Ганс Андерсен - Fairy Tales

5 Native Norwegian Ivar Huitfeldt (1665-1710) was a Danish naval hero; he sacrificed himself and his ship Dannebrog in a battle on October 4, 1710, to prevent the Swedish advance into Køge Bay.

6 Norwegian missionary to Greenland (1686-1758).

7 King of Denmark (1808-1839) and of Norway (1808-1814).

8 Danish naval officer (1751-1833).

9 Danish astronomer Tycho Brahe (1546-1601) built an observatory on the island of Hven.

10 Danish neoclassical sculptor Bertel Thorvaldsen (1770-1844).

BIRD PHOENIX

IN THE GARDEN OF Eden, under the Tree of Knowledge, stood a hedge of roses. Inside the first rose that bloomed, a bird was born. Its flight was like light, glorious its colors and splendid its song.

But when Eve picked the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, and she and Adam were chased from the Garden of Eden, a spark fell from the avenging angel’s sword of flame into the nest and ignited it. The bird died in the flames, but from the red egg a new bird arose—the only—the always only—bird Phoenix. Legend tells that it nests in Arabia and that every hundred years it burns itself up in its nest, and from the red egg a new Phoenix flies, the only one in the world.

The bird flutters around us, swift as light, glorious in color and splendid in song. When the mother sits by her child’s cradle, it’s by the pillow and sweeps a halo around the child’s head with its wings. It flies through the rooms of frugality and brings sunshine there, where the simple cupboards waft with the scent of violets.

But bird Phoenix isn’t just Arabia’s bird. It flutters in the glow of the northern lights over the icy fields of Lapland. It leaps amongst the yellow flowers in Greenland’s short summer. Under the copper mines of Fahlun 1and in England’s coal mines, it flies like a moth with dust on its wings over the song book in the pious worker’s hand. It sails on the lotus leaf by the holy waters of the Ganges, and the eyes of the Hindu girl light up when she sees it.

Bird Phoenix! Don’t you know him? The bird of paradise, the sacred swan of song. It sat on the Thespian cart as a gossiping raven and flapped with its soiled black wings. With a swan’s red sonorous beak it glided over Iceland’s bards. It rested on Shakespeare’s shoulder as one of Odin’s ravens, 2and whispered in his ear: Immortality. It flew with the song festival through the great hall of Wartburg. 3

Bird Phoenix! Don’t you know him? He sang the Marseillaise for you, and you kissed the feathers that fell from his wings. He came in the glory of paradise, and perhaps you turned away to the sparrow with gilded wings.

Bird of paradise! Renewed each century, born in flames and dying in flames. Your picture framed in gold hangs in the galleries of the rich, while you yourself often fly wildly and alone—a legend only: Bird Phoenix of Arabia.

In the Garden of Eden when you were born under the tree of knowledge, in the first blooming rose, God kissed you and gave you your right name— Poetry.

NOTES

1 Copper-mining town northwest of Stockholm.

2 In Nordic mythology, Odin has two ravens, Hugin and Munin, who fly around the world every day and then whisper everything they see and hear in Odin’s ear.

3 According to legend, Wartburg castle was the site of a minstrels’ contest in 1207 ordered by Count Herman of Thüringen.

THE FAMILY OF HEN-GRETHE

HEN-GRETHE WAS THE only resident human being in the handsome new house that was built for the hens and the ducks at the manor. It stood where the old knight’s castle had stood, with its tower, corbie-gabled roof, moat, and a drawbridge. Close by were overgrown trees and bushes. This was where the garden had been, which had stretched all the way down to a big lake that was now a swamp. Rooks, crows, and jackdaws flew screaming over the old trees—teeming flocks of birds. Shooting at them didn’t decrease their number at all, in fact, they seemed to increase. You could hear them from inside the henhouse, where Hen-Grethe sat with ducklings running across the toes of her wooden shoes. She knew every hen and every duck from the time it hatched. She was proud of her hens and ducks and proud of the fine house that had been built for them. Her little room was clean and neat. This was insisted upon by the lady of the manor to whom the henhouse belonged. She often brought fashionable and distinguished guests to show them “the barracks of the hens and ducks,” as she called it.

There was both a clothes closet and an easy chair. There was a chest of drawers, and on top of it was a shiny polished brass plate, engraved with the word “Grubbe.” That was the name of the old noble family that had lived in the castle. The brass plate had been found during the construction there, and the schoolteacher had said that it had no other value than as an old keepsake. The schoolteacher knew a lot about the place and about old times. He had knowledge from books, and there were so many things he had written up in his desk drawers. He had great knowledge of olden days. Maybe the oldest crow knew more about it and shouted it in his language, but that was Crocawish and the schoolmaster didn’t understand that, no matter how wise he was.

After a warm summer day a fog would rise from the swamp so that it looked like a whole lake lay out behind the old trees where the rooks, crows, and jackdaws flew. That’s how it had looked when the knight, Grubbe, had lived there and the old castle stood with its thick red brick walls. At that time the watchdog’s chain reached past the gate, and you came through the tower into the stone paved hallway that led to the rooms. The windows were narrow with small panes, even in the big hall where dances were held. By the time of the last Grubbe no one could remember the last dance, and yet there was still an old kettledrum lying there, that had been used for music making. There had been an elaborately carved cabinet in which rare flower bulbs were kept because Mrs. Grubbe had been fond of planting and cultivating trees and herbs. Her husband preferred riding out to shoot wolves and wild boar, and his little daughter Marie always accompanied him. At the age of five she sat proudly on her horse and looked around bravely with big black eyes. She enjoyed cracking the whip amongst the hunting dogs, but her father would rather she had cracked it at the peasant boys who came to watch the gentry.

The farmer in the earthen house close by had a son, Søren, the same age as the little noble maiden. He was good at climbing and always had to climb up in the trees to get bird nests for her. The birds screamed as loudly as they could, and one of the largest of them pecked him right over the eye so the blood streamed out. They thought the eye was lost at first, but it had not been injured. Marie Grubbe called him my Søren. That was a great favor, and it paid off for his father, poor Jon. One day he had done something wrong and was to be punished—he had to ride the wooden horse. It stood in the courtyard with four stakes for legs, and only one narrow plank for a back. Here Jon had to sit astraddle with some heavy bricks tied to his legs so he wouldn’t sit too lightly. He grimaced in pain, and Søren cried and begged little Marie for help. She immediately ordered that Søren’s father be let down, and when they didn’t obey her, she stamped her feet on the stone bridge and pulled at her father’s sleeve so it ripped. She wanted what she wanted, and she got her way. Søren’s father was allowed to get down.

Mrs. Grubbe had come up, stroked her little daughter across her hair and looked at her with gentle eyes, but Marie didn’t understand why.

She wanted to go with the hunting dogs, and not with her mother, who went into the garden and down towards the lake where white and yellow water lilies were in bloom, and cat tails and flowering rushes waved amongst the reeds. “How lovely,” she said as she looked at the lush freshness. In the garden stood a tree that she had planted herself, a rare one at that time. It was a copper beech, and with its dark brown leaves, it stood like a kind of negro among the other trees. It needed strong sunlight, otherwise in constant shade it would turn green like the other trees and thereby lose its distinctiveness. There were many bird nests in the tall chestnuts and also in the bushes and grass. It was as if the birds knew that they were safe there where no one dared shoot off a gun.