The Goloshes of Fortune

The Goloshes of Fortune




by




Hans Christian Andersen




(1838)






A Beginning




N a house in Copenhagen, not far from
the king’s new market, a very large party had assembled, the host and his
family expecting, no doubt, to receive invitations in return. One half of
the company were already seated at the card-tables, the other half seemed
to be waiting the result of their hostess’s question, “Well, how shall we
amuse ourselves?”


Conversation followed, which, after a while, began to prove very
entertaining. Among other subjects, it turned upon the events of the
middle ages, which some persons maintained were more full of interest
than our own times. Counsellor Knapp defended this opinion so warmly that
the lady of the house immediately went over to his side, and both
exclaimed against Oersted’s Essays on Ancient and Modern Times, in which
the preference is given to our own. The counsellor considered the times
of the Danish king, Hans,¹ as the noblest
and happiest.


The conversation on this topic was only interrupted for a moment by the
arrival of a newspaper, which did not, however, contain much worth
reading, and while it is still going on we will pay a visit to the
ante-room, in which cloaks, sticks, and goloshes were carefully placed.
Here sat two maidens, one young, and the other old, as if they had come
and were waiting to accompany their mistresses home; but on looking at
them more closely, it could easily be seen that they were no common
servants. Their shapes were too graceful, their complexions too delicate,
and the cut of their dresses much too elegant. They were two fairies. The
younger was not Fortune herself, but the chambermaid of one of Fortune’s
attendants, who carries about her more trifling gifts. The elder one, who
was named Care, looked rather gloomy; she always goes about to perform
her own business in person; for then she knows it is properly done. They
were telling each other where they had been during the day. The messenger
of Fortune had only transacted a few unimportant matters; for instance,
she had preserved a new bonnet from a shower of rain, and obtained for an
honest man a bow from a titled nobody, and so on; but she had something
extraordinary to relate, after all.


“I must tell you,” said she, “that to-day is my birthday; and in honor of
it I have been intrusted with a pair of goloshes, to introduce amongst
mankind. These goloshes have the property of making every one who puts
them on imagine himself in any place he wishes, or that he exists at any
period. Every wish is fulfilled at the moment it is expressed, so that
for once mankind have the chance of being happy.”


“No,” replied Care; “you may depend upon it that whoever puts on those
goloshes will be very unhappy, and bless the moment in which he can get
rid of them.”


“What are you thinking of?” replied the other. “Now see; I will place
them by the door; some one will take them instead of his own, and he will
be the happy man.”


This was the end of their conversation.



What Happened to the Counsellor




T was late when Counsellor Knapp, lost
in thought about the times of King Hans, desired to return home; and fate
so ordered it that he put on the goloshes of Fortune instead of his own,
and walked out into the East Street. Through the magic power of the
goloshes, he was at once carried back three hundred years, to the times
of King Hans, for which he had been longing when he put them on.
Therefore he immediately set his foot into the mud and mire of the
street, which in those days possessed no pavement.


“Why, this is horrible; how dreadfully dirty it is!” said the counsellor;
“and the whole pavement has vanished, and the lamps are all out.”


The moon had not yet risen high enough to penetrate the thick foggy air,
and all the objects around him were confused together in the darkness. At
the nearest corner, a lamp hung before a picture of the Madonna; but the
light it gave was almost useless, for he only perceived it when he came
quite close and his eyes fell on the painted figures of the Mother and
Child.


“That is most likely a museum of art,” thought he, “and they have
forgotten to take down the sign.”


Two men, in the dress of olden times, passed by him.


“What odd figures!” thought he; “they must be returning from some
masquerade.”


Suddenly he heard the sound of a drum and fifes, and then a blazing light
from torches shone upon him. The counsellor stared with astonishment as
he beheld a most strange procession pass before him. First came a whole
troop of drummers, beating their drums very cleverly; they were followed
by life-guards, with longbows and crossbows. The principal person in the
procession was a clerical-looking gentleman. The astonished counsellor
asked what it all meant, and who the gentleman might be.


“That is the bishop of Zealand.”


“Good gracious!” he exclaimed; “what in the world has happened to the
bishop? what can he be thinking about?” Then he shook his head and said,
“It cannot possibly be the bishop himself.”


While musing on this strange affair, and without looking to the right or
left, he walked on through East Street and over Highbridge Place. The
bridge, which he supposed led to Palace Square, was nowhere to be found;
but instead, he saw a bank and some shallow water, and two people, who
sat in a boat.


“Does the gentleman wish to be ferried over the Holm?” asked one.


“To the Holm!” exclaimed the counsellor, not knowing in what age he was
now existing; “I want to go to Christian’s Haven, in Little Turf Street.”
The men stared at him. “Pray tell me where the bridge is!” said he. “It
is shameful that the lamps are not lighted here, and it is as muddy as if
one were walking in a marsh.” But the more he talked with the boatmen the
less they could understand each other.


“I don’t understand your outlandish talk,” he cried at last, angrily
turning his back upon them. He could not, however, find the bridge nor
any railings.


“What a scandalous condition this place is in,” said he; never,
certainly, had he found his own times so miserable as on this evening. “I
think it will be better for me to take a coach; but where are they?”
There was not one to be seen! “I shall be obliged to go back to the
king’s new market,” said he, “where there are plenty of carriages
standing, or I shall never reach Christian’s Haven.” Then he went towards
East Street, and had nearly passed through it, when the moon burst forth
from a cloud.


“Dear me, what have they been erecting here?” he cried, as he caught
sight of the East gate, which in olden times used to stand at the end of
East Street. However, he found an opening through which he passed, and
came out upon where he expected to find the new market. Nothing was to be
seen but an open meadow, surrounded by a few bushes, through which ran a
broad canal or stream. A few miserable-looking wooden booths, for the
accommodation of Dutch watermen, stood on the opposite shore.


“Either I behold a fata morgana, or I must be tipsy,” groaned the
counsellor. “What can it be? What is the matter with me?” He turned back
in the full conviction that he must be ill. In walking through the street
this time, he examined the houses more closely; he found that most of
them were built of lath and plaster, and many had only a thatched roof.


“I am certainly all wrong,” said he, with a sigh; “and yet I only drank
one glass of punch. But I cannot bear even that, and it was very foolish
to give us punch and hot salmon; I shall speak about it to our hostess,
the agent’s lady. Suppose I were to go back now and say how ill I feel, I
fear it would look so ridiculous, and it is not very likely that I should
find any one up.” Then he looked for the house, but it was not in
existence.


“This is really frightful; I cannot even recognize East Street. Not a
shop to be seen; nothing but old, wretched, tumble-down houses, just as
if I were at Roeskilde or Ringstedt. Oh, I really must be ill! It is no
use to stand upon ceremony. But where in the world is the agent’s house.
There is a house, but it is not his; and people still up in it, I
can hear. Oh dear! I certainly am very queer.” As he reached the
half-open door, he saw a light and went in. It was a tavern of the olden
times, and seemed a kind of beershop. The room had the appearance of a
Dutch interior. A number of people, consisting of seamen, Copenhagen
citizens, and a few scholars, sat in deep conversation over their mugs,
and took very little notice of the new comer.


“Pardon me,” said the counsellor, addressing the landlady, “I do not feel
quite well, and I should be much obliged if you will send for a fly to
take me to Christian’s Haven.” The woman stared at him and shook her
head. Then she spoke to him in German. The counsellor supposed from this
that she did not understand Danish; he therefore repeated his request in
German. This, as well as his singular dress, convinced the woman that he
was a foreigner. She soon understood, however, that he did not find
himself quite well, and therefore brought him a mug of water. It had
something of the taste of seawater, certainly, although it had been drawn
from the well outside. Then the counsellor leaned his head on his hand,
drew a deep breath, and pondered over all the strange things that had
happened to him.


“Is that to-day’s number of the Day?”² he asked, quite mechanically, as he saw the woman
putting by a large piece of paper. She did not understand what he meant,
but she handed him the sheet; it was a woodcut, representing a meteor,
which had appeared in the town of Cologne.


“That is very old,” said the counsellor, becoming quite cheerful at the
sight of this antique drawing. “Where did you get this singular sheet? It
is very interesting, although the whole affair is a fable. Meteors are
easily explained in these days; they are northern lights, which are often
seen, and are no doubt caused by electricity.”


Those who sat near him, and heard what he said, looked at him in great
astonishment, and one of them rose, took off his hat respectfully, and
said in a very serious manner, “You must certainly be a very learned man,
monsieur.”


“Oh no,” replied the counsellor; “I can only discourse on topics which
every one should understand.”


“Modestia is a beautiful virtue,” said the man. “Moreover, I must
add to your speech mihi secus videtur; yet in this case I would
suspend my judicium”.


“May I ask to whom I have the pleasure of speaking?”


“I am a Bachelor of Divinity,” said the man. This answer satisfied the
counsellor. The title agreed with the dress.


“This is surely,” thought he, “an old village schoolmaster, a perfect
original, such as one meets with sometimes even in Jutland.”


“This is not certainly a locus docendi,” began the man; “still I
must beg you to continue the conversation. You must be well read in
ancient lore.”


“Oh yes,” replied the counsellor; “I am very fond of reading useful old
books, and modern ones as well, with the exception of every-day stories,
of which we really have more than enough.”


“Every-day stories?” asked the bachelor.


“Yes, I mean the new novels that we have at the present day.”


“Oh,” replied the man, with a smile; “and yet they are very witty, and
are much read at Court. The king likes especially the romance of Messeurs
Iffven and Gaudian, which describes King Arthur and his knights of the
round table. He has joked about it with the gentlemen of his Court.”


“Well, I have certainly not read that,” replied the counsellor. “I
suppose it is quite new, and published by Heiberg.”


“No,” answered the man, “it is not by Heiberg; Godfred von Gehman brought
it out.”


“Oh, is he the publisher? That is a very old name,” said the counsellor;
“was it not the name of the first publisher in Denmark?”


“Yes; and he is our first printer and publisher now,” replied the
scholar.


So far all had passed off very well; but now one of the citizens began to
speak of a terrible pestilence which had been raging a few years before,
meaning the plague of 1484. The counsellor thought he referred to the
cholera, and they could discuss this without finding out the mistake. The
war in 1490 was spoken of as quite recent. The English pirates had taken
some ships in the Channel in 1801, and the counsellor, supposing they
referred to these, agreed with them in finding fault with the English.
The rest of the talk, however, was not so agreeable; every moment one
contradicted the other. The good bachelor appeared very ignorant, for the
simplest remark of the counsellor seemed to him either too bold or too
fantastic. They stared at each other, and when it became worse the
bachelor spoke in Latin, in the hope of being better understood; but it
was all useless.


“How are you now?” asked the landlady, pulling the counsellor’s sleeve.


Then his recollection returned to him. In the course of conversation he
had forgotten all that had happened previously.


“Goodness me! where am I?” said he. It bewildered him as he thought of
it.


“We will have some claret, or mead, or Bremen beer,” said one of the
guests; “will you drink with us?”


Two maids came in. One of them had a cap on her head of two
colors.³ They poured out the wine, bowed
their heads, and withdrew.


The counsellor felt a cold shiver run all over him. “What is this? what
does it mean?” said he; but he was obliged to drink with them, for they
overpowered the good man with their politeness. He became at last
desperate; and when one of them said he was tipsy, he did not doubt the
man’s word in the least—only begged them to get a droschky; and then they
thought he was speaking the Muscovite language. Never before had he been
in such rough and vulgar company. “One might believe that the country was
going back to heathenism,” he observed. “This is the most terrible moment
of my life.”


Just then it came into his mind that he would stoop under the table, and
so creep to the door. He tried it; but before he reached the entry, the
rest discovered what he was about, and seized him by the feet, when,
luckily for him, off came the goloshes, and with them vanished the whole
enchantment. The counsellor now saw quite plainly a lamp, and a large
building behind it; everything looked familiar and beautiful. He was in
East Street, as it now appears; he lay with his legs turned towards a
porch, and just by him sat the watchman asleep.


“Is it possible that I have been lying here in the street dreaming?” said
he. “Yes, this is East Street; how beautifully bright and gay it looks!
It is quite shocking that one glass of punch should have upset me like
this.”


Two minutes afterwards he sat in a droschky, which was to drive him to
Christian’s Haven. He thought of all the terror and anxiety which he had
undergone, and felt thankful from his heart for the reality and comfort
of modern times, which, with all their errors, were far better than those
in which he so lately found himself.



The Watchman’s Adventures




ELL, I declare, there lies a pair of
goloshes,” said the watchman. “No doubt, they belong to the lieutenant
who lives up stairs. They are lying just by his door.” Gladly would the
honest man have rung, and given them in, for a light was still burning,
but he did not wish to disturb the other people in the house; so he let
them lie. “These things must keep the feet very warm,” said he; “they are
of such nice soft leather.” Then he tried them on, and they fitted his
feet exactly. “Now,” said he, “how droll things are in this world!
There’s that man can lie down in his warm bed, but he does not do so.
There he goes pacing up and down the room. He ought to be a happy man. He
has neither wife nor children, and he goes out into company every
evening. Oh, I wish I were he; then I should be a happy man.”


As he uttered this wish, the goloshes which he had put on took effect,
and the watchman at once became the lieutenant. There he stood in his
room, holding a little piece of pink paper between his fingers, on which
was a poem,—a poem written by the lieutenant himself. Who has not had,
for once in his life, a moment of poetic inspiration? and at such a
moment, if the thoughts are written down, they flow in poetry. The
following verses were written on the pink paper:—


<blockquote class="small">


“OH WERE I RICH!

“Oh were I rich! How oft, in youth’s bright hour,


When youthful pleasures banish every care,
I longed for riches but to gain a power,


The sword and plume and uniform to wear!
The riches and the honor came for me;


Yet still my greatest wealth was poverty:



Ah, help and pity me!

“Once in my youthful hours, when gay and free,


A maiden loved me; and her gentle kiss,
Rich in its tender love and purity,


Taught me, alas! too much of earthly bliss.
Dear child! She only thought of youthful glee;


She loved no wealth, but fairy tales and me.



Thou knowest: ah, pity me!

“Oh were I rich! again is all my prayer:


That child is now a woman, fair and free,
As good and beautiful as angels are.


Oh, were I rich in lovers’ poetry,
To tell my fairy tale, love’s richest lore!


But no; I must be silent—I am poor.



Ah, wilt thou pity me?

“Oh were I rich in truth and peace below,


I need not then my poverty bewail.
To thee I dedicate these lines of woe;


Wilt thou not understand the mournful tale?
A leaf on which my sorrows I relate—


Dark story of a darker night of fate.



Ah, bless and pity me!”

</blockquote>

“Well, yes; people write poems when they are in love, but a wise man will
not print them. A lieutenant in love, and poor. This is a triangle, or
more properly speaking, the half of the broken die of fortune.” The
lieutenant felt this very keenly, and therefore leaned his head against
the window-frame, and sighed deeply. “The poor watchman in the street,”
said he, “is far happier than I am. He knows not what I call poverty. He
has a home, a wife and children, who weep at his sorrow and rejoice at
his joy. Oh, how much happier I should be could I change my being and
position with him, and pass through life with his humble expectations and
hopes! Yes, he is indeed happier than I am.”


At this moment the watchman again became a watchman; for having, through
the goloshes of Fortune, passed into the existence of the lieutenant, and
found himself less contented than he expected, he had preferred his
former condition, and wished himself again a watchman. “That was an ugly
dream,” said he, “but droll enough. It seemed to me as if I were the
lieutenant up yonder, but there was no happiness for me. I missed my wife
and the little ones, who are always ready to smother me with kisses.” He
sat down again and nodded, but he could not get the dream out of his
thoughts, and he still had the goloshes on his feet. A falling star
gleamed across the sky. “There goes one!” cried he. “However, there are
quite enough left; I should very much like to examine these a little
nearer, especially the moon, for that could not slip away under one’s
hands. The student, for whom my wife washes, says that when we die we
shall fly from one star to another. If that were true, it would be very
delightful, but I don’t believe it. I wish I could make a little spring
up there now; I would willingly let my body lie here on the steps.”


There are certain things in the world which should be uttered very
cautiously; doubly so when the speaker has on his feet the goloshes of
Fortune. Now we shall hear what happened to the watchman.


Nearly every one is acquainted with the great power of steam; we have
proved it by the rapidity with which we can travel, both on a railroad or
in a steamship across the sea. But this speed is like the movements of
the sloth, or the crawling march of the snail, when compared to the
swiftness with which light travels; light flies nineteen million times
faster than the fleetest race-horse, and electricity is more rapid still.
Death is an electric shock which we receive in our hearts, and on the
wings of electricity the liberated soul flies away swiftly, the light
from the sun travels to our earth ninety-five millions of miles in eight
minutes and a few seconds; but on the wings of electricity, the mind
requires only a second to accomplish the same distance. The space between
the heavenly bodies is, to thought, no farther than the distance which we
may have to walk from one friend’s house to another in the same town; yet
this electric shock obliges us to use our bodies here below, unless, like
the watchman, we have on the goloshes of Fortune.


In a very few seconds the watchman had travelled more than two hundred
thousand miles to the moon, which is formed of a lighter material than
our earth, and may be said to be as soft as new fallen snow. He found
himself on one of the circular range of mountains which we see
represented in Dr. Madler’s large map of the moon. The interior had the
appearance of a large hollow, bowl-shaped, with a depth about half a mile
from the brim. Within this hollow stood a large town; we may form some
idea of its appearance by pouring the white of an egg into a glass of
water. The materials of which it was built seemed just as soft, and
pictured forth cloudy turrets and sail-like terraces, quite transparent,
and floating in the thin air. Our earth hung over his head like a great
dark red ball. Presently he discovered a number of beings, which might
certainly be called men, but were very different to ourselves. A more
fantastical imagination than Herschel’s must have discovered these. Had
they been placed in groups, and painted, it might have been said, “What
beautiful foliage!” They had also a language of their own. No one could
have expected the soul of the watchman to understand it, and yet he did
understand it, for our souls have much greater capabilities then we are
inclined to believe. Do we not, in our dreams, show a wonderful dramatic
talent? each of our acquaintance appears to us then in his own character,
and with his own voice; no man could thus imitate them in his waking
hours. How clearly, too, we are reminded of persons whom we have not seen
for many years; they start up suddenly to the mind’s eye with all their
peculiarities as living realities. In fact, this memory of the soul is a
fearful thing; every sin, every sinful thought it can bring back, and we
may well ask how we are to give account of “every idle word” that may
have been whispered in the heart or uttered with the lips. The spirit of
the watchman therefore understood very well the language of the
inhabitants of the moon. They were disputing about our earth, and doubted
whether it could be inhabited. The atmosphere, they asserted, must be too
dense for any inhabitants of the moon to exist there. They maintained
that the moon alone was inhabited, and was really the heavenly body in
which the old world people lived. They likewise talked politics.


But now we will descend to East Street, and see what happened to the
watchman’s body. He sat lifeless on the steps. His staff had fallen out
of his hand, and his eyes stared at the moon, about which his honest soul
was wandering.


“What is it o’clock, watchman?” inquired a passenger. But there was no
answer from the watchman.


The man then pulled his nose gently, which caused him to lose his
balance. The body fell forward, and lay at full length on the ground as
one dead.


All his comrades were very much frightened, for he seemed quite dead;
still they allowed him to remain after they had given notice of what had
happened; and at dawn the body was carried to the hospital. We might
imagine it to be no jesting matter if the soul of the man should chance
to return to him, for most probably it would seek for the body in East
Street without being able to find it. We might fancy the soul inquiring
of the police, or at the address office, or among the missing parcels,
and then at length finding it at the hospital. But we may comfort
ourselves by the certainty that the soul, when acting upon its own
impulses, is wiser than we are; it is the body that makes it stupid.


As we have said, the watchman’s body had been taken to the hospital, and
here it was placed in a room to be washed. Naturally, the first thing
done here was to take off the goloshes, upon which the soul was instantly
obliged to return, and it took the direct road to the body at once, and
in a few seconds the man’s life returned to him. He declared, when he
quite recovered himself, that this had been the most dreadful night he
had ever passed; not for a hundred pounds would he go through such
feelings again. However, it was all over now.


The same day he was allowed to leave, but the goloshes remained at the
hospital.



The Eventful Moment—a Most Unusual Journey




VERY inhabitant of Copenhagen knows
what the entrance to Frederick’s Hospital is like; but as most probably a
few of those who read this little tale may not reside in Copenhagen, we
will give a short description of it.


The hospital is separated from the street by an iron railing, in which
the bars stand so wide apart that, it is said, some very slim patients
have squeezed through, and gone to pay little visits in the town. The
most difficult part of the body to get through was the head; and in this
case, as it often happens in the world, the small heads were the most
fortunate. This will serve as sufficient introduction to our tale. One of
the young volunteers, of whom, physically speaking, it might be said that
he had a great head, was on guard that evening at the hospital. The rain
was pouring down, yet, in spite of these two obstacles, he wanted to go
out just for a quarter of an hour; it was not worth while, he thought, to
make a confidant of the porter, as he could easily slip through the iron
railings. There lay the goloshes, which the watchman had forgotten. It
never occurred to him that these could be goloshes of Fortune. They would
be very serviceable to him in this rainy weather, so he drew them on. Now
came the question whether he could squeeze through the palings; he
certainly had never tried, so he stood looking at them. “I wish to
goodness my head was through,” said he, and instantly, though it was so
thick and large, it slipped through quite easily. The goloshes answered
that purpose very well, but his body had to follow, and this was
impossible. “I am too fat,” he said; “I thought my head would be the
worst, but I cannot get my body through, that is certain.” Then he tried
to pull his head back again, but without success; he could move his neck
about easily enough, and that was all. His first feeling was one of
anger, and then his spirits sank below zero. The goloshes of Fortune had
placed him in this terrible position, and unfortunately it never occurred
to him to wish himself free. No, instead of wishing he kept twisting
about, yet did not stir from the spot. The rain poured, and not a
creature could be seen in the street. The porter’s bell he was unable to
reach, and however was he to get loose! He foresaw that he should have to
stay there till morning, and then they must send for a smith to file away
the iron bars, and that would be a work of time. All the charity children
would just be going to school: and all the sailors who inhabited that
quarter of the town would be there to see him standing in the pillory.
What a crowd there would be. “Ha,” he cried, “the blood is rushing to my
head, and I shall go mad. I believe I am crazy already; oh, I wish I were
free, then all these sensations would pass off.” This is just what he
ought to have said at first. The moment he had expressed the thought his
head was free. He started back, quite bewildered with the fright which
the goloshes of Fortune had caused him. But we must not suppose it was
all over; no, indeed, there was worse to come yet. The night passed, and
the whole of the following day; but no one sent for the goloshes. In the
evening a declamatory performance was to take place at the amateur
theatre in a distant street. The house was crowded; among the audience
was the young volunteer from the hospital, who seemed to have quite
forgotten his adventures of the previous evening. He had on the goloshes;
they had not been sent for, and as the streets were still very dirty,
they were of great service to him. A new poem, entitled “My Aunt’s
Spectacles,” was being recited. It described these spectacles as
possessing a wonderful power; if any one put them on in a large assembly
the people appeared like cards, and the future events of ensuing years
could be easily foretold by them. The idea struck him that he should very
much like to have such a pair of spectacles; for, if used rightly, they
would perhaps enable him to see into the hearts of people, which he
thought would be more interesting than to know what was going to happen
next year; for future events would be sure to show themselves, but the
hearts of people never. “I can fancy what I should see in the whole row
of ladies and gentlemen on the first seat, if I could only look into
their hearts; that lady, I imagine, keeps a store for things of all
descriptions; how my eyes would wander about in that collection; with
many ladies I should no doubt find a large millinery establishment. There
is another that is perhaps empty, and would be all the better for
cleaning out. There may be some well stored with good articles. Ah, yes,”
he sighed, “I know one, in which everything is solid, but a servant is
there already, and that is the only thing against it. I dare say from
many I should hear the words, ‘Please to walk in.’ I only wish I could
slip into the hearts like a little tiny thought.” This was the word of
command for the goloshes. The volunteer shrunk up together, and commenced
a most unusual journey through the hearts of the spectators in the first
row. The first heart he entered was that of a lady, but he thought he
must have got into one of the rooms of an orthopedic institution where
plaster casts of deformed limbs were hanging on the walls, with this
difference, that the casts in the institution are formed when the patient
enters, but here they were formed and preserved after the good people had
left. These were casts of the bodily and mental deformities of the lady’s
female friends carefully preserved. Quickly he passed into another heart,
which had the appearance of a spacious, holy church, with the white dove
of innocence fluttering over the altar. Gladly would he have fallen on
his knees in such a sacred place; but he was carried on to another heart,
still, however, listening to the tones of the organ, and feeling himself
that he had become another and a better man. The next heart was also a
sanctuary, which he felt almost unworthy to enter; it represented a mean
garret, in which lay a sick mother; but the warm sunshine streamed
through the window, lovely roses bloomed in a little flowerbox on the
roof, two blue birds sang of childlike joys, and the sick mother prayed
for a blessing on her daughter. Next he crept on his hands and knees
through an overfilled butcher’s shop; there was meat, nothing but meat,
wherever he stepped; this was the heart of a rich, respectable man, whose
name is doubtless in the directory. Then he entered the heart of this
man’s wife; it was an old, tumble-down pigeon-house; the husband’s
portrait served as a weather-cock; it was connected with all the doors,
which opened and shut just as the husband’s decision turned. The next
heart was a complete cabinet of mirrors, such as can be seen in the
Castle of Rosenberg. But these mirrors magnified in an astonishing
degree; in the middle of the floor sat, like the Grand Lama, the
insignificant I of the owner, astonished at the contemplation of his own
features. At his next visit he fancied he must have got into a narrow
needlecase, full of sharp needles: “Oh,” thought he, “this must be the
heart of an old maid;” but such was not the fact; it belonged to a young
officer, who wore several orders, and was said to be a man of intellect
and heart.


The poor volunteer came out of the last heart in the row quite
bewildered. He could not collect his thoughts, and imagined his foolish
fancies had carried him away. “Good gracious!” he sighed, “I must have a
tendency to softening of the brain, and here it is so exceedingly hot
that the blood is rushing to my head.” And then suddenly recurred to him
the strange event of the evening before, when his head had been fixed
between the iron railings in front of the hospital. “That is the cause of
it all!” he exclaimed, “I must do something in time. A Russian bath would
be a very good thing to begin with. I wish I were lying on one of the
highest shelves.” Sure enough, there he lay on an upper shelf of a vapor
bath, still in his evening costume, with his boots and goloshes on, and
the hot drops from the ceiling falling on his face. “Ho!” he cried,
jumping down and rushing towards the plunging bath. The attendant stopped
him with a loud cry, when he saw a man with all his clothes on. The
volunteer had, however, presence of mind enough to whisper, “It is for a
wager;” but the first thing he did, when he reached his own room, was to
put a large blister on his neck, and another on his back, that his crazy
fit might be cured. The next morning his back was very sore, which was
all he gained by the goloshes of Fortune.



The Clerk’s Transformation




HE watchman, whom we of course have not
forgotten, thought, after a while, of the goloshes which he had found and
taken to the hospital; so he went and fetched them. But neither the
lieutenant nor any one in the street could recognize them as their own,
so he gave them up to the police. “They look exactly like my own
goloshes,” said one of the clerks, examining the unknown articles, as
they stood by the side of his own. “It would require even more than the
eye of a shoemaker to know one pair from the other.”


“Master clerk,” said a servant who entered with some papers. The clerk
turned and spoke to the man; but when he had done with him, he turned to
look at the goloshes again, and now he was in greater doubt than ever as
to whether the pair on the right or on the left belonged to him. “Those
that are wet must be mine,” thought he; but he thought wrong, it was just
the reverse. The goloshes of Fortune were the wet pair; and, besides, why
should not a clerk in a police office be wrong sometimes? So he drew them
on, thrust his papers into his pocket, placed a few manuscripts under his
arm, which he had to take with him, and to make abstracts from at home.
Then, as it was Sunday morning and the weather very fine, he said to
himself, “A walk to Fredericksburg will do me good:” so away he went.


There could not be a quieter or more steady young man than this clerk. We
will not grudge him this little walk, it was just the thing to do him
good after sitting so much. He went on at first like a mere automaton,
without thought or wish; therefore the goloshes had no opportunity to
display their magic power. In the avenue he met with an acquaintance, one
of our young poets, who told him that he intended to start on the
following day on a summer excursion. “Are you really going away so soon?”
asked the clerk. “What a free, happy man you are. You can roam about
where you will, while such as we are tied by the foot.”


“But it is fastened to the bread-tree,” replied the poet. “You need have
no anxiety for the morrow; and when you are old there is a pension for
you.”


“Ah, yes; but you have the best of it,” said the clerk; “it must be so
delightful to sit and write poetry. The whole world makes itself
agreeable to you, and then you are your own master. You should try how
you would like to listen to all the trivial things in a court of
justice.” The poet shook his head, so also did the clerk; each retained
his own opinion, and so they parted. “They are strange people, these
poets,” thought the clerk. “I should like to try what it is to have a
poetic taste, and to become a poet myself. I am sure I should not write
such mournful verses as they do. This is a splendid spring day for a
poet, the air is so remarkably clear, the clouds are so beautiful, and
the green grass has such a sweet smell. For many years I have not felt as
I do at this moment.”


We perceive, by these remarks, that he had already become a poet. By most
poets what he had said would be considered common-place, or as the
Germans call it, “insipid.” It is a foolish fancy to look upon poets as
different to other men. There are many who are more the poets of nature
than those who are professed poets. The difference is this, the poet’s
intellectual memory is better; he seizes upon an idea or a sentiment,
until he can embody it, clearly and plainly in words, which the others
cannot do. But the transition from a character of every-day life to one
of a more gifted nature is a great transition; and so the clerk became
aware of the change after a time. “What a delightful perfume,” said he;
“it reminds me of the violets at Aunt Lora’s. Ah, that was when I was a
little boy. Dear me, how long it seems since I thought of those days! She
was a good old maiden lady! she lived yonder, behind the Exchange. She
always had a sprig or a few blossoms in water, let the winter be ever so
severe. I could smell the violets, even while I was placing warm penny
pieces against the frozen panes to make peep-holes, and a pretty view it
was on which I peeped. Out in the river lay the ships, icebound, and
forsaken by their crews; a screaming crow represented the only living
creature on board. But when the breezes of spring came, everything
started into life. Amidst shouting and cheers the ships were tarred and
rigged, and then they sailed to foreign lands.”


“I remain here, and always shall remain, sitting at my post at the police
office, and letting others take passports to distant lands. Yes, this is
my fate,” and he sighed deeply. Suddenly he paused. “Good gracious, what
has come over me? I never felt before as I do now; it must be the air of
spring. It is overpowering, and yet it is delightful.”


He felt in his pockets for some of his papers. “These will give me
something else to think of,” said he. Casting his eyes on the first page
of one, he read, “‘Mistress Sigbirth; an original Tragedy, in Five Acts.’
What is this?—in my own handwriting, too! Have I written this tragedy?”
He read again, “‘The Intrigue on the Promenade; or, the Fast-Day. A
Vaudeville.’ However did I get all this? Some one must have put them into
my pocket. And here is a letter!” It was from the manager of a theatre;
the pieces were rejected, not at all in polite terms.


“Hem, hem!” said he, sitting down on a bench; his thoughts were very
elastic, and his heart softened strangely. Involuntarily he seized one of
the nearest flowers; it was a little, simple daisy. All that botanists
can say in many lectures was explained in a moment by this little flower.
It spoke of the glory of its birth; it told of the strength of the
sunlight, which had caused its delicate leaves to expand, and given to it
such sweet perfume. The struggles of life which arouse sensations in the
bosom have their type in the tiny flowers. Air and light are the lovers
of the flowers, but light is the favored one; towards light it turns, and
only when light vanishes does it fold its leaves together, and sleep in
the embraces of the air.”


“It is light that adorns me,” said the flower.


“But the air gives you the breath of life,” whispered the poet.


Just by him stood a boy, splashing with his stick in a marshy ditch. The
water-drops spurted up among the green twigs, and the clerk thought of
the millions of animalculae which were thrown into the air with every
drop of water, at a height which must be the same to them as it would be
to us if we were hurled beyond the clouds. As the clerk thought of all
these things, and became conscious of the great change in his own
feelings, he smiled, and said to himself, “I must be asleep and dreaming;
and yet, if so, how wonderful for a dream to be so natural and real, and
to know at the same time too that it is but a dream. I hope I shall be
able to remember it all when I wake tomorrow. My sensations seem most
unaccountable. I have a clear perception of everything as if I were wide
awake. I am quite sure if I recollect all this tomorrow, it will appear
utterly ridiculous and absurd. I have had this happen to me before. It is
with the clever or wonderful things we say or hear in dreams, as with the
gold which comes from under the earth, it is rich and beautiful when we
possess it, but when seen in a true light it is but as stones and
withered leaves.”


“Ah!” he sighed mournfully, as he gazed at the birds singing merrily, or
hopping from branch to branch, “they are much better off than I. Flying
is a glorious power. Happy is he who is born with wings. Yes, if I could
change myself into anything I would be a little lark.” At the same moment
his coat-tails and sleeves grew together and formed wings, his clothes
changed to feathers, and his goloshes to claws. He felt what was taking
place, and laughed to himself. “Well, now it is evident I must be
dreaming; but I never had such a wild dream as this.” And then he flew up
into the green boughs and sang, but there was no poetry in the song, for
his poetic nature had left him. The goloshes, like all persons who wish
to do a thing thoroughly, could only attend to one thing at a time. He
wished to be a poet, and he became one. Then he wanted to be a little
bird, and in this change he lost the characteristics of the former one.
“Well,” thought he, “this is charming; by day I sit in a police-office,
amongst the dryest law papers, and at night I can dream that I am a lark,
flying about in the gardens of Fredericksburg. Really a complete comedy
could be written about it.” Then he flew down into the grass, turned his
head about in every direction, and tapped his beak on the bending blades
of grass, which, in proportion to his size, seemed to him as long as the
palm-leaves in northern Africa.


In another moment all was darkness around him. It seemed as if something
immense had been thrown over him. A sailor boy had flung his large cap
over the bird, and a hand came underneath and caught the clerk by the
back and wings so roughly, that he squeaked, and then cried out in his
alarm, “You impudent rascal, I am a clerk in the police-office!” but it
only sounded to the boy like “tweet, tweet;” so he tapped the bird on the
beak, and walked away with him. In the avenue he met two school-boys, who
appeared to belong to a better class of society, but whose inferior
abilities kept them in the lowest class at school. These boys bought the
bird for eightpence, and so the clerk returned to Copenhagen. “It is well
for me that I am dreaming,” he thought; “otherwise I should become really
angry. First I was a poet, and now I am a lark. It must have been the
poetic nature that changed me into this little creature. It is a
miserable story indeed, especially now I have fallen into the hands of
boys. I wonder what will be the end of it.” The boys carried him into a
very elegant room, where a stout, pleasant-looking lady received them,
but she was not at all gratified to find that they had brought a lark—a
common field-bird as she called it. However, she allowed them for one day
to place the bird in an empty cage that hung near the window. “It will
please Polly perhaps,” she said, laughing at a large gray parrot, who was
swinging himself proudly on a ring in a handsome brass cage. “It is
Polly’s birthday,” she added in a simpering tone, “and the little
field-bird has come to offer his congratulations.”


Polly did not answer a single word, he continued to swing proudly to and
fro; but a beautiful canary, who had been brought from his own warm,
fragrant fatherland, the summer previous, began to sing as loud as he
could.


“You screamer!” said the lady, throwing a white handkerchief over the
cage.


“Tweet, tweet,” sighed he, “what a dreadful snowstorm!” and then he
became silent.


The clerk, or as the lady called him the field-bird, was placed in a
little cage close to the canary, and not far from the parrot. The only
human speech which Polly could utter, and which she sometimes chattered
forth most comically, was “Now let us be men.” All besides was a scream,
quite as unintelligible as the warbling of the canary-bird, excepting to
the clerk, who being now a bird, could understand his comrades very well.


“I flew beneath green palm-trees, and amidst the blooming almond-trees,”
sang the canary. “I flew with my brothers and sisters over beautiful
flowers, and across the clear, bright sea, which reflected the waving
foliage in its glittering depths; and I have seen many gay parrots, who
could relate long and delightful stories.”


“They were wild birds,” answered the parrot, “and totally uneducated. Now
let us be men. Why do you not laugh? If the lady and her visitors can
laugh at this, surely you can. It is a great failing not to be able to
appreciate what is amusing. Now let us be men.”


“Do you remember,” said the canary, “the pretty maidens who used to dance
in the tents that were spread out beneath the sweet blossoms? Do you
remember the delicious fruit and the cooling juice from the wild herbs?”


“Oh, yes,” said the parrot; “but here I am much better off. I am well
fed, and treated politely. I know that I have a clever head; and what
more do I want? Let us be men now. You have a soul for poetry. I have
deep knowledge and wit. You have genius, but no discretion. You raise
your naturally high notes so much, that you get covered over. They never
serve me so. Oh, no; I cost them something more than you. I keep them in
order with my beak, and fling my wit about me. Now let us be men.”


“O my warm, blooming fatherland,” sang the canary bird, “I will sing of
thy dark-green trees and thy quiet streams, where the bending branches
kiss the clear, smooth water. I will sing of the joy of my brothers and
sisters, as their shining plumage flits among the dark leaves of the
plants which grow wild by the springs.”


“Do leave off those dismal strains,” said the parrot; “sing something to
make us laugh; laughter is the sign of the highest order of intellect.
Can a dog or a horse laugh? No, they can cry; but to man alone is the
power of laughter given. Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Polly, and repeated his
witty saying, “Now let us be men.”


“You little gray Danish bird,” said the canary, “you also have become a
prisoner. It is certainly cold in your forests, but still there is
liberty there. Fly out! they have forgotten to close the cage, and the
window is open at the top. Fly, fly!”


Instinctively, the clerk obeyed, and left the cage; at the same moment
the half-opened door leading into the next room creaked on its hinges,
and, stealthily, with green fiery eyes, the cat crept in and chased the
lark round the room. The canary-bird fluttered in his cage, and the
parrot flapped his wings and cried, “Let us be men;” the poor clerk, in
the most deadly terror, flew through the window, over the houses, and
through the streets, till at length he was obliged to seek a
resting-place. A house opposite to him had a look of home. A window stood
open; he flew in, and perched upon the table. It was his own room. “Let
us be men now,” said he, involuntarily imitating the parrot; and at the
same moment he became a clerk again, only that he was sitting on the
table. “Heaven preserve us!” said he; “How did I get up here and fall
asleep in this way? It was an uneasy dream too that I had. The whole
affair appears most absurd.”



The Best Thing the Goloshes Did




ARLY on the following morning, while
the clerk was still in bed, his neighbor, a young divinity student, who
lodged on the same storey, knocked at his door, and then walked in. “Lend
me your goloshes,” said he; “it is so wet in the garden, but the sun is
shining brightly. I should like to go out there and smoke my pipe.” He
put on the goloshes, and was soon in the garden, which contained only one
plum-tree and one apple-tree; yet, in a town, even a small garden like
this is a great advantage.


The student wandered up and down the path; it was just six o’clock, and
he could hear the sound of the post-horn in the street. “Oh, to travel,
to travel!” cried he; “there is no greater happiness in the world: it is
the height of my ambition. This restless feeling would be stilled, if I
could take a journey far away from this country. I should like to see
beautiful Switzerland, to travel through Italy, and,”—It was well for him
that the goloshes acted immediately, otherwise he might have been carried
too far for himself as well as for us. In a moment he found himself in
Switzerland, closely packed with eight others in the diligence. His head
ached, his back was stiff, and the blood had ceased to circulate, so that
his feet were swelled and pinched by his boots. He wavered in a condition
between sleeping and waking. In his right-hand pocket he had a letter of
credit; in his left-hand pocket was his passport; and a few louis d’ors
were sewn into a little leather bag which he carried in his
breast-pocket. Whenever he dozed, he dreamed that he had lost one or
another of these possessions; then he would awake with a start, and the
first movements of his hand formed a triangle from his right-hand pocket
to his breast, and from his breast to his left-hand pocket, to feel
whether they were all safe. Umbrellas, sticks, and hats swung in the net
before him, and almost obstructed the prospect, which was really very
imposing; and as he glanced at it, his memory recalled the words of one
poet at least, who has sung of Switzerland, and whose poems have not yet
been printed:—


<blockquote class="small">
“How lovely to my wondering eyes
Mont Blanc’s fair summits gently rise;
’Tis sweet to breathe the mountain air,—
If you have gold enough to spare.”
</blockquote>

Grand, dark, and gloomy appeared the landscape around him. The
pine-forests looked like little groups of moss on high rocks, whose
summits were lost in clouds of mist. Presently it began to snow, and the
wind blew keen and cold. “Ah,” he sighed, “if I were only on the other
side of the Alps now, it would be summer, and I should be able to get
money on my letter of credit. The anxiety I feel on this matter prevents
me from enjoying myself in Switzerland. Oh, I wish I was on the other
side of the Alps.”


And there, in a moment, he found himself, far away in the midst of Italy,
between Florence and Rome, where the lake Thrasymene glittered in the
evening sunlight like a sheet of molten gold between the dark blue
mountains. There, where Hannibal defeated Flaminius, the grape vines
clung to each other with the friendly grasp of their green tendril
fingers; while, by the wayside, lovely half-naked children were watching
a herd of coal-black swine under the blossoms of fragrant laurel. Could
we rightly describe this picturesque scene, our readers would exclaim,
“Delightful Italy!”


But neither the student nor either of his travelling companions felt the
least inclination to think of it in this way. Poisonous flies and gnats
flew into the coach by thousands. In vain they drove them away with a
myrtle branch, the flies stung them notwithstanding. There was not a man
in the coach whose face was not swollen and disfigured with the stings.
The poor horses looked wretched; the flies settled on their backs in
swarms, and they were only relieved when the coachmen got down and drove
the creatures off.


As the sun set, an icy coldness filled all nature, not however of long
duration. It produced the feeling which we experience when we enter a
vault at a funeral, on a summer’s day; while the hills and the clouds put
on that singular green hue which we often notice in old paintings, and
look upon as unnatural until we have ourselves seen nature’s coloring in
the south. It was a glorious spectacle; but the stomachs of the
travellers were empty, their bodies exhausted with fatigue, and all the
longings of their heart turned towards a resting-place for the night; but
where to find one they knew not. All the eyes were too eagerly seeking
for this resting-place, to notice the beauties of nature.


The road passed through a grove of olive-trees; it reminded the student
of the willow-trees at home. Here stood a lonely inn, and close by it a
number of crippled beggars had placed themselves; the brightest among
them looked, to quote the words of Marryat, “like the eldest son of
Famine who had just come of age.” The others were either blind, or had
withered legs, which obliged them to creep about on their hands and
knees, or they had shrivelled arms and hands without fingers. It was
indeed poverty arrayed in rags. “Eccellenza, miserabili!” they
exclaimed, stretching forth their diseased limbs. The hostess received
the travellers with bare feet, untidy hair, and a dirty blouse. The doors
were fastened together with string; the floors of the rooms were of
brick, broken in many places; bats flew about under the roof; and as to
the odor within—


“Let us have supper laid in the stable,” said one of the travellers;
“then we shall know what we are breathing.”


The windows were opened to let in a little fresh air, but quicker than
air came in the withered arms and the continual whining sounds,
“Miserabili, eccellenza”. On the walls were inscriptions, half of
them against “la bella Italia.”


The supper made its appearance at last. It consisted of watery soup,
seasoned with pepper and rancid oil. This last delicacy played a
principal part in the salad. Musty eggs and roasted cocks’-combs were the
best dishes on the table; even the wine had a strange taste, it was
certainly a mixture. At night, all the boxes were placed against the
doors, and one of the travellers watched while the others slept. The
student’s turn came to watch. How close the air felt in that room; the
heat overpowered him. The gnats were buzzing about and stinging, while
the miserabili, outside, moaned in their dreams.


“Travelling would be all very well,” said the student of divinity to
himself, “if we had no bodies, or if the body could rest while the soul
if flying. Wherever I go I feel a want which oppresses my heart, for
something better presents itself at the moment; yes, something better,
which shall be the best of all; but where is that to be found? In fact, I
know in my heart very well what I want. I wish to attain the greatest of
all happiness.”


No sooner were the words spoken than he was at home. Long white curtains
shaded the windows of his room, and in the middle of the floor stood a
black coffin, in which he now lay in the still sleep of death; his wish
was fulfilled, his body was at rest, and his spirit travelling.


“Esteem no man happy until he is in his grave,” were the words of Solon.
Here was a strong fresh proof of their truth. Every corpse is a sphinx of
immortality. The sphinx in this sarcophagus might unveil its own mystery
in the words which the living had himself written two days before—


<blockquote class="small">
“Stern death, thy chilling silence waketh dread;


Yet in thy darkest hour there may be light.
Earth’s garden reaper! from the grave’s cold bed


The soul on Jacob’s ladder takes her flight.

Man’s greatest sorrows often are a part


Of hidden griefs, concealed from human eyes,
Which press far heavier on the lonely heart


Than now the earth that on his coffin lies.”

</blockquote>
Two figures were moving about the room; we know them both. One was the
fairy named Care, the other the messenger of Fortune. They bent over the
dead.


“Look!” said Care; “what happiness have your goloshes brought to
mankind?”


“They have at least brought lasting happiness to him who slumbers here,”
she said.


“Not so,” said Care, “he went away of himself, he was not summoned. His
mental powers were not strong enough to discern the treasures which he
had been destined to discover. I will do him a favor now.” And she drew
the goloshes from his feet.


The sleep of death was ended, and the recovered man raised himself. Care
vanished, and with her the goloshes; doubtless she looked upon them as
her own property.