THE REAL PRINCESS

There was once a Prince who wished to marry a Princess; but then she must be a
real Princess. He travelled all over the world in hopes of finding such a
lady; but there was always something wrong. Princesses he found in plenty; but
whether they were real Princesses it was impossible for him to decide, for now
one thing, now another, seemed to him not quite right about the ladies. At
last he returned to his palace quite cast down, because he wished so much to
have a real Princess for his wife.

One evening a fearful tempest arose, it thundered and lightened, and the rain
poured down from the sky in torrents: besides, it was as dark as pitch. All at
once there was heard a violent knocking at the door, and the old King, the
Prince's father, went out himself to open it.

It was a Princess who was standing outside the door. What with the rain and
the wind, she was in a sad condition; the water trickled down from her hair,
and her clothes clung to her body. She said she was a real Princess.

"Ah! we shall soon see that!" thought the old Queen-mother; however, she said
not a word of what she was going to do; but went quietly into the bedroom,
took all the bed-clothes off the bed, and put three little peas on the
bedstead. She then laid twenty mattresses one upon another over the three
peas, and put twenty feather beds over the mattresses.

Upon this bed the Princess was to pass the night.

The next morning she was asked how she had slept. "Oh, very badly indeed!" she
replied. "I have scarcely closed my eyes the whole night through. I do not
know what was in my bed, but I had something hard under me, and am all over
black and blue. It has hurt me so much!"

Now it was plain that the lady must be a real Princess, since she had been
able to feel the three little peas through the twenty mattresses and twenty
feather beds. None but a real Princess could have had such a delicate sense of
feeling.

The Prince accordingly made her his wife; being now convinced that he had
found a real Princess. The three peas were however put into the cabinet of
curiosities, where they are still to be seen, provided they are not lost.

Wasn't this a lady of real delicacy?

THE SHOES OF FORTUNE

I. A Beginning

Every author has some peculiarity in his descriptions or in his style of
writing. Those who do not like him, magnify it, shrug up their shoulders, and
exclaim--there he is again! I, for my part, know very well how I can bring
about this movement and this exclamation. It would happen immediately if I
were to begin here, as I intended to do, with: "Rome has its Corso, Naples its
Toledo"--"Ah! that Andersen; there he is again!" they would cry; yet I must,
to please my fancy, continue quite quietly, and add: "But Copenhagen has its
East Street."

Here, then, we will stay for the present. In one of the houses not far from
the new market a party was invited--a very large party, in order, as is often
the case, to get a return invitation from the others. One half of the company
was already seated at the card-table, the other half awaited the result of the
stereotype preliminary observation of the lady of the house:

"Now let us see what we can do to amuse ourselves."

They had got just so far, and the conversation began to crystallise, as it
could but do with the scanty stream which the commonplace world supplied.
Amongst other things they spoke of the middle ages: some praised that period
as far more interesting, far more poetical than our own too sober present;
indeed Councillor Knap defended this opinion so warmly, that the hostess
declared immediately on his side, and both exerted themselves with unwearied
eloquence. The Councillor boldly declared the time of King Hans to be the
noblest and the most happy period.*

* A.D. 1482-1513

While the conversation turned on this subject, and was only for a moment
interrupted by the arrival of a journal that contained nothing worth reading,
we will just step out into the antechamber, where cloaks, mackintoshes,
sticks, umbrellas, and shoes, were deposited. Here sat two female figures, a
young and an old one. One might have thought at first they were servants come
to accompany their mistresses home; but on looking nearer, one soon saw they
could scarcely be mere servants; their forms were too noble for that, their
skin too fine, the cut of their dress too striking. Two fairies were they; the
younger, it is true, was not Dame Fortune herself, but one of the
waiting-maids of her handmaidens who carry about the lesser good things that
she distributes; the other looked extremely gloomy--it was Care. She always
attends to her own serious business herself, as then she is sure of having it
done properly.

They were telling each other, with a confidential interchange of ideas, where
they had been during the day. The messenger of Fortune had only executed a few
unimportant commissions, such as saving a new bonnet from a shower of rain,
etc.; but what she had yet to perform was something quite unusual.

"I must tell you," said she, "that to-day is my birthday; and in honor of it,
a pair of walking-shoes or galoshes has been entrusted to me, which I am to
carry to mankind. These shoes possess the property of instantly transporting
him who has them on to the place or the period in which he most wishes to be;
every wish, as regards time or place, or state of being, will be immediately
fulfilled, and so at last man will be happy, here below."

"Do you seriously believe it?" replied Care, in a severe tone of reproach.
"No; he will be very unhappy, and will assuredly bless the moment when he
feels that he has freed himself from the fatal shoes."

"Stupid nonsense!" said the other angrily. "I will put them here by the door.
Some one will make a mistake for certain and take the wrong ones--he will be a
happy man."

Such was their conversation.

II. What Happened to the Councillor

It was late; Councillor Knap, deeply occupied with the times of King Hans,
intended to go home, and malicious Fate managed matters so that his feet,
instead of finding their way to his own galoshes, slipped into those of
Fortune. Thus caparisoned the good man walked out of the well-lighted rooms
into East Street. By the magic power of the shoes he was carried back to the
times of King Hans; on which account his foot very naturally sank in the mud
and puddles of the street, there having been in those days no pavement in
Copenhagen.

"Well! This is too bad! How dirty it is here!" sighed the Councillor. "As to a
pavement, I can find no traces of one, and all the lamps, it seems, have gone
to sleep."

The moon was not yet very high; it was besides rather foggy, so that in the
darkness all objects seemed mingled in chaotic confusion. At the next corner
hung a votive lamp before a Madonna, but the light it gave was little better
than none at all; indeed, he did not observe it before he was exactly under
it, and his eyes fell upon the bright colors of the pictures which represented
the well-known group of the Virgin and the infant Jesus.

"That is probably a wax-work show," thought he; "and the people delay taking
down their sign in hopes of a late visitor or two."

A few persons in the costume of the time of King Hans passed quickly by him.

"How strange they look! The good folks come probably from a masquerade!"

Suddenly was heard the sound of drums and fifes; the bright blaze of a fire
shot up from time to time, and its ruddy gleams seemed to contend with the
bluish light of the torches. The Councillor stood still, and watched a most
strange procession pass by. First came a dozen drummers, who understood pretty
well how to handle their instruments; then came halberdiers, and some armed
with cross-bows. The principal person in the procession was a priest.
Astonished at what he saw, the Councillor asked what was the meaning of all
this mummery, and who that man was.

"That's the Bishop of Zealand," was the answer.

"Good Heavens! What has taken possession of the Bishop?" sighed the
Councillor, shaking his bead. It certainly could not be the Bishop; even
though he was considered the most absent man in the whole kingdom, and people
told the drollest anecdotes about him. Reflecting on the matter, and without
looking right or left, the Councillor went through East Street and across the
Habro-Platz. The bridge leading to Palace Square was not to be found; scarcely
trusting his senses, the nocturnal wanderer discovered a shallow piece of
water, and here fell in with two men who very comfortably were rocking to and
fro in a boat.

"Does your honor want to cross the ferry to the Holme?" asked they.

"Across to the Holme!" said the Councillor, who knew nothing of the age in
which he at that moment was. "No, I am going to Christianshafen, to Little
Market Street."

Both men stared at him in astonishment.

"Only just tell me where the bridge is," said he. "It is really unpardonable
that there are no lamps here; and it is as dirty as if one had to wade through
a morass."

The longer he spoke with the boatmen, the more unintelligible did their
language become to him.

"I don't understand your Bornholmish dialect," said he at last, angrily, and
turning his back upon them. He was unable to find the bridge: there was no
railway either. "It is really disgraceful what a state this place is in,"
muttered he to himself. Never had his age, with which, however, he was always
grumbling, seemed so miserable as on this evening. "I'll take a
hackney-coach!" thought he. But where were the hackneycoaches? Not one was to
be seen.

"I must go back to the New Market; there, it is to be hoped, I shall find some
coaches; for if I don't, I shall never get safe to Christianshafen."

So off he went in the direction of East Street, and had nearly got to the end
of it when the moon shone forth.

"God bless me! What wooden scaffolding is that which they have set up there?"
cried he involuntarily, as he looked at East Gate, which, in those days, was
at the end of East Street.

He found, however, a little side-door open, and through this he went, and
stepped into our New Market of the present time. It was a huge desolate plain;
some wild bushes stood up here and there, while across the field flowed a
broad canal or river. Some wretched hovels for the Dutch sailors, resembling
great boxes, and after which the place was named, lay about in confused