“‘Stay with us!’ said some of the elders.
“‘Trick the humans!’ said others. ‘People are drying out our meadows, draining them. What will become of our descendants?’
“‘We want to go blow blazes!’ said the newborn will-o’-the-wisps, and so it was decided.
“They immediately had a minute-long dance. It couldn’t have been shorter. The elf maidens swung around three times with all the others because they didn’t want to appear haughty. They actually preferred to dance by themselves. Then it was time for the godparents’ gifts. ‘Skipping stones’ as it’s called. The presents flew like small stones across the bog water. Each of the elf maidens gave a piece of her veil. ‘Take it!’ they said, ‘and then you will right away at a pinch know the higher forms of dance with the most difficult swings and turns. You’ll have the proper carriage and can appear at the most elegant parties.’ The nightjar3 taught each of the young will-o’-the-wisps to say, ‘Braaa, braaa, braaa’ and to say it at the right times, and that’s a big gift that pays off. The owl and the stork also gave something, but they said it wasn’t worth mentioning so we won’t talk about it.
“Just then King Valdemar on his wild hunt4 came thundering over the bog, and when that company heard about the celebration, they sent a couple of fine dogs as gifts, dogs who could hunt with the wind and could surely carry a will-o‘-the-wisp or three. Two old nightmares, who make a living by riding, were at the party. They taught the young will-o’-the-wisps the art of slipping through keyholes, which would open every door to them. They offered to convey the young will-o’-the-wisps to town, where they knew their way around. Usually they ride through the air on their own long manes, that they tie into knots to sit firmly on, but this time each of them straddled the back of a wild hunt dog and took the young Wills who were to trick and bewilder people on their laps. Swoosh! They were gone.
“That was all last night. Now the will-o’-the-wisps are in town. They have set to work. But how and what they are doing, you tell me! I have a pain in my big toe because of a weather wire that always tells me something is up!”
“But this is a whole fairy tale!” said the man.
“Well, it’s really just the beginning of one,” said the bog witch. “Can you tell me how the will-o’-the-wisps are romping about and carrying on, and in what shape they are appearing in order to lead people astray?”
“I do think,” said the man, “that a whole novel could be writ ten about the will-o‘-the-wisps with twelve chapters, one for each will-o’-the-wisp; or maybe even better, an entire folk comedy!”
“You should write that!” said the bog witch, “or maybe it’s best to let it go.”
“Yes, that’s more comfortable and pleasant,” said the man. “Then you avoid being staked in the newspapers which is just as hard as it is for a will-o’-the-wisp to lie in a rotten tree, shining but unable to say a word!”
“It’s all the same to me,” said the bog witch. “But just let the others write, those who are able and those who are not. I’ll give an old tap from my barrel that will open up the cupboard with poetry in bottles, and from there they can get what they’re lacking. As for you, my good man, it seems to me that you have gotten enough ink on your fingers and have reached the age and maturity not to run after fairy tales every year, when there are much more important things to do here now. You must have understood what is going on, haven’t you?”
“The will-o‘-the-wisps are in town!” said the man. “I have heard it, and I understand it! But what do you want me to do about it? I’ll just be raked over the coals if I see one and tell people: Look! There goes a will-o’-the-wisp in the guise of an honest man.”
“They also wear skirts!” said the bog witch. “The will-o’-the-wisp can assume all shapes and appear in all places. He goes to church, not for the Lord’s sake, but maybe he’s gone into the minister! He speaks on election day, not for the country’s sake, but just for his own. He’s an artist, both in the painter’s paint jar and the theater’s make-up jar, but when he gets complete power, then there’s the end of it: the jar’s empty. I talk and talk, but I must get out of my throat what’s stuck there, even though it harms my own family. I’m going to be the savior of humanity. It’s truly not something I can help, and I’m not doing it for the sake of a medal. But I’m doing the craziest thing I could—I’m telling a poet, so then the whole town will soon know about it!”
“The town won’t pay any attention,” said the man. “It won’t affect a single person. They’ll all think I’m telling a fairy tale when I tell them in complete seriousness ‘The will-o’-the-wisps are in town,’ said the bog witch. ‘Beware! ”’
NOTES
1 Reference to En Hverdagshistorie (1828; A Story of Everyday Life) by Thomasine Gyllembourg; the novella gave its name to a whole genre of stories about contemporary Copenhagen. Andersen did not like the genre.
2 Reference to Paul de Kock ( 1793-1871 ) , French author of popular novels of Parisian life.
3 In Danish the word the nightjar teaches the will-o’-the-wisps to say is bra, which means “fine” or “good.”
4 According to legend, fourteenth-century King Valdemar mocked God by preferring hunting to heaven. Hence he was condemned to ride and hunt the Danish countryside every night.
THE PIXIE AND THE GARDENER’S WIFE
You KNOW THE PIXIE, but do you know Madame, the gardener’s wife? She was well-read, knew verses by heart, and could even write them easily herself. Only the rhyming, the “riveting together” as she put it, sometimes gave her a little trouble. She had the gift of writing well, and the gift of gab. She could certainly have been a minister, or at least a minister’s wife.
“The earth is beautiful in its Sunday dress,” she said, and she had put that thought in a composition, including “riveting.” She had written it into a ballad that was both beautiful and long.
Her cousin, the seminarian, Mr. Kisserup—his name is really not relevant—was visiting the gardener’s, and heard her poem. He said that it really did him good. “You have soul, Madame!” he told her.
“What nonsense!” said the gardener. “Don’t go putting that idea into her head. A wife should be a body, a decent body, and watch her kettles so the porridge doesn’t get crusty.”
“What gets crusty I remove with a wooden spoon,” said Madame, “and I take the crusty from you with a little kiss! One would think that you only thought about cabbages and potatoes, but you love the flowers!” And then she kissed him. “Flow ers are the soul,” she said.
“Watch your kettle!” he said and went out into the garden. That was his “kettle,” and he took care of it.
But the seminarian sat and talked to Madame. In his own way he held almost a little sermon over her lovely words, “The earth is beautiful.”
“The earth is beautiful. We were told to subdue it and be its masters. One person does so by his spirit, another with his body. One person comes into the world as astonishment’s exclamation mark, another like a dash, so you really can ask what he’s doing here. One becomes a bishop, another just a poor seminarian, but it’s all done wisely. The earth is beautiful and always in its Sunday best! That was a thought-provoking poem of yours, Madame, full of feeling and geography.”
“You have soul, Mr. Kisserup!” said Madame, “a deep soul, I assure you. One feels so much clarity after talking with you.”
And they continued talking, just as nicely and well as before. But in the kitchen there was also someone talking, and that was the pixie, the little grey-clothed pixie with the red stocking cap. You know him! The pixie sat in the kitchen and was watching the kettle. He talked, but nobody heard him except the big black pussycat, “Creamsneaker,” as he was called by Madame.
The pixie was furious at her because he knew she didn’t believe that he was real. Granted, she had never seen him, but with all her reading she must have known that he existed and should therefore have given him a little attention. It never occurred to her to put out so m
uch as a spoonful of porridge for him at Christmas. All his ancestors had gotten that, and from madames who didn’t read at all. The porridge had been swimming in butter and cream. The cat got wet whiskers just hearing about it.
“She calls me a concept!” said the pixie. “It’s beyond my conception that she can say that. She completely repudiates me! I overheard that, and now I’ve been listening again. She is sitting in there gossiping with that boy-beating seminarian. I’m with father: ‘Watch your kettle!’ She’s not doing that, so now I’ll make it boil over.”
And the pixie blew on the fire. It flamed up and burned. “Surri-rurri-rupp!” There the kettle boiled over!
“Now I’m going in to pick holes in father’s socks,” said the pixie. “I’ll unravel a big hole in the toe and the heel, so there’ll be something to darn, if she doesn’t start sprouting poetry then. Darn poet lady—darn father’s socks!”
The cat sneezed at that. He had a cold, even though he always wore a fur coat.
“I’ve opened the pantry door,” said the pixie. “There’s some boiled cream there, as thick as flour porridge. If you don’t want to lick it up, I will!”
“Since I will get the blame and the beating, I may as well lick the cream,” said the cat.
“First eating, then beating,” said the pixie. “But now I’m going to the seminarian’s room to hang his suspenders on the mirror and put his socks in the water basin. He’ll think the punch was too strong, and that his head’s swimming. Last night I sat on the wood pile by the doghouse. I really enjoy teasing the watchdog. I let my legs hang over and dangle. The dog couldn’t reach them, no matter how high he jumped. It made him mad. He barked and barked. My legs dangled and dangled. It was a riot, and woke the seminarian up. He peered out three times, but he didn’t see me, even though he was wearing glasses. He always wears them when he sleeps.”
“Miaow when the mistress comes,” said the cat. “I can’t hear so well. I’m sick today.”
“You’re lick-sick!” said the pixie. “Lick away! Lick the sickness away! But dry your whiskers so the cream doesn’t stick to them. Now I’ll go eavesdrop.”
And the pixie stood by the door, and the door was ajar. There was no one in the living room except Madame and the seminarian. They were talking about “gifts of the spirit.” Gifts that should be set above the pots and pans of every household, as the seminarian so beautifully put it.
“Mr. Kisserup,” said Madame. “In this connection I will show you something that I have never shown another human soul, least of all a man: my little poems, although some of them are quite long. I have called them Poems of a Danneqvinde.1 I am so very fond of old Danish words.”
“And they should be kept and used!” agreed the seminarian. “The language must be cleansed of all German.”
“I do that,” said Madame. “You’ll never hear me say Kleiner or Butterteig. I say donuts and butter pastry.”
And she took a notebook out of a drawer. It had a light-green cover with two ink spots on it.
“There’s a great deal of seriousness in this book,” she said. “I have the strongest sense for tragedy. Here’s ‘The Sigh in the Night,’ ‘My Sunset,’ and ‘When I married Klemmensen.’ Of course, that’s my husband. You can skip that one. But it’s deeply felt and thought-out. The best one is called ‘The Housewife’s Duties.’ They’re all very sad. That’s where my talent lies. Only one poem is humorous. There are some cheerful thoughts. It’s possible to have those too, of course. Thoughts about—you mustn’t laugh at me! Thoughts about being a poetess! This is only known to myself, my drawer, and now you too, Mr. Kisserup. I love poetry. It comes over me. It teases me, rules, and has me in its power. I have expressed it with the poem titled ‘Little Pixie.’ I’m sure you know the old folk belief about the house pixie, who’s always up to tricks around the house. I have imagined that I am the house and that poetry, the feelings in me, is the pixie, the spirit that controls me. I have sung about his power and greatness in ‘Little Pixie,’ but you must give me your hand and swear that you’ll never breathe a word of this to my husband or anyone. Read it aloud, so I can tell if you understand my handwriting.”
And the seminarian read, and Madame listened, and the little pixie listened. He was eavesdropping, you know, and had just come in time to hear the title: “Little Pixie.”
“Why, it’s about me!” he said. “What could she have written about me? Well, I’ll pinch her, pinch her eggs, pinch her chickens, and chase the fat off the fatted calf! You’d better look out, Madame!”
And he eavesdropped with pursed lips, but everything he heard about the pixie’s splendor and strength, and his power over the gardener’s wife made him smile more and more. She meant poetry, you know, but he took it literally, from the title. His eyes glistened with happiness. Quite a noble expression appeared around the corners of his mouth. He lifted his heels and stood on his toes and became a whole inch taller than before. He was delighted with what was said about “Little Pixie.”
“Madame has soul, and she is very cultured. How I have misjudged that woman! She has put me in her rhyme. It will be printed and read! I won’t let the cat drink her cream anymore. I’ll do it myself! One drinks less than two, and that’s a savings I’ll introduce to respect and honor Madame.”
“He’s sure like a human being, that pixie!” said the old cat. “Just one sweet miaow from the mistress, a miaow about himself, and he immediately changes his mind. She is clever, Madame.”
But she wasn’t clever. It was the pixie who was human.
If you can’t understand this story, ask about it, but don’t ask the pixie or the Madame.
NOTE
1. Dannequinde is an old spelling of the word for “Danish woman.”
THE PUPPETEER
THERE WAS AN ELDERLY man on the steamship with such a contented face. If it wasn’t lying, he must have been the happiest man on earth. He was too, he said. I heard it from his own mouth. He was Danish, a countryman of mine, and a traveling theater manager. He was a puppeteer, and had his whole personnel with him in a big box. His innate cheerfulness had been strengthened by a technology student, and from that experiment he had become completely happy. I didn’t understand him right away, but then he told me the whole story, and here it is.
“It happened in Slagelse,” he said. “I gave a performance at the coach inn and had an excellent audience, all young except for a couple of old ladies. Then a fellow who looked like a student, dressed in black, comes and sits down. He laughs in all the right places and claps when he should. He was an exceptional spectator! I had to know who he was, and then I hear that he’s a graduate candidate from the Polytechnical Institute, sent out to instruct the people in the provinces. My show was over at eight o‘clock because children have to go to bed early of course, and you have to be considerate of the public. At nine o’clock the candidate started his lecture and experiments, and then I was his spectator. It was remarkable to hear and see. Most of it was Greek to me, as the saying goes, but I did think this: If we humans can find out all this, we must also be able to exist longer than till we’re put in the ground. He just did small miracles, but all of it went slick as a whistle, and straight from nature. In the time of Moses and the Prophets such a technological student would have become a wise man of the land, and in the Middle Ages he would have been burned at the stake. I didn’t sleep all night, and when I gave another performance the next night and saw that the student was there again, I was really in a good mood. An actor once told me that when he played a lover he thought about just one person in the audience. He played to her and forgot the rest of the spectators. The technology candidate was my ‘her’—the only one I performed for.
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