Children's Literature Part 55

"Does it rain there?"

"a.s.suredly."

"Wonderful! But are there tame animals in the country, that live on the gra.s.s and green herbs?"

"Very many, and of many kinds."

"Ay, that must, then, be the cause," said the chief: "for the sake of those innocent animals the All-gracious Being continues to let the sun shine, and the rain drop down on your country; since its inhabitants are unworthy of such blessings."

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By almost common consent Hans Christian Andersen (1805-1875), the Danish author, is the acknowledged master of all modern writers of fairy tales. He was born in poverty, the son of a poor shoemaker. With a naturally keen dramatic sense, his imagination was stirred by stories from the _Arabian Nights_ and La Fontaine's _Fables_, by French and Spanish soldiers marching through his native city, and by listening to the wonderful folk tales of his country. On a toy stage and with toy actors, these vivid impressions took actual form. The world continued a dramatic spectacle to him throughout his existence. His consuming ambition was for the stage, but he had none of the personal graces so necessary for success.

He was ungainly and awkward, like his "ugly duckling." But when at last he began to write, he had the power to transfer to the page the vivid dramas in his mind, and this power culminated in the creation of fairy stories for children which he began to publish in 1835. It is usual to say that Andersen, like Peter Pan, "never grew up," and it is certain that he never lost the power of seeing things as children see them. Like many great writers whose fame now rests on the suffrages of child readers, Andersen seems at first to have felt that the _Tales_ were slight and beneath his dignity. They are not all of the same high quality. Occasionally one of them becomes "too sentimental and sickly sweet," but the best of them have a st.u.r.diness that is thoroughly refreshing.

The most acute a.n.a.lysis of the elements of Andersen's greatness as the ideal writer for children is that made by his fellow-countryman Georg Brandes in _Eminent Authors of the Nineteenth Century_. A briefer account on similar lines will be found in H. J. Boyesen's _Scandinavian Literature_. A still briefer account, eminently satisfactory for an introduction to Andersen, by Benjamin W. Wells, is in Warner's _Library of the World's Best Literature_. The interested student cannot, of course, afford to neglect Andersen's own _The Story of My Life_. Among the more elaborate biographies the _Life of Hans Christian Andersen_ by R. Nisbet Bain is probably the best. The first translation of the _Tales_ into English was made by Mary Howitt in 1846 and, as far as it goes, is still regarded as one of the finest. However, Andersen has been very fortunate in his many translators. The version by H. W. Dulcken has been published in many cheap forms and perhaps more widely read than any other. In addition to the stories in the following pages, some of those most suitable for use are "The Little Match Girl," "The Silver Shilling," "Five Peas in the Pod," "Hans Clodhopper," and "The Snow Queen." The latter is one of the longest and an undoubted masterpiece.

The first two stories following are taken from Mrs. Henderson's _Andersen's Best Fairy Tales_.

(Copyright. Rand McNally & Co.) This little book contains thirteen stories in a very simple translation and also an excellent story of Andersen's life in a form most attractive to children. "The Princess and the Pea" is a story for the story's sake. The humor, perhaps slightly satirical, is based upon the notion so common in the old folk tales that royal personages are decidedly more delicate than the person of low degree. However, the tendency to think oneself of more consequence than another is not confined to any one cla.s.s.

THE REAL PRINCESS

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

(Version by Alice Corbin Henderson)

There was once a Prince who wanted to marry a Princess. But it was only a _real_ Princess that he wanted to marry.

He traveled all over the world to find a real one. But, although there were plenty of princesses, whether they were _real_ princesses he could never discover. There was always something that did not seem quite right about them.

At last he had to come home again. But he was very sad, because he wanted to marry a _real_ Princess.

One night there was a terrible storm. It thundered and lightened and the rain poured down in torrents. In the middle of the storm there came a knocking, knocking, knocking at the castle gate. The kind old King himself went down to open the castle gate.

It was a young Princess that stood outside the gate. The wind and the rain had almost blown her to pieces. Water streamed out of her hair and out of her clothes. Water ran in at the points of her shoes and out again at the heels. Yet she said that she was a _real_ Princess.

"Well, we will soon find out about that!" thought the Queen.

She said nothing, but went into the bedroom, took off all the bedding, and put a small dried pea on the bottom of the bedstead. Then she piled twenty mattresses on top of the pea, and on top of these she put twenty feather beds. This was where the Princess had to sleep that night.

In the morning they asked her how she had slept through the night.

"Oh, miserably!" said the Princess. "I hardly closed my eyes the whole night long! Goodness only knows what was in my bed! I slept upon something so hard that I am black and blue all over. It was dreadful!"

So then they knew that she was a _real_ Princess. For, through the twenty mattresses and the twenty feather beds, she had still felt the pea. No one but a _real_ Princess could have had such a tender skin.

So the Prince took her for his wife. He knew now that he had a _real_ Princess.

As for the pea, it was put in a museum where it may still be seen if no one has carried it away.

Now this is a true story!

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With some dozen exceptions, all of Andersen's _Tales_ are based upon older stories, either upon some old folk tale or upon something that he ran across in his reading. Dr. Brandes, in his _Eminent Authors_, shows in detail how "The Emperor's New Clothes" came into being. "One day in turning over the leaves of Don Manuel's _Count Lucanor_, Andersen became charmed by the homely wisdom of the old Spanish story, with the delicate flavor of the Middle Ages pervading it, and he lingered over chapter vii, which treats of how a king was served by three rogues." But Andersen's story is a very different one in many ways from his Spanish original. For one thing, the meaning is so universal that no one can miss it. Most of us have, in all likelihood, at some time pretended to know what we do not know or to be what we are not in order to save our face, to avoid the censure or ridicule of others. "There is much concerning which people dare not speak the truth, through cowardice, through fear of acting otherwise than 'all the world,' through anxiety lest they should appear stupid. And the story is eternally new and it never ends. It has its grave side, but just because of its endlessness it has also its humorous side."

When the absurd bubble of the grand procession is punctured by the child, whose mental honesty has not yet been spoiled by the pressure of convention, the Emperor "held himself stiffer than ever, and the chamberlains carried the invisible train." For it would never do to hold up the procession!

THE EMPEROR'S NEW CLOTHES

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

(Version by Alice Corbin Henderson)

Many years ago there lived an Emperor who thought so much of new clothes that he spent all his money on them. He did not care for his soldiers; he did not care to go to the theater. He liked to drive out in the park only that he might show off his new clothes. He had a coat for every hour of the day. They usually say of a king, "He is in the council chamber." But of the Emperor they said, "He is in the clothes closet!"

It was a gay city in which the Emperor lived. And many strangers came to visit it every day. Among these, one day, there came two rogues who set themselves up as weavers. They said they knew how to weave the most beautiful cloths imaginable. And not only were the colors and patterns used remarkably beautiful, but clothes made from this cloth could not be seen by any one who was unfit for the office he held or was too stupid for any use.

"Those would be fine clothes!" thought the Emperor. "If I wore those I could find out what men in my empire were not fit for the places they held. I could tell the clever men from the dunces! I must have some clothes woven for me at once!"

So he gave the two rogues a great deal of money that they might begin their work at once.

The rogues immediately put up two looms and pretended to be working. But there was nothing at all on their looms. They called for the finest silks and the brightest gold, but this they put into their pockets. At the empty looms they worked steadily until late into the night.

"I should like to know how the weavers are getting on with my clothes,"

thought the Emperor.

But he felt a little uneasy when he thought that any one who was stupid or was not fit for his office would be unable to see the cloth. Of course he had no fears for himself; but still he thought he would send some one else first, just to see how matters stood.

"I will send my faithful old Minister to the weavers," thought the Emperor. "He can see how the stuff looks, for he is a clever man, and no one is so careful in fulfilling duties as he is!"

So the good old Minister went into the room where the two rogues sat working at the empty looms.

"Mercy on us!" thought the old Minister, opening his eyes wide, "I can't see a thing!" But he didn't care to say so.

Both the rascals begged him to be good enough to step a little nearer.

They pointed to the empty looms and asked him if he did not think the pattern and the coloring wonderful. The poor old Minister stared and stared as hard as he could, but he could not see anything, for, of course, there was nothing to see!

"Mercy!" he said to himself. "Is it possible that I am a dunce? I never thought so! Certainly no one must know it. Am I unfit for office? It will never do to say that I cannot see the stuff!"

"Well, sir, why do you say nothing of it?" asked the rogue who was pretending to weave.

"Oh, it is beautiful--charming!" said the old Minister, peering through his spectacles. "What a fine pattern, and what wonderful colors! I shall tell the Emperor that I am very much pleased with it."