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The region round the little town of Kjoge is very bleak and cold.
The town lies on the sea shore, which is always beautiful; but here
it might be more beautiful than it is, for on every side the fields
are flat, and it is a long way to the forest. But when persons
reside in a place and get used to it, they can always find something
beautiful in it,—something for which they long, even in the most
charming spot in the world which is not home. It must be owned that
there are in the outskirts of the town some humble gardens on the
banks of a little stream that runs on towards the sea, and in summer
these gardens look very pretty. Such indeed was the opinion of two
little children, whose parents were neighbors, and who played in
these gardens, and forced their way from one garden to the other
through the gooseberry-bushes that divided them. In one of the
gardens grew an elder-tree, and in the other an old willow, under
which the children were very fond of playing. They had permission to
do so, although the tree stood close by the stream, and they might
easily have fallen into the water; but the eye of God watches over
the little ones, otherwise they would never be safe. At the same
time, these children were very careful not to go too near the water;
indeed, the boy was so afraid of it, that in the summer, while the
other children were splashing about in the sea, nothing could entice
him to join them. They jeered and laughed at him, and he was obliged
to bear it all as patiently as he could. Once the neighbor's little
girl, Joanna, dreamed that she was sailing in a boat, and the boy—Knud
was his name—waded out in the water to join her, and the water came
up to his neck, and at last closed over his head, and in a moment he
had disappeared. When little Knud heard this dream, it seemed as if
he could not bear the mocking and jeering again; how could he dare
to go into the water now, after Joanna's dream! He never would do
it, for this dream always satisfied him. The parents of these
children, who were poor, often sat together while Knud and Joanna
played in the gardens or in the road. Along this road—a row of
willow-trees had been planted to separate it from a ditch on one
side of it. They were not very handsome trees, for the tops had been
cut off; however, they were intended for use, and not for show. The
old willow-tree in the garden was much handsomer, and therefore the
children were very fond of sitting under it. The town had a large
market-place; and at the fair-time there would be whole rows, like
streets, of tents and booths containing silks and ribbons, and toys
and cakes, and everything that could be wished for. There were
crowds of people, and sometimes the weather would be rainy, and
splash with moisture the woollen jackets of the peasants; but it did
not destroy the beautiful fragrance of the honey-cakes and
gingerbread with which one booth was filled; and the best of it was,
that the man who sold these cakes always lodged during the fair-time
with little Knud's parents. So every now and then he had a present
of gingerbread, and of course Joanna always had a share. And, more
delightful still, the gingerbread seller knew all sorts of things to
tell and could even relate stories about his own gingerbread. So one
evening he told them a story that made such a deep impression on the
children that they never forgot it; and therefore I think we may as
well hear it too, for it is not very long.
"Once upon a time," said he, "there lay on my counter two
gingerbread cakes, one in the shape of a man wearing a hat, the
other of a maiden without a bonnet. Their faces were on the side
that was uppermost, for on the other side they looked very
different. Most people have a best side to their characters, which
they take care to show to the world. On the left, just where the
heart is, the gingerbread man had an almond stuck in to represent
it, but the maiden was honey cake all over. They were placed on the
counter as samples, and after lying there a long time they at last
fell in love with each other; but neither of them spoke of it to the
other, as they should have done if they expected anything to follow.
'He is a man, he ought to speak the first word,' thought the
gingerbread maiden; but she felt quite happy—she was sure that her
love was returned. But his thoughts were far more ambitious, as the
thoughts of a man often are. He dreamed that he was a real street
boy, that he possessed four real pennies, and that he had bought the
gingerbread lady, and ate her up. And so they lay on the counter for
days and weeks, till they grew hard and dry; but the thoughts of the
maiden became ever more tender and womanly. 'Ah well, it is enough
for me that I have been able to live on the same counter with him,'
said she one day; when suddenly, 'crack,' and she broke in two.
'Ah,' said the gingerbread man to himself, 'if she had only known of
my love, she would have kept together a little longer.' And here
they both are, and that is their history," said the cake man. "You
think the history of their lives and their silent love, which never
came to anything, very remarkable; and there they are for you." So
saying, he gave Joanna the gingerbread man, who was still quite
whole—and to Knud the broken maiden; but the children had been so
much impressed by the story, that they had not the heart to eat the
lovers up.
The next day they went into the churchyard, and took the two cake
figures with them, and sat down under the church wall, which was
covered with luxuriant ivy in summer and winter, and looked as if
hung with rich tapestry. They stuck up the two gingerbread figures
in the sunshine among the green leaves, and then told the story, and
all about the silent love which came to nothing, to a group of
children. They called it, "love," because the story was so lovely,
and the other children had the same opinion. But when they turned to
look at the gingerbread pair, the broken maiden was gone! A great
boy, out of wickedness, had eaten her up. At first the children
cried about it; but afterwards, thinking very probably that the poor
lover ought not to be left alone in the world, they ate him up too:
but they never forgot the story.
The two children still continued to play together by the elder-tree,
and under the willow; and the little maiden sang beautiful songs,
with a voice that was as clear as a bell. Knud, on the contrary, had
not a note of music in him, but knew the words of the songs, and
that of course is something. The people of Kjoge, and even the rich
wife of the man who kept the fancy shop, would stand and listen
while Joanna was singing, and say, "She has really a very sweet
voice."
Those were happy days; but they could not last forever. The
neighbors were separated, the mother of the little girl was dead,
and her father had thoughts of marrying again and of residing in the
capital, where he had been promised a very lucrative appointment as
messenger. The neighbors parted with tears, the children wept sadly;
but their parents promised that they should write to each other at
least once a year.
After this, Knud was bound apprentice to a shoemaker; he was growing
a great boy, and could not be allowed to run wild any longer.
Besides, he was going to be confirmed. Ah, how happy he would have
been on that festal day in Copenhagen with little Joanna; but he
still remained at Kjoge, and had never seen the great city, though
the town is not five miles from it. But far across the bay, when the
sky was clear, the towers of Copenhagen could be seen; and on the
day of his confirmation he saw distinctly the golden cross on the
principal church glittering in the sun. How often his thoughts were
with Joanna! but did she think of him? Yes. About Christmas came a
letter from her father to Knud's parents, which stated that they
were going on very well in Copenhagen, and mentioning particularly
that Joanna's beautiful voice was likely to bring her a brilliant
fortune in the future. She was engaged to sing at a concert, and she
had already earned money by singing, out of which she sent her dear
neighbors at Kjoge a whole dollar, for them to make merry on
Christmas eve, and they were to drink her health. She had herself
added this in a postscript, and in the same postscript she wrote,
"Kind regards to Knud."
The good neighbors wept, although the news was so pleasant; but they
wept tears of joy. Knud's thoughts had been daily with Joanna, and
now he knew that she also had thought of him; and the nearer the
time came for his apprenticeship to end, the clearer did it appear
to him that he loved Joanna, and that she must be his wife; and a
smile came on his lips at the thought, and at one time he drew the
thread so fast as he worked, and pressed his foot so hard against
the knee strap, that he ran the awl into his finger; but what did he
care for that? He was determined not to play the dumb lover as both
the gingerbread cakes had done; the story was a good lesson to him.
At length he become a journeyman; and then, for the first time, he
prepared for a journey to Copenhagen, with his knapsack packed and
ready. A master was expecting him there, and he thought of Joanna,
and how glad she would be to see him. She was now seventeen, and he
nineteen years old. He wanted to buy a gold ring for her in Kjoge,
but then he recollected how far more beautiful such things would be
in Copenhagen. So he took leave of his parents, and on a rainy day,
late in the autumn, wandered forth on foot from the town of his
birth. The leaves were falling from the trees; and, by the time he
arrived at his new master's in the great metropolis, he was wet
through. On the following Sunday he intended to pay his first visit
to Joanna's father. When the day came, the new journeyman's clothes
were brought out, and a new hat, which he had brought in Kjoge. The
hat became him very well, for hitherto he had only worn a cap. He
found the house that he sought easily, but had to mount so many
stairs that he became quite giddy; it surprised him to find how
people lived over one another in this dreadful town.
On entering a room in which everything denoted prosperity, Joanna's
father received him very kindly. The new wife was a stranger to him,
but she shook hands with him, and offered him coffee.
"Joanna will be very glad to see you," said her father. "You have
grown quite a nice young man, you shall see her presently; she is a
good child, and is the joy of my heart, and, please God, she will
continue to be so; she has her own room now, and pays us rent for
it." And the father knocked quite politely at a door, as if he were
a stranger, and then they both went in. How pretty everything was in
that room! a more beautiful apartment could not be found in the
whole town of Kjoge; the queen herself could scarcely be better
accommodated. There were carpets, and rugs, and window curtains
hanging to the ground. Pictures and flowers were scattered about.
There was a velvet chair, and a looking-glass against the wall, into
which a person might be in danger of stepping, for it was as large
as a door. All this Knud saw at a glance, and yet, in truth, he saw
nothing but Joanna. She was quite grown up, and very different from
what Knud had fancied her, and a great deal more beautiful. In all
Kjoge there was not a girl like her; and how graceful she looked,
although her glance at first was odd, and not familiar; but for a
moment only, then she rushed towards him as if she would have kissed
him; she did not, however, although she was very near it. Yes, she
really was joyful at seeing the friend of her childhood once more,
and the tears even stood in her eyes. Then she asked so many
questions about Knud's parents, and everything, even to the
elder-tree and the willow, which she called "elder-mother and
willow-father," as if they had been human beings; and so, indeed,
they might be, quite as much as the gingerbread cakes. Then she
talked about them, and the story of their silent love, and how they
lay on the counter together and split in two; and then she laughed
heartily; but the blood rushed into Knud's cheeks, and his heart
beat quickly. Joanna was not proud at all; he noticed that through
her he was invited by her parents to remain the whole evening with
them, and she poured out the tea and gave him a cup herself; and
afterwards she took a book and read aloud to them, and it seemed to
Knud as if the story was all about himself and his love, for it
agreed so well with his own thoughts. And then she sang a simple
song, which, through her singing, became a true story, and as if she
poured forth the feelings of her own heart.
"Oh," he thought, "she knows I am fond of her." The tears he could
not restrain rolled down his cheeks, and he was unable to utter a
single word; it seemed as if he had been struck dumb.
When he left, she pressed his hand, and said, "You have a kind
heart, Knud: remain always as you are now." What an evening of
happiness this had been; to sleep after it was impossible, and Knud
did not sleep.
At parting, Joanna's father had said, "Now, you won't quite forget
us; you must not let the whole winter go by without paying us
another visit;" so that Knud felt himself free to go again the
following Sunday evening, and so he did. But every evening after
working hours—and they worked by candle-light then—he walked out
into the town, and through the street in which Joanna lived, to look
up at her window. It was almost always lighted up; and one evening
he saw the shadow of her face quite plainly on the window blind;
that was a glorious evening for him. His master's wife did not like
his always going out in the evening, idling, wasting time, as she
called it, and she shook her head.
But his master only smiled, and said, "He is a young man, my dear,
you know."
"On Sunday I shall see her," said Knud to himself, "and I will tell
her that I love her with my whole heart and soul, and that she must
be my little wife. I know I am now only a poor journeyman shoemaker,
but I will work and strive, and become a master in time. Yes, I will
speak to her; nothing comes from silent love. I learnt that from the
gingerbread-cake story."
Sunday came, but when Knud arrived, they were all unfortunately
invited out to spend the evening, and were obliged to tell him so.
Joanna pressed his hand, and said, "Have you ever been to the
theatre? you must go once; I sing there on Wednesday, and if you
have time on that day, I will send you a ticket; my father knows
where your master lives." How kind this was of her! And on
Wednesday, about noon, Knud received a sealed packet with no
address, but the ticket was inside; and in the evening Knud went,
for the first time in his life, to a theatre. And what did he see?
He saw Joanna, and how beautiful and charming she looked! He
certainly saw her being married to a stranger, but that was all in
the play, and only a pretence; Knud well knew that. She could never
have the heart, he thought, to send him a ticket to go and see it,
if it had been real. So he looked on, and when all the people
applauded and clapped their hands, he shouted "hurrah." He could see
that even the king smiled at Joanna, and seemed delighted with her
singing. How small Knud felt; but then he loved her so dearly, and
thought she loved him, and the man must speak the first word, as the
gingerbread maiden had thought. Ah, how much there was for him in
that childish story. As soon as Sunday arrived, he went again, and
felt as if he were about to enter on holy ground. Joanna was alone
to welcome him, nothing could be more fortunate.
Click Here for Part
2 of Under The Willow Tree
Under the Willow Tree
A Classic Children's Short Story
by
Hans Christian Andersen |
