“When the performance was over, all the puppets took their curtain call, and the technology student invited me to have a glass of wine with him in his room. He talked about my play, and I talked about his science, and I think we both enjoyed them equally, but I got the best of it because there was so much in his presentation that he couldn’t himself explain; for example, the fact that a piece of iron that goes through a coil becomes magnetic. What is this? The spirit comes over it, but where does it come from? It seems to me it’s like human beings here on earth. God lets them fall through the coil of time, and the spirit comes over them, and you have a Napoleon, a Luther, or another person like that. ‘The whole world is a series of miracles,’ said the candidate, ‘but we are so used to them that we take them for granted.’ And he talked and explained, and at last it was as if he lifted my skull, and I confessed truly that if I weren’t already an old fellow, I would at once go to the Polytechnical Institute and learn to see the world with a fine-toothed comb, and I’d do that even though I was one of the happiest of men.”
“‘One of the happiest!’ he said, and it was as if he tasted the words. ‘Are you happy?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘I’m happy and I’m welcomed in all the towns where I come with my company. It’s true that there’s one wish that sometimes comes over me like a nightmare and disrupts my good mood, and that’s to become a theater manager for a real live troupe of human beings.’ ‘You wish that your puppets would come to life. You wish they would become real actors,’ he said, ‘and you yourself the director. You think you would be completely happy then?’ He didn’t believe it, but I did, and we talked back and forth, and we both kept our own opinion, but we toasted each other, and the wine was very good. But there had to be something magical in it because otherwise the whole story would simply be that I got drunk. It wasn’t that because I saw quite clearly. There was a kind of sunshine in the room, shining out of the technological candidate’s face, and it made me think about the old gods with their eternal youth, when they walked the earth. I told him that, and he smiled, and I would have sworn that he was a disguised god, or one of their family. And that’s what he was! My highest wish would be granted, the puppets become real, and I would be a director of people. We drank to it. He packed all my puppets in the wooden case, tied it to my back, and then he had me fall through a coil. I can still hear how I fell. I was lying on the floor—this is all true—and the entire company jumped out of the case. The spirit had come over all of them, and every puppet had become a remarkable artist—they said so themselves—and I was the director.”
“Everything was ready for the first performance. All the actors wanted to talk to me, and the audience too. The dancer said that if she didn’t get to pirouette, the performance would be a flop. She was the star of the show and wanted to be treated that way. The puppet who played the empress wanted to be treated like the empress off the stage as well because otherwise she would be out of practice. He who had the part of coming in with a letter was just as self-important as the star lover, since he said that there were no small actors, only small parts. Then the hero demanded that all his lines should be exit lines, since they always got the applause. The primadonna would only perform under red lights—not blue ones—because they were the most becoming to her. It was like flies in a bottle, and as the director, I was in the middle of the bottle. I lost my breath, I lost my wits, and I was as miserable as a person can be. These were new types of people I was among, and I wished that I had them all back in the box, and that I had never become a director. I told them straight out that they really were all just puppets, and then they beat me to death. Then I was lying on the bed in my room. How I got there from the technological student’s room he must know, because I don’t. The moon was shining in on the floor where the puppet case had tipped over, and all the puppets were spread around, big and little ones, all of them. But I didn’t waste any time. I jumped out of bed and got them all in the box, some on their heads and some on their feet. I slammed down the lid and then sat down on the box. It was quite a sight, can you see it? I can. ‘Now you can stay in there,’ I said, ‘and never again will I wish that you were flesh and blood!’ I was in such a good mood, and the happiest person. The technological candidate had purified me. I sat there in pure bliss and fell asleep on the case, and in the morning—it was actually in the afternoon, but I slept so strangely long in the morning—I was still sitting there, happy, because I had learned that the only thing I’d ever wished for had been stupid. I asked about the technological candidate, but he was gone, like the Greek or Roman gods. And from that time on, I have been the happiest of men. I am a happy manager for my personnel doesn’t argue with me, nor does the public. They enjoy themselves thoroughly. I freely put together the pieces myself, and take the best parts of the plays I want, and nobody bothers about it. I produce pieces that are now despised on the stage, but that the audience flocked to and cried over thirty years ago. I give them to the young ones, and they cry like father and mother did. I do Johanna von Montfaucon1 and Dyveke,2 but I shorten them because the young ones don’t care for a lot of love nonsense. They want it sad but quick. I have traveled up and down Denmark, back and forth, and I know everyone, and they all know me. Now I’m going to Sweden, and if I do well there and earn good money, then I’ll become a Pan-Scandinavian.3 Otherwise, I won’t. I can tell you this since you’re my countryman.”
And I, as his countryman, am repeating it immediately, of course, just for the fun of telling it.
NOTES
1 Five-act tragedy by German playwright August von Kotzebue (1761-1819), translated and adapted by N. T. Bruun, with music by Claus Schall; it was performed for the first time at Copenhagen’s Royal Theater on April 29, 1804.
2 Tragedy by Ole Johan Samsøe; it was performed for the first time at Copenhagen’s Royal Theater on January 30, 1796.
3 Reference to the movement called Scandinavianism, which called for a closer union between Norway, Sweden, and Denmark; the movement was particularly active in the 1840s and 1850s.
“SOMETHING”
“I WANT TO BE something!” said the eldest of five brothers. “I want to be of some use in the world, be it ever so humble a position. As long as I am doing something good, it will be something. I will make bricks. You can’t do without them! Then I will have done something anyway!”
“But an all-too-little something!” said the second brother. “What you’re doing is as good as nothing. It’s just a helping job, something that can be done by a machine. No, become a mason instead. That’s something I want to be. That’s a trade! With that I’ll get into a guild and become a middle-class citizen. I’ll have my own banner and my own public house. If I do well, I’ll be able to have journeymen, become a master, and my wife will become a Mrs. Master Mason! That is something!”
“That’s absolutely nothing!” said the third. “That’s completely outside of the middle-class structure, and there are many classes in town that are above the master Masons. You can be a worthy man, but as a master you are only what is called a ‘common’ worker. No! I know something better. I want to be a builder, and get into the artistic area, the theoretical, and rise up to the highest in the realm of the mind. Of course I have to start at the bottom. I might as well admit it straight out. I have to begin as a carpenter’s apprentice and wear a cap, even though I’m used to a silk hat, and run to get beer and spirits for the lowly journeymen. They’ll be familiar and say “du” to me, and that’s bad, but I’ll just imagine that it’s all a masquerade, and the masks will come off tomorrow—that is to say when I become a journeyman and go off on my own, it’ll be no business of theirs. I’ll go to the academy and learn to draw. I’ll become an architect! That’s something! That’s something big! I can become both high-born and well-born with a little something more in front and back of my name, and I’ll build and build like those who came before me. That’s something you can always rely on, and all of it is something!”
“But that’s so
mething I don’t care about!” said the fourth. “I don’t want to ride in the wake, or be a copy of something. I want to be a genius, and more skillful than all of you! I’ll shape a new style, create the idea for a building that fits the country’s climate, materials, the national spirit, the developments of our age, and then another story for my own genius!”
“But if the climate and the materials aren’t any good,” said the fifth, “that would be too bad, and it would have an impact. National spirit can also easily develop into something affected, and the developments of the age can often cause you to run riot, just as adolescents often do. I can see that none of you will actually become something, no matter how much you may think so yourselves. But do as you want. I won’t copy you. I’ll place myself outside and criticize what you do. There is always something wrong with everything. I will point it out and discuss it. That is something!”
And that’s what he did, and people said about the fifth brother: “He’s really something! He’s got a good head, but he doesn’t do anything!”—Yet because of that he was something.
See that’s just a little story, and there’s no end to it as long as the world goes on.
Well, what happened to the five brothers? What we’ve heard wasn’t anything, was it? Listen further. It’s really a complete fairy tale.
The oldest brother, who made bricks, noticed that a little penny rolled out of each brick when it was finished. Only a copper penny, but many small copper pennies piled on top of each other become a shiny dollar, and wherever you knock on the door with that, whether it’s at the baker, the butcher, or the tailor—yes, at all of them—the doors fly open, and you get what you need. See, that’s what came from the bricks. Even though some fell to pieces or broke in the middle, they could be used too.
Up on the embankment a poor woman, old mother Margrethe, so badly wanted to slap up a little house. She got all the brick pieces and a couple of unbroken ones because the oldest brother had a good heart, even if he was only a brick maker. The poor woman built the house herself. It was narrow, and the one window was crooked. The door was much too low, and the straw roof could have been better laid, but it gave shelter against wind and weather, and you could see way out to sea, which broke against the dike in its might. The salty drops of water sprayed over the whole house, which was still standing when he who had made the bricks was dead and gone.
The second brother really knew the art of building. Well, he was trained for it. When he finished his apprenticeship, he packed his knapsack and sang the song of the craftsman:
While young I can the world traverse,
And houses build out there.
My craftsmanship becomes my purse,
My youthfulness my flair.
And if, again, I see home’s soil
My sweetheart’s told “I’m able”
For an active craftsman it’s no toil
To populate the table!
And he did. When he came back and became a Master mason, he built house after house—a whole street full. When they were finished and looked good, they gave the city esteem, and then the houses built a little house for him that was to be his own. But how could houses build, you ask? Well, just ask them. They won’t answer, but people will answer, and they’ll say, “Yes indeed, that street built him his house!” It was small and had a dirt floor, but when he danced on it with his bride, the floor became shiny and polished. And a flower grew from every brick in the wall. That was just as good as expensive wallpaper. It was a lovely house and a happy couple. The banner of the guild waved outside and the journeymen and apprentices shouted “Hurrah!” Well, that was something! And then he died, and that was also something!
Then there was the architect, the third brother, who had been an apprentice first, worn a cap and run errands in the town, but from the academy he had worked his way up to a master builder “high-born” and “well-born.” If the houses in the street had built a house for his brother who was the mason, now the street itself was named after the architect and the most beautiful house in the street was his. That was something, and he was something—and with a long title in front and back of his name. His children were called aristocratic, and when he died, his wife was a widow of distinguished social status. That is something! And his name was up on the street sign and always on everyone’s lips as the street name—Well, that is something!
And then there was the genius, the fourth brother, who wanted to build something new, something different with a top story for himself. Well, it collapsed, and he fell and broke his neck—but he had a beautiful funeral, with guild banners and music, flowers on the street over the pavement, and flowery notices in the paper. There were three sermons for him, each longer than the one before, and that would have pleased him, because he liked being talked about. He got a monument on his grave, only one story, but even that’s something!
Now he was dead, like the other three, but the last one, the critic, outlived them all and that was only right, because then he got the final word, and it was of great importance to him to have the last word. He’s the one who had the good head, as everyone said! Then his time came too, and he died and went to the Pearly Gates. People always arrive there two by two, and there he was standing with another soul who also really wanted to get in. It was no one other than old mother Margrethe from the house by the dike.
“It must be for the sake of contrast that I and this miserable soul should arrive here at the same time,” said the critic. “So who are you, Granny? Do you want to get in here too?”
And the old woman curtsied as best she could. She thought it was St. Peter himself who was speaking to her. “I’m just a poor old woman without any family. Old Margrethe from the house by the dike.”
“What have you done, and what have you accomplished down there?”
“I haven’t accomplished anything at all in this world that can open up the door for me here! It would be a true act of grace if I were to be allowed inside the gate.”
“How did you come to leave the world?” he asked her to make conversation about something, since he was bored standing there and waiting.
“Well, how I left it, I don’t know! I’ve been sick and ailing for the last few years, so I guess I wasn’t able to tolerate crawling out of bed to go out in the cold and frost outdoors. It’s a hard winter, you know, but now I have escaped it. There were a few days when there was no wind, but bitterly cold, as Your Reverence probably knows. The ice had formed as far out from the beach as one could see. All the people from town went out on the ice and were skating and dancing too, I think. There was music and food and drink out there. I could hear it from where I was lying in my simple room. Evening was approaching, the moon was up, but it was a new moon. From my bed through the window I could see way out over the shore, and right there between sky and sea a strange white cloud appeared. I lay and looked at it, looked at the black dot in the middle of it that got bigger and bigger, and then I knew what it meant. I am old and experienced, but that sign you don’t see often. I recognized it and felt a horror! I had seen that thing coming twice before in my life and knew that there would be a terrible storm with a spring tide that would rush over the poor people out there who were drinking and running and frolicking. Young and old, the whole town was out there. Who would warn them if no one there saw and recognized what I now knew? I became so afraid, and I felt more life in me than I had felt for a long time! I got out of the bed and went to the window, but I couldn’t manage to get any further. I did get the window open. I could see the people running and jumping out there on the ice, see the neat flags and hear how the boys shouted ”hurrah,” and girls and boys sang. They were having a good time, but the white cloud with the black bag inside rose higher and higher! I shouted as loudly as I could, but no one heard me. I was too far away. Soon the storm would break out, the ice would break, and everyone out there would sink through without hope of rescue. They couldn’t hear me. I wasn’t able to reach them. If only I could get them to come on lan
d! Then God gave me the idea of lighting fire to my bed, letting the whole house burn up, rather than that all those people should die so wretchedly. I lit the candle, saw the red flame—I was able to get out the door, but there I lay—I couldn’t get any further. The flames shot out behind me and out the window and across the roof. They saw me from out there, and they all ran as fast as they could to help me—poor old me—whom they thought was trapped inside. Every one of them came running. I heard them coming, but I also heard the sudden roaring in the air. I heard the rumbling that sounded like cannon fire. The spring tide lifted the ice, and it broke in pieces, but they reached the dike where the sparks were flying over me. They were all safe and sound, although I must not have been able to stand the cold and the fright, and so here I am at the Pearly Gates. They say they can be opened even for a poor person like me. Now I don’t have a house anymore there on the dike, although that doesn’t gain me entrance here.”
Then the Pearly Gates opened, and the angel let the old woman in. A straw from her bed fell outside the gates. It was one of those that had laid in her bed and that she had lit to save the many people, and it turned to the purest gold, but a gold that grew and that twined itself into the most beautiful decorations.
“See, that’s what the poor woman brought,” said the angel. “What are you bringing? Well, I know already that you didn’t accomplish anything. You didn’t even make a brick! If you could just go back and bring at least a brick that you had made, it would count for something. It wouldn’t be any good, since you made it, but if you made it with good will it would at least be something. But you can’t go back, and I can’t do anything for you!”
Fairy Tales of Hans Christian Andersen Page 9
