we know now, for there was a wicked sprite! He was one of the very worst—he was “the devil”! One day he was in excellent spirits, for he had made a mirror with this peculiar power: everything good and beautiful reflected in it dwindled to almost nothing, while everything worthless and ugly stood out plainly and grew even worse. The loveliest landscapes looked like boiled spinach, and the best of people became hideous, or stood on their heads with no stomachs; faces were so distorted that they could not be recognized, and if you had a freckle, you could be sure it would spread over your nose and mouth. It was wonderfully amusing, “the devil” said. If a good, pious thought passed through anyone’s mind, a grin appeared in the mirror, and the wicked sprite had to laugh at his ingenious invention. All those who went to his school of sorcery—for he kept a school of sorcery—went about saying that a miracle had happened. Now, they declared, one could at last see what the world and its people really looked like. They ran about with the mirror, until at last there was not a country or a person that had not been distorted in it. Now they wanted to fly up to Heaven itself, to mock the angels and “our Lord.” The higher they flew with the mirror, the more fiercely it grinned; they could scarcely hold it fast. Higher and higher they flew, nearer to God and the angels; then the mirror shook so terribly with its grinning that it flew out of their hands and plunged down to earth, where it shattered into a hundred million, a billion, and still more pieces. And now it did far greater harm than before, for some of the pieces were scarcely as big as a grain of sand, and these flew about the wide world. Whenever they got into people’s eyes, they stayed there, and then those people saw everything awry, or had eyes only for what was wrong with a thing, for every tiny grain of mirror had kept the same powers as the whole mirror. Some people even got a little fragment in their hearts, and that was dreadful indeed: the heart became like a lump of ice. Some pieces were so large that they were used for windowpanes, but it was no pleasure to look at one’s friends through such a window. Other pieces were made into spectacles, and things went badly when people put those spectacles on to see clearly and judge fairly. The wicked one laughed until his sides split, and it tickled him delightfully. But tiny fragments of glass were still flying about in the air. Now we shall hear what happened!

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 enough for everyone to have a little garden, and where most must therefore make do with flowers in pots, there were nevertheless two poor children who had a garden rather larger than a flowerpot. They were not brother and sister, but they loved each other just as much as if they were. Their parents lived right next door to one another, in two attic rooms. Where the roof of one house met the roof of the next, and the gutter ran along the eaves, a little window looked out from each house. One had only to step across the gutter to get from one window to the other.

Outside each window the parents had a large wooden box, in which they grew kitchen herbs for their use and a little rosebush. There was one rosebush in each box, and they flourished wonderfully. Now the parents thought of setting the boxes across the gutter so that they almost reached from one window to the other, looking just like two banks of flowers. Pea tendrils trailed down over the boxes, and the rosebushes sent out long branches that twined about the windows and bent towards one another: it was almost like a triumphal arch of greenery and flowers. Since the boxes were very high, and the children knew they must not climb onto them, they were often allowed to step out to visit each other and sit on their little stools beneath the roses, where they played most happily.

In winter, of course, that pleasure came to an end. The windows were often frozen over, but then they warmed copper pennies on the stove and pressed a hot penny against the frozen pane, making a lovely peephole, perfectly round. Behind it peeped a dear, gentle eye, one at each window: the little boy and the little girl. His name was Kay, and hers was Gerda. In summer they could reach each other in a single leap; in winter they first had to go down all those stairs and up all those stairs again. Outside, the snow whirled.

“Those are the white bees swarming,” said the old grandmother. “Have they a queen bee too?” asked the little boy, for he knew that real bees had one.

“Indeed they have!” said the grandmother. “She flies where they swarm most thickly. She is the largest of them all, and she never stays still on the earth, but flies up again into the black cloud. On many a winter night she flies through the streets of the city and peeps in at the windows, and then they freeze into such strange shapes, like flowers.”

“Yes, I’ve 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 put her on the hot stove, and then she’ll melt.”

But the grandmother stroked his hair and told them other stories. That evening, when little Kay was at home and half undressed, he climbed onto the chair by the window and peeped out through the little hole. A few snowflakes were falling outside, and one of them, the very largest, settled on the edge of a flower box. The snowflake grew and grew, until at last it became a woman dressed in the finest white gauze, which seemed made of millions of star-shaped flakes. She was so beautiful and delicate, but made of ice, dazzling, glittering ice; and yet she was alive. Her eyes shone like two clear stars, but there was neither peace nor rest in them. She nodded towards the window and beckoned with her hand. The little boy took fright and jumped down from the chair; then it seemed as though a great bird flew past the window outside.

The next day brought clear, frosty weather—and then spring came. The sun shone, green shoots peeped out, the swallows built their nests, the windows were opened, and the little children sat once more in their little garden, high up in the gutter above all the storeys of the houses.

The roses bloomed that summer as never before. The little girl had learned a hymn that spoke of roses, and those roses made her think of her own. She sang it to the little boy, and he sang along:

“The roses bloom in the valley fair; we speak with the infant Jesus there!” And the little ones held hands, kissed the roses, and looked into God’s bright sunshine, speaking to it as though the Christ Child were there. What lovely summer days those were, and how blessed it was to sit beside the fresh rosebushes, which seemed as though they would never stop flowering.

Kay and Gerda were sitting looking at the animals and birds in their picture book when—it was just as the clock in the great church tower struck five—Kay said, “Ow! Something stabbed me in the heart! And now something’s got into my eye!”

The little girl put her arms round his neck. He blinked his eyes; no, there was nothing to be seen. “I think it’s gone!” he said. But it was not gone. It was one of those very grains of glass that had flown from the mirror, the magic mirror—we remember it well—that dreadful glass which made everything great and good reflected in it look small and hideous, while all that was wicked and bad stood out plainly, and every fault in a thing became immediately noticeable. Poor Kay had also got a grain right in his heart. Soon it would become like a lump of ice. It no longer hurt, but it was there.

“Why are you crying?” he asked. “It makes you look ugly! There’s nothing wrong with me! Ugh!” he cried all at once. “That rose has been eaten by a worm! And look, that one’s quite crooked! They’re really nasty roses! They look just like the boxes they’re growing in!” And he kicked the box hard and tore off the two roses.

“Kay, what are you doing?” cried the little girl. And when he saw how frightened she was, he tore off another rose and ran back through his window, away from dear little Gerda.

After that, whenever she brought the picture book, he said it was for babies, and whenever Grandmother told stories, he always found something to object to. If he could manage it, he would walk behind her, put on spectacles, and talk just as she did. He did it to perfection, and people laughed at him. Soon he could imitate the speech and walk of everyone in the street. Whatever was odd or unattractive about them, Kay knew how to copy, and people said, “That boy certainly has a remarkable head on his shoulders!” But it was the glass in his eye, the glass lodged in his heart, that made him behave so; that was why he teased even little Gerda, who loved him with all her soul.

His games were quite different now: they were so very clever. One winter day, as the snowflakes whirled about, he came with a large magnifying glass, held out the tail of his blue coat, and let the snowflakes fall onto it.

“Now look through the glass, Gerda!” he said. Each snowflake grew much larger and looked like a splendid flower or a ten-pointed star. It was beautiful to see.

“See how cleverly they’re made!” said Kay. “They’re much more interesting than real flowers! And there isn’t a single fault in them. They’re absolutely exact, if only they wouldn’t melt!”

A little later Kay appeared wearing big gloves and carrying his sledge on his back. He shouted right into Gerda’s ears, “I’ve been allowed to go sledging in the big square where the others play!” And off he went.

There in the square the boldest boys would often tie their sledges to a farmer’s cart and ride along for a good way. It was great fun. While they were in the midst of their games, a large sledge appeared, painted entirely white. In it sat someone wrapped in a shaggy white fur coat and wearing a shaggy white cap. The sledge went twice round the square, and Kay quickly tied his little sledge to it and rode along behind. Faster and faster they went, straight into the next street. The driver turned and nodded so kindly at Kay, as though they knew each other. Whenever Kay was about to untie his little sledge, the person nodded again, and Kay stayed where he was. They drove straight out through the city gate. Then the snow began to pour down so thickly that the little boy could not see his hand before his face, but on he sped. He quickly let go of the rope to free himself from the great sledge, but it was no use: his little sledge held fast, and they flew along like the wind. Then he shouted at the top of his voice, but no one heard him, and the snow whirled and the sledge flew on. Now and then it gave a leap, as though he were racing over ditches and fences. He was terribly frightened and tried to say the Lord’s Prayer, but all he could remember was the multiplication table.

The snowflakes grew larger and larger, until at last they looked like great white hens. Suddenly they sprang aside, the great sledge stopped, and the person driving it stood up. The coat and cap were made entirely of snow. It was a lady, tall and straight and dazzlingly white: it was the Snow Queen.

“We have made good speed!” she said. “But how cold it is! Creep inside my bearskin coat!” She seated him beside her in the sledge and wrapped the fur round him. It was as though he were sinking into a snowdrift.

“Are you still cold?” she asked, and kissed him on the forehead. Oh! It was colder than ice; it pierced straight to his heart, which was already half a lump of ice. He felt as though he were going to die—but only for a moment; then it felt quite pleasant. He no longer noticed the cold all around him.

“My sledge! Don’t forget my sledge!” That was the first thing he remembered. It was tied to one of the white hens, which flew behind them with the sledge on its back. The Snow Queen kissed Kay once more, and then he forgot little Gerda and Grandmother and everyone at home.

“Now you must have no more kisses!” she said. “Or I should kiss you to death!” Kay looked at her. She was so beautiful; he could not imagine a wiser or lovelier face. She no longer seemed to be made of ice, as she had when she sat outside the window and beckoned to him. In his eyes she was perfect. He felt no fear at all. He told her that he could do sums in his head, even with fractions, and that he knew how many square miles each country measured and “how many inhabitants” it had, and she kept smiling. Then he felt that what he knew was not nearly enough, and he looked up into the vast, vast sky. She flew with him, flew high up onto the black cloud, and the storm whistled and roared as though it were singing old songs. They flew over forests and lakes, over seas and lands. Beneath them the cold wind howled, the wolves bayed, the snow glittered, and black, shrieking crows flew above it; but overhead the moon shone so large and clear, and Kay watched it through the long, long winter night. By day he slept at the Snow Queen’s feet.

Third Story. The Flower Garden of the Woman Who Knew Magic. But how did little Gerda fare when Kay no longer came? Where could he be? No one knew; no one could tell her. The boys could only say that they had seen him tie his little sledge to a splendid large one that had driven into the street and out through the city gate. No one knew where he was. Many tears were shed, and little Gerda wept long and bitterly. Then people said that he was dead, that he had drowned in the river which flowed close to the city. Oh, those were long, dark winter days.

Now spring came, 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’ll put on my new red shoes,” she said one morning, “the ones Kay has never seen, and then I’ll go down to the river and ask it!”

It was very early. She kissed the old grandmother, who was asleep, put on her red shoes, and went quite alone out through the gate to the river. “Is it true that you have taken my little playmate? I’ll give you my red shoes if you will give him back to me!”

And the waves seemed to nod to her so strangely. Then she took her red shoes, her dearest possessions, and threw them both into the river. But they fell close to the bank, and the little waves carried them straight back to her, as though the river would not take what she treasured most, since it did not have little Kay. But she thought she had not thrown the shoes far enough, so she climbed into a boat lying among the reeds, went right to its far end, and threw the shoes out. But the boat was not tied up, and her movement made it glide away from the shore. She noticed this and hurried to get out, but before she could make her way back, the boat was more than two feet from the bank, and now it drifted away faster.

Little Gerda was terribly frightened and began to cry, but no one heard her except the sparrows. They could not carry her ashore, but they flew along the bank and sang, as though to comfort her, “Here we are! Here we are!” The boat drifted with the current, and little Gerda sat quite still in her stockings. Her little red shoes floated behind her, but they could not catch the boat, which was gathering speed.

Both banks were beautiful, with lovely flowers, old trees, and slopes where sheep and cows grazed, but there was not a person to be seen. “Perhaps the river will carry me to little Kay,” thought Gerda. This cheered her, and she stood up and watched the lovely green banks for many hours. Then she came to a large cherry orchard, where there was a little house with curious red and blue windows, a thatched roof, and two wooden soldiers outside, shouldering their arms to those who sailed past.

Gerda called to them, thinking they were alive, but naturally they did not answer. She came quite close to them, for the river was carrying the boat straight towards the shore.

Gerda called still louder, and out of the house came a very, very old woman, leaning on a crooked stick. She wore a large sunhat painted with the loveliest flowers.

“You poor little child!” said the old woman. “How ever did you get onto this great, strong current and drift so far into the wide world?” Then the old woman waded right into the water, caught the boat with her crooked stick, drew it ashore, and lifted little Gerda out.

Gerda was glad to be on dry land, but a little afraid of the strange old woman. “Come and tell me who you are and how you came to be here!” she said.

Gerda told her everything, and the old woman shook her head and said, “Hmm! Hmm!” When Gerda had finished and asked whether she had seen little Kay, the woman said he had not passed that way, but he was sure to come. She must not be sad, but taste her cherries and look at her flowers; they were more beautiful than any picture book, and each could tell a whole story. Then she took Gerda by the hand, they went into the little house, and the old woman locked the door.

The windows were set very high, and their panes were red, blue, and yellow. Daylight shone strangely inside in all those colours, but on the table stood the loveliest cherries, and Gerda ate as many as she pleased, 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 beautiful golden yellow round the sweet little face, which was as round as a rose.

“How I’ve longed for a sweet little girl like you!” said the old woman. “Now you shall see how well we two will get along!” And as she combed little Gerda’s hair, Gerda forgot more and more about Kay, whom she loved like a brother. For the old woman knew magic, but she was not a wicked witch; she only worked a little magic for her own amusement, and now she wanted to keep little Gerda. So she went into the garden and stretched her crooked stick towards all the rosebushes. Beautifully as they were flowering, they all sank into the black earth, and no one could see where they had stood. The old woman was afraid that if Gerda saw the roses, she would think of her own, remember little Kay, and run away.

Now she led Gerda into the flower garden. Oh, what fragrance and beauty there was! Every flower imaginable, from every season of the year, stood there in the most glorious bloom. No picture book could have been more colourful or beautiful. Gerda jumped for joy and played until the sun went down behind the tall cherry trees. Then she was given a lovely bed with red silk quilts stuffed with blue violets, and there she slept and dreamed as sweetly as any queen on her wedding day.

The next day she could play with the flowers again in the warm sunshine, and so many days passed. Gerda knew every flower, but for all their abundance, she still felt that one was missing, though she could not tell which. Then one day she sat looking at the old woman’s sunhat with its painted flowers, and the loveliest of them all was a rose. The old woman had forgotten to remove it from the hat when she sent the others down into the earth. But that is what comes of not keeping one’s wits about one!

“What!” said Gerda. “Are there no roses here?” She sprang in among the beds and searched and searched, but there were none to be found. Then she sat down and cried, and her hot tears fell on the very spot where a rosebush had sunk. As the warm tears watered the earth, the bush suddenly sprang up, flowering just as it had when it sank. Gerda put her arms round it, kissed the roses, and thought of the lovely roses at home, and with them of little Kay.

“Oh, how long I’ve been delayed!” said the little girl. “I was supposed to find Kay! Don’t you know where he is?” she asked the roses. “Do you think he is dead and gone?”

“He is not dead,” said the roses. “We have been down in the earth, where all the dead are, but Kay was not there!” “Thank you!” said little Gerda. She went over to the other flowers, looked into their cups, and asked, “Don’t you know where little Kay is?”

But each flower stood in the sun dreaming its own fairy tale or story. Little Gerda heard so very many of them, but none knew anything about 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 lament! Hear the priests cry out! In her long red robe the Hindu woman stands on the funeral pyre. Flames leap up around her and her dead husband; but the Hindu woman is thinking of the living man here in the circle, the man whose eyes burn hotter than the flames, whose fiery gaze reaches her heart more deeply than the flames that will soon burn her body to ashes. Can the heart’s flame die in the flames of the pyre?”

“I don’t understand that at all!” said little Gerda. “That is my fairy tale!” said the tiger lily. What does the convolvulus say? “An old knight’s castle overhangs the narrow mountain road. Dense evergreens climb the old red walls, leaf upon leaf, and spread across the balcony, where a lovely girl is standing. She leans over the railing and looks down the road. No rose hangs fresher from its branch than she; no apple blossom, when the wind carries it from the tree, floats more lightly than she. How her splendid silk gown rustles! ‘Will he never come?’”

“Do you mean Kay?” asked little Gerda. “I speak only of my fairy tale, my dream,” answered the convolvulus. What does the little snowdrop say? “Between the trees a long board hangs from ropes: it is a swing. Two pretty little girls sit swinging, their dresses white as snow, long green silk ribbons fluttering from their hats. Their brother, who is bigger than they are, stands on the swing, his arm round the rope to hold himself steady, for in one hand he has a little bowl, and in the other a clay pipe. He is blowing soap bubbles. The swing moves, and the bubbles float away in lovely, shifting colours; the last still clings to the pipe and bends in the wind. The swing moves. The little black dog, light as the bubbles, rises on its hind legs and wants to join them on the swing. The swing flies up; the dog falls, barks, and is angry. It has been teased; the bubbles burst. A swinging board, a fleeting image made of foam—that is my song!”

“What you tell me may well be beautiful, but you say it so sadly, and you never mention Kay. What do the hyacinths say?” “There were three lovely sisters, so delicate and translucent. One wore a red gown, another a blue one, and the third a gown of pure white. Hand in hand they danced beside the still lake in the clear moonlight. They were not elfin maidens, but human children. A sweet fragrance filled the air, and the girls vanished into the wood. The fragrance grew stronger. Three coffins, with the lovely girls lying inside them, glided out from the thick wood and across the lake. Glow-worms flew shining round them like tiny floating lights. Are the dancing girls asleep, or are they dead? The scent of flowers says they are corpses; the evening bell tolls for the dead!”

“You make me so sad,” said little Gerda. “Your scent is so strong; I cannot help thinking of the dead girls! 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 are not tolling for little Kay; we do not know him! We only sing our own song, the only one we know!” And Gerda went over to the buttercup, which shone among the glossy green leaves.

“You are a little bright sun!” said Gerda. “Tell me if you know where I can find my playmate.” And the buttercup shone so beautifully and looked back at Gerda. What song could the buttercup sing? That, too, was not about Kay.

“In a little courtyard our Lord’s sun shone warmly on the first day of spring. Its rays slipped down the neighbour’s white wall, and close beside it grew the first yellow flowers, shining gold in the warm sunshine. Old Grandmother was outside in her chair, and her granddaughter, the poor, pretty servant girl, came home for a short visit. She kissed her grandmother. There was gold, the heart’s gold, in that blessed kiss. Gold on the lips, gold in the ground, gold in the morning sky all around! There, that is my little story!” said the buttercup.

"My poor old grandmother!" sighed Gerda. "She must be longing for me and grieving over me, just as she did over little Kay. But I shall soon be home again, and I shall bring Kay with me. There is no use asking the flowers; they know only their own songs and can tell me nothing!" And she tucked up her little dress so that she could run faster; but the narcissus struck her leg as she leaped over it. She stopped, looked at the tall yellow flower, and asked, "Perhaps you know something?" And she bent right down to the narcissus. And what did it say?

"I can see myself! I can see myself!" said the narcissus. "Oh, oh, how sweet I smell! Up in the little attic room stands a little dancing girl, half dressed. Now she stands on one leg, now on two; she kicks at the whole world, she is nothing but a dazzling illusion. She pours water from the teapot onto a piece of clothing she is holding—it is her bodice. Cleanliness is a good thing! Her white dress hangs on the peg; that too has been washed in the teapot and dried on the roof. She puts it on, with the saffron-yellow scarf about her neck, and that makes the dress shine all the whiter. Up with your leg! See how proudly she poses on one stalk! I can see myself! I can see myself!"

"I don't care for that at all!" said Gerda. "That is no sort of story to tell me!" And she ran to the edge of the garden. The door was shut, but she shook the rusty staple until it came loose, and the door sprang open. Then little Gerda ran barefoot out into the wide world. Three times she looked back, but no one came after her. At last she could run no farther and sat down on a large stone. When she looked about her, summer was over; it was late autumn. She had never noticed it in the lovely garden, where the sun always shone and flowers of every season bloomed.

"Dear God! How long I have lingered!" said little Gerda. "It is autumn already! Then I must not rest!" And she rose to go on. Oh, how sore and weary her little feet were, and how cold and bleak everything looked around her! The long willow leaves were quite yellow, and the mist dripped from them in drops of water. One leaf fell after another; only the blackthorn still bore fruit, so tart that it puckered the mouth. Oh, how grey and dreary it was out in the wide world!

Fourth Story. The Prince and Princess. Gerda had to rest again. Then a large crow hopped across the snow just in front of where she sat. He had been sitting there a long time, watching her and wagging his head; now he said, "Caw! Caw! Good day! Good day!" He could say it no better than that, but he meant the little girl well and asked where she was going all alone in the wide world. That word, alone, Gerda understood very well, and she felt deeply all that it meant. So she told the crow the whole story of her life and asked whether he had seen Kay.

And the crow nodded very thoughtfully and said, "That may be! That may be!" "What! Do you think so?" cried the little girl, and she almost squeezed the crow to death with her kisses.

"Steady, steady!" said the crow. "I think I know—I think it may be little Kay! But I expect he has forgotten you now for the princess!"

"Does he live with a princess?" asked Gerda. "Yes, listen!" said the crow. "But I find it so hard to speak your language. If you understand Crow, I can tell you much better!"

"No, I have never learned it!" said Gerda. "But Grandmother knew it, and P-language too. If only I had learned it!" "Never mind!" said the crow. "I shall tell you as well as I can, though it will be badly told all the same." And then he told her what he knew.

"In this kingdom, where we are sitting now, there lives a princess who is immensely clever; but then she has read every newspaper in the world and forgotten them all again, that is how clever she is. The other day she was sitting on her throne, which is not so amusing as you might think, they say, when she began humming a song. It was the very one that goes, 'Why shouldn't I get married?' 'Now, there is something in that!' she said, and so she decided to marry. But she wanted a husband who knew how to answer when someone spoke to him, not one who merely stood there looking grand, for that is so dull. Then she had all her ladies-in-waiting summoned by a roll of the drum, and when they heard what she wanted, they were delighted. 'I like that!' they said. 'I was thinking just the same thing myself the other day!' You may believe that every word I tell you is true!" said the crow. "I have a tame sweetheart who has the run of the palace, and she has told me everything!"

His sweetheart was a crow too, of course, for a crow seeks a mate, and that is always another crow. "The newspapers came out at once with a border of hearts and the princess's monogram. You could read in them that any good-looking young man was free to come to the palace and speak with the princess; and whoever spoke most at ease, as though he belonged there, and spoke best, would be the man the princess married! Yes, yes!" said the crow. "You may believe me, it is as certain as that I am sitting here. People came flocking in; there was such a crush and a bustle, but no one succeeded, either on the first day or the second. They could all talk well enough out in the street, but once they came through the palace gates and saw the guards in silver, and the footmen in gold up the stairs, and the great brightly lit halls, they were overwhelmed. And when they stood before the throne where the princess sat, they could think of nothing to say but the last word she had spoken, and she had no wish to hear that again. It was as though the people in there had had snuff sprinkled on their stomachs and fallen into a stupor until they reached the street again; then, to be sure, they could chatter. There was a queue stretching all the way from the town gate to the palace. I went in to see it myself!" said the crow. "They grew both hungry and thirsty, but they did not get so much as a glass of lukewarm water from the palace. Some of the cleverest had brought sandwiches, it is true, but they would not share them with their neighbours. They thought to themselves, 'Let him look hungry; then the princess won't have him!'"

"But Kay, little Kay!" asked Gerda. "When did he come? Was he among all those people?" "Patience! Patience! We are just coming to him! It was on the third day that a little fellow came marching boldly up to the palace, without a horse or carriage. His eyes shone like yours, and he had lovely long hair, but otherwise his clothes were poor!"

"That was Kay!" cried Gerda joyfully. "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 his sledge!"

"That may well be!" said the crow. "I did not look very closely! But this much I know from my tame sweetheart: when he came through the palace gates and saw the royal guards in silver and the footmen in gold up the stairs, he was not the least bit daunted. He nodded to them and said, 'It must be dull standing on the stairs; I would rather go inside!' The halls blazed with light; privy councillors and excellencies went about barefoot, carrying golden dishes. It was enough to make anyone solemn! His boots creaked fearfully loudly, but still he was not afraid!"

"It is certainly Kay!" said Gerda. "I know he had new boots; I heard them creak in Grandmother's room!" "Yes, creak they did!" said the crow. "And he went boldly straight up to the princess, who sat on a pearl as large as a spinning wheel. All the ladies-in-waiting with their maids and their maids' maids, and all the gentlemen with their servants and their servants' servants, who keep a boy of their own, stood ranged around; and the nearer they stood to the door, the prouder they looked. The servants' servants' boy, who always wears slippers, is almost too proud to look at as he stands in the doorway!"

"That must be dreadful!" said little Gerda. "And yet Kay has won the princess!" "Had I not been a crow, I would have married her myself, even though I am engaged. He is said to have spoken as well as I do when I speak Crow; I have that from my tame sweetheart. He was bold and charming. He had not come to woo her at all, but merely to hear the princess's wisdom, and he thought well of it, and she thought well of him in return!"

"Yes, surely! That was Kay!" said Gerda. "He was so clever, he could do fractions in his head! Oh, won't you take me into the palace?" "Yes, that is easily said!" replied the crow. "But how are we to do it? I must speak to my tame sweetheart about it; perhaps she can advise us. For I must tell you, a little girl like you will never be allowed in by the proper way!"

"Yes, I shall!" said Gerda. "When Kay hears I am here, he will come out at once and fetch me!" "Wait for me by that stile!" said the crow, and he wagged his head and flew away.

It was not until evening had grown dark that the crow returned. "Caw! Caw!" he said. "She sends you her very best wishes! 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 impossible for you to enter the palace: you have bare feet, after all. The guards in silver and the footmen in gold would never allow it. But don't cry; we shall get you up there all the same. My sweetheart knows a little back staircase that leads to the bedchamber, and she knows where to find the key!"

And they went into the garden, along the great avenue where one leaf fell after another; and as the lights in the palace went out one by one, 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 though she were about to do something wicked, yet all she wanted was to find out whether it was little Kay. Yes, it must be he! She thought so vividly of his clever eyes and his long hair; she could almost see him smiling as he had when they sat at home beneath the roses. Surely he would be glad to see her, to hear how far she had walked for his sake, and to learn how sad they had all been at home when he did not return. Oh, what fear and joy she felt!

Now they were on the stairs. A little lamp burned on a cupboard; in the middle of the floor stood the tame crow, turning her head this way and that as she looked at Gerda, who curtsied as her grandmother had taught her.

"My fiancé has spoken so highly of you, my little miss," said the tame crow. "Your vita, as they call it, is also most moving! If you will take the lamp, I shall lead the way. We shall go straight along here, for we shall meet no one!"

"I think someone is coming just behind us!" said Gerda, and something swept past her. It was like shadows gliding along the wall: horses with flowing manes and slender legs, huntsmen, and ladies and gentlemen on horseback.

"Those are only the dreams!" said the crow. "They come to take the thoughts of their noble masters out hunting. All the better: you will be able to look at them in their beds. But mind, if you rise to honour and distinction, be sure to show a grateful heart!"

"There is no need to talk of that!" said the crow from the woods. Now they entered the first hall, which was hung with rose-coloured satin and artificial flowers along the walls. Here the dreams were already sweeping past them, but they went so fast that Gerda could not catch sight of the noble lords and ladies. Each hall was more magnificent than the last; indeed, there was plenty to astonish them. And now they were in the bedchamber. The ceiling looked like a great palm tree with leaves of glass, precious glass, and in the middle of the floor two beds hung from a thick golden stem, each looking like a lily. One was white, and in it lay the princess; the other was red, and it was there that Gerda must look for little Kay. She bent aside one of the red petals and saw a brown neck. Oh, it was Kay! She called his name aloud and held the lamp towards him. The dreams came rushing back into the room on horseback; he woke, turned his head, and—it was not little Kay.

The prince resembled him only at the back of the neck, but he was young and handsome. And the princess peeped out of her white lily bed and asked what the matter was. Then little Gerda wept and told her whole story, and all that the crows had done for her.

"You poor little thing!" said the prince and princess. They praised the crows and said that they were not at all angry with them, but they must not do it again. However, they should have a reward.

"Would you like to fly free?" asked the princess. "Or would you prefer permanent appointments as court crows, with all the kitchen scraps?" And both crows bowed and begged for permanent appointments, for they were thinking of their old age and said, "It is so good to have something put by for the old man," as they called it.

And the prince rose from his bed and let Gerda sleep in it; he could do no more. She folded her little hands and thought, "How kind people and animals are!" Then she closed her eyes and slept most peacefully. All the dreams came flying in again, and now they looked like God's angels, drawing a little sledge on which Kay sat nodding to her. But it was all only a dream, and so it vanished the moment she awoke.

The next day she was dressed from head to foot in silk and velvet. They offered to let her stay at the palace and live in comfort, but she asked only for a little cart with a horse to pull it and a pair of little boots; then she would set out into the wide world again to find Kay.

And she was given both boots and a muff. She was dressed so prettily, and when she was ready to leave, a new carriage of pure gold stood at the door. The prince's and princess's coat of arms shone from it like a star. The coachman, servants, and outriders—for there were outriders too—all wore golden crowns. The prince and princess themselves helped her into the carriage and wished her every happiness. The woodland crow, who was now married, went with her for the first three miles. He sat beside her, for he could not bear riding backwards. The other crow stood in the gateway flapping her wings. She did not go with them, for she had suffered from a headache ever since she had been given a permanent appointment and too much to eat. Inside, the carriage was lined with sugar pretzels, and the seat was filled with fruit and little spice biscuits.

"Farewell! Farewell!" cried the prince and princess, and little Gerda wept, and the crow wept. So the first few miles passed; then the crow too said goodbye, and that was the saddest parting of all. He flew up into a tree and beat his black wings as long as he could see the carriage, which shone like bright sunshine.

Fifth Story. The Little Robber Girl. They drove through the dark forest, but the carriage shone like a blaze, dazzling the robbers' eyes, and that they could not bear.

"It is gold! It is gold!" they cried. They rushed out, seized the horses, killed the little postilions, the coachman, and the servants, and pulled little Gerda out of the carriage.

"She is plump, she is pretty, she has been fattened 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! Oh, how tasty she will be!" And she drew out her gleaming knife, which flashed so brightly that it was dreadful to see.

"Ow!" cried the woman just then. Her own little daughter had bitten her ear as she clung to her back, and she was so wild and unruly that it was a wonder to behold. "You nasty brat!" said her mother, and she 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 her mother again, so that the robber woman jumped into the air and spun round, and all the robbers laughed and said, "Look how she dances with her young one!"

"I want to get into the carriage!" said the little robber girl. And have her way she must and would, for she was so spoiled and headstrong. She and Gerda climbed inside, and they drove over stumps and thorns, deeper into the forest. The little robber girl was as tall as Gerda, but stronger, broader-shouldered, and dark-skinned. Her eyes were quite black and looked almost sad. She put her arm about little Gerda's waist and said, "They shall not slaughter you as long as I don't get angry with you! I suppose you are a princess?"

"No," said little Gerda, and she told her everything that had happened to her and how dearly she loved little Kay. The robber girl looked at her very gravely, nodded her head a little, and said, "They shall not slaughter you, even if I do get angry with you; then I shall do it myself!" And she wiped Gerda's eyes and thrust both her hands into the lovely muff, which was so soft and warm.

Now the carriage stopped. They were in the middle of the courtyard of a robbers' castle. It was cracked from top to bottom, and ravens and crows flew out of the gaping holes. Great bulldogs, each of which looked as though it could swallow a person, leaped high into the air, but they did not bark, for that was forbidden.

In the great old soot-blackened hall a large fire burned in the middle of the stone floor. The smoke drifted beneath the ceiling and had to find its own way out. Soup boiled in a great brewing kettle, and hares and rabbits turned on spits.

"Tonight you shall sleep with me here, among all my little animals!" said the robber girl. They had something to eat and drink, then went to a corner where straw and rugs were spread. Above them, on laths and perches, sat nearly a hundred pigeons. They all seemed to be asleep, though they stirred a little when the girls came.

"They are all mine!" said the little robber girl. She quickly seized one of the nearest, held it by the legs, and shook it until it beat its wings. "Kiss it!" she cried, flapping it into Gerda's face. "There sit the woodland rascals!" she went on, pointing behind a row of bars fixed across a hole high in the wall. "Those two are woodland rascals! They fly straight off unless you keep them properly locked up. And here stands my dear old sweetheart Baa!" And she pulled by the antler a reindeer that had a polished copper ring round its neck and was tethered. "We have to keep him fast too, or he would run away from us as well. Every single evening I tickle his neck with my sharp knife; he is so frightened of it!" And the little girl drew a long knife from a crack in the wall and slid it over the reindeer's neck. The poor creature kicked out, and the robber girl laughed and pulled Gerda down into bed with her.

"Will you take the knife with you when you go to sleep?" asked Gerda, looking at it rather fearfully. "I always sleep with a knife!" said the little robber girl. "You never know what may happen. But now tell me again what you told me before about little Kay, and why you have gone out into the wide world." And Gerda told her story from the beginning, while the wood pigeons cooed overhead in their cage and the other pigeons slept. The little robber girl put one arm round Gerda's neck, held the knife in her other hand, and fell asleep so soundly that you could hear it. 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 turned somersaults. Oh, it was a dreadful sight for the little girl!

Then the wood pigeons said, "Coo, coo! We have seen little Kay. A white hen carried his sledge; he was sitting in the Snow Queen's carriage, which swept low over the forest while we lay in our nest. She blew on us nestlings, and all of them died except us two. Coo, coo!"

"What are you saying up there?" cried Gerda. "Where was the Snow Queen going? Do you know anything about it?" "She was probably going to Lapland, for there is always snow and ice there! Just ask the reindeer tethered to his rope."

"There is ice and snow, and it is lovely there!" said the reindeer. "There you can leap freely about in the great shining valleys! The Snow Queen has her summer tent there, but her permanent castle is up towards the North Pole, on the island called Spitsbergen!"

"Oh, Kay, little Kay!" sighed Gerda. "Now lie still!" said the robber girl, "or I shall stick the knife into your belly!" In the morning Gerda told her everything the wood pigeons had said. The little robber girl looked very serious, but nodded her head and said, "Never mind! Never mind! Do you know where Lapland is?" she asked the reindeer.

"Who should know better than I?" said the animal, and its eyes sparkled in its head. "I was born and bred there; I have leaped over its snowy plains!"

"Listen!" said the robber girl to Gerda. "You see that all our menfolk are away, but Mother is still here, and she will stay. Towards morning, though, she drinks from the big bottle and has a little nap afterwards; then I shall do something for you!" She sprang out of bed, flung her arms round her mother's neck, pulled her beard, and said, "Good morning, my own sweet billy goat!" And her mother flicked her under the nose until it was red and blue, but it was all out of pure love.

When her mother had drunk from the bottle and settled down for a little nap, the robber girl went to the reindeer and said, "I would dearly like to tickle you many more times with the sharp knife, for you are so funny then. But never mind; I shall untie your rope and help you outside so that you can run to Lapland. Only you must make good use of your legs and take this little girl to the Snow Queen's castle, where her playmate is. You must have heard what she said, for she spoke loudly enough, and you are always listening!"

The reindeer leaped for joy. The robber girl lifted little Gerda onto its back and took care to tie her firmly in place, even giving her a little cushion to sit on. "Never mind," she said. "Here are your fur-lined boots, for it will be cold, but I am keeping the muff; it is far too pretty! Still, you shan't freeze. Here are my mother's great mittens; they will reach right up to your elbows. Put them on! Now your hands look just like my horrid mother's!"

And Gerda wept for joy. "I don't like you snivelling!" said the little robber girl. "You ought to look happy now! And here are two loaves and a ham, so you won't starve." These were tied behind her on the reindeer. The little robber girl opened the door, coaxed all the great dogs inside, then cut the rope with her knife and said to the reindeer, "Now run! But take good care of the little girl!"

And Gerda stretched out her hands in the great mittens towards the robber girl and said goodbye. Then the reindeer sped away over bushes and stumps, through the great forest, across marshes and plains, as fast as it could. The wolves howled and the ravens shrieked. "Whoosh! Whoosh!" went something in the sky. It was as though the sky were sneezing red.

"Those are my old northern lights!" said the reindeer. "See how they shine!" And it ran faster still, night and day. The loaves were eaten, and the ham too, and then they were in Lapland.

Sixth Story. The Lapland Woman and the Finnish Woman. They stopped at a little house. It was a wretched place: the roof reached down to the ground, and the door was so low that the family had to crawl on their stomachs whenever they wanted to go in or out. No one was home but an old Lapland woman, who stood frying fish over an oil lamp. The reindeer told her Gerda's whole story, but first its own, for it thought that much more important; and Gerda was so numb with cold that she could not speak.

"Oh, you poor creatures!" said the Lapland woman. "You have a long way to run yet! You must travel more than a hundred miles into Finnmark, for that is where the Snow Queen stays in the country and burns blue lights every single evening. I shall write a few words on a dried salt cod—I have no paper—and give it to you to take to the Finnish woman up there. She can tell you more than I can!"

When Gerda had warmed herself and had something to eat and drink, the Lapland woman wrote a few words on a dried salt cod, told Gerda to take good care of it, and tied her firmly onto the reindeer again. Off it bounded. "Whoosh! Whoosh!" went the air above them, and all night long the loveliest blue northern lights blazed. Then they came to Finnmark and knocked on the Finnish woman's chimney, for she did not even have a door.

It was so hot inside that the Finnish woman herself went almost naked. She was small and very grimy. At once she loosened little Gerda's clothes and took off her mittens and boots, or she would have been far too hot. She placed a piece of ice on the reindeer's head and then read what was written on the salt cod. She read it three times, and then she knew it by heart and put the fish into the cooking pot, for it was perfectly good to eat, and she never wasted anything.

Now the reindeer told his own story first, and then little Gerda’s, while the Finn woman blinked her wise eyes but said nothing. “You are so clever,” said the reindeer. “I know you can tie all the winds in the world into a sewing thread. When a skipper unties the first knot, he gets a fair wind; when he unties the second, it blows hard; and when he unties the third and fourth, such a storm rises that whole forests are blown down. Won’t you give the little girl a drink that will give her the strength of twelve men, so she can overcome the Snow Queen?”

“The strength of twelve men,” said the Finn woman. “Yes, that would be a great help!” Then she went over to a shelf, took down a large rolled-up skin, and unrolled it. Strange letters were written on it, and the Finn woman read until the sweat streamed down her forehead.

But the reindeer pleaded so earnestly once more for little Gerda, and Gerda looked at the Finn woman with such imploring, tear-filled eyes, that the woman began blinking her own again. She drew the reindeer into a corner and whispered to him as she put fresh ice on his head:

“Little Kay is indeed with the Snow Queen, and everything there is just to his liking. He thinks it is the finest place in the world, but that is because he has a splinter of glass in his heart and a tiny grain of glass in his eye. They must come out first, or he will never be truly human again, and the Snow Queen will keep her power over him!”

“But can’t you give little Gerda something to take, so she can overcome it all?” “I cannot give her any greater power than she already has! Don’t you see how great it is? Don’t you see how people and animals alike must serve her, and how far she has come in the world on her bare feet? We must not tell her of her power. It lies in her heart; it lies in her being a sweet, innocent child. If she cannot find her way to the Snow Queen herself and take the glass out of little Kay, there is nothing we can do to help! The Snow Queen’s garden begins two miles from here. You can carry the little girl there. Set her down beside the great bush with red berries standing in the snow. Don’t linger gossiping, but hurry straight back here!” Then the Finn woman lifted little Gerda onto the reindeer, who ran as fast as he could.

“Oh, I haven’t got my boots! I haven’t got my mittens!” cried little Gerda, for she felt their loss in the biting cold. But the reindeer dared not stop. He ran until he reached the great bush with the red berries. There he set Gerda down and kissed her on the mouth, and great shining tears ran down the animal’s cheeks. Then he ran back as fast as he could. There stood poor Gerda without shoes or gloves, in the midst of the terrible, icy land of Finnmark.

She ran forward as fast as she could. Then a whole regiment of snowflakes came towards her. But they were not falling from the sky, which was quite clear and bright with the northern lights. The snowflakes ran straight along the ground, and the nearer they came, the larger they grew. Gerda well remembered how large and intricate the snowflakes had looked when she had seen them through the burning glass, but these were far larger and more terrible. They were alive; they were the Snow Queen’s outposts. They took the strangest shapes: some looked like huge, hideous hedgehogs; others like whole knots of snakes thrusting out their heads; and others like little fat bears with bristling fur. All were dazzling white, and all were living snowflakes.

Then little Gerda said the Lord’s Prayer, and the cold was so fierce that she could see her own breath. It poured from her mouth like a cloud of smoke. Her breath grew thicker and thicker and took the shape of little radiant angels, who grew larger and larger whenever they touched the ground. All wore helmets on their heads and carried spears and shields in their hands. More and more appeared, and by the time Gerda had finished the Lord’s Prayer, a whole legion surrounded her. They struck the dreadful snowflakes with their spears, shattering them into a hundred pieces, and little Gerda walked on, quite safe and unafraid. The angels stroked her feet and hands, so that she felt the cold less keenly, and she hurried on towards the Snow Queen’s palace.

But now we must first see how Kay is faring. He certainly was not thinking of little Gerda, and least of all did he imagine that she was standing outside the palace. Seventh Story.

What Happened in the Snow Queen’s Palace, and What Happened Afterwards. The walls of the palace were made of drifting snow, and its windows and doors of cutting winds. There were more than a hundred halls, shaped according to the drifting of the snow; the largest stretched for many miles. All were lit by the brilliant northern lights, and they were so vast, so empty, so piercingly cold and so glittering. No merriment ever came here—not even so much as a little bears’ ball, where the storm might strike up the music and the polar bears walk on their hind legs and display their fine manners. Never a little card party with slaps on the mouth and smacks on the hand; never a cosy little coffee gathering for the young white fox ladies. Empty, vast and cold were the Snow Queen’s halls. The northern lights flared with such precision that one could calculate exactly when they would be at their brightest and when at their faintest. In the midst of that empty, endless hall of snow lay a frozen lake. It had cracked into a thousand pieces, yet each piece was so exactly like the others that it was a marvel of craftsmanship. In its centre sat the Snow Queen whenever she was at home, and she said that she was sitting in the mirror of reason, and that it was the only and the finest mirror in the world.

Little Kay was quite blue with cold, indeed almost black, but he did not feel it, for she had kissed away his shivers, and his heart was little better than a lump of ice. He went about dragging sharp, flat pieces of ice, which he arranged in every possible way, trying to make something out of them. It was like the game we play with little wooden pieces, arranging them into figures, which is called the Chinese puzzle. Kay, too, was making figures, the most intricate of all: this was the ice-puzzle of reason. To his eyes the figures were exquisite and of the utmost importance; that was the work of the grain of glass lodged in his eye! He formed whole figures that made a written word, but he could never manage to form the very word he wanted: Eternity. The Snow Queen had said, “If you can work out that figure for me, you shall be your own master, and I will give you the whole world and a new pair of skates.” But he could not.

“Now I am flying away to the warm countries!” said the Snow Queen. “I want to peep down into the black pots!” She meant the fire-spouting mountains, Etna and Vesuvius, as they are called. “I shall give them a little whitewash! It has to be done; it does the lemons and grapes good!” And away flew the Snow Queen, while Kay sat all alone in the vast, empty hall of ice, many miles across, gazing at the pieces of ice and thinking and thinking until he almost creaked with the effort. He sat so stiff and still that one might have thought he had frozen to death.

It was then that little Gerda entered the palace through the great gateway, which was made of cutting winds. But she said an evening prayer, and the winds sank down as though they were going to sleep. She stepped into the great, empty, cold halls—and there she saw Kay. She knew him at once, flung her arms around his neck, held him tight and cried, “Kay! Dear little Kay! At last I have found you!”

But he sat quite still, stiff and cold. Then little Gerda wept hot tears, which fell upon his breast and made their way into his heart. They melted the lump of ice and dissolved the little fragment of mirror within it. He looked at her, and she sang the hymn:

“Roses bloom in the valley; there we speak with the infant Jesus!” Then Kay burst into tears. He wept until the grain of mirror rolled out of his eye. He knew her now and cried joyfully, “Gerda! Dear little Gerda! Where have you been all this time? And where have I been?” He looked around him. “How cold it is here! How empty and vast!” And he clung to Gerda, while she laughed and wept for joy. It was such a blessed moment that even the pieces of ice danced around them with delight, and when they grew tired and lay down, they formed the very letters the Snow Queen had told him to work out, so that he would be his own master and she would give him 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 hers; she kissed his hands and feet, and he was strong and well. The Snow Queen was welcome to come home now: his charter of freedom lay written there in gleaming pieces of ice.

They took each other by the hand and walked out of the great palace. They talked of Grandmother and the roses up on the roof, and wherever they went, the winds lay perfectly still and the sun broke through. When they reached the bush with the red berries, the reindeer was standing there waiting. He had brought another young reindeer, whose udder was full, and she gave the children her 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 given directions for their journey home, and then to the Lapp woman, who had sewn them new clothes and made her sledge ready.

The reindeer and the young doe bounded alongside and went with them right to the border of the country, where the first green shoots peeped out. There they said goodbye to the reindeer and the Lapp woman. “Farewell!” they all said. The first little birds began to twitter, the trees in the forest had green buds, and out of the forest came a young girl riding a splendid horse that Gerda recognised—it had once been harnessed to the golden coach. The girl wore a bright red cap and had pistols before her. It was the little robber girl, who had grown tired of staying at home and meant to travel north first, and then in some other direction if that did not please her. She recognised Gerda at once, and Gerda recognised her. What a joyful meeting it was!

“A fine fellow you are, wandering off like that!” she said to little Kay. “I wonder whether you deserve to have someone go to the ends of the earth for your sake!” But Gerda stroked her cheek and asked about the prince and princess.

“They have gone travelling in foreign countries!” said the robber girl. “But the crow?” asked little Gerda. “Oh, the crow is dead!” she replied. “His tame sweetheart is a widow now and wears a bit of black woollen yarn round her leg. She laments most pitifully, and it is all nonsense! But now tell me what happened to you, and how you managed to find him!”

And Gerda and Kay both told their story. “And snip-snap-snurre-basselurre!” said the robber girl. She took them both by the hand and promised that if she ever passed through their town, she would come and visit them. Then she rode out into the wide world, while Kay and Gerda walked on hand in hand. As they went, it was lovely springtime, with flowers and fresh green leaves. The church bells rang, and they recognised the tall towers and the great town where they lived. They entered it and went to Grandmother’s door, up the stairs and into the room, where everything stood in the same place as before. The clock said, “Tick! Tick!” and its hand went round. But as they passed through the doorway, they realised that they had grown up. The roses from the roof gutter bloomed in through the open windows, and there stood the little children’s chairs. Kay and Gerda each sat down on one and held each other by the hand. They had forgotten the cold, empty splendour of the Snow Queen’s palace as though it had been a troubled dream. Grandmother sat in God’s bright sunshine, reading aloud from the Bible: “Unless you become as little children, you shall not enter the kingdom of God!”

And Kay and Gerda looked into each other’s eyes, and all at once they understood the old hymn: “Roses bloom in the valley; there we speak with the infant Jesus!” There they both sat, grown up and yet children, children at heart; and it was summer, warm, blessed summer.