The Shoes of Fortune

All writers have something special about their way of describing things or telling stories. Those who don't like them exaggerate it, shrug their shoulders, and shout, "There he goes again!" I know very well how to make people do that. If I started this story with: "Rome has its Corso, Naples its Toledo," they would cry, "Oh, that Andersen, there he is again!" But I will please myself and keep going, adding: "Copenhagen has its East Street."

Here we will stay for now. In a house not far from the new market, a party was being held—a big party, as often happens, so the hosts could get invited back later. Half of the guests were already at the card tables, and the other half waited for the hostess to say what she always said: "Now let's see what we can do to amuse ourselves."

They had just reached that point when the conversation started to turn stale, as it does when people talk about everyday things. Someone mentioned the Middle Ages, and some people said that time was much more interesting and poetic than the boring present. Councillor Knap argued so strongly in favor of that idea that the hostess quickly agreed with him, and together they talked endlessly. The Councillor boldly declared that the time of King Hans was the finest and happiest period. (King Hans ruled from 1482 to 1513.)

While they were talking—only interrupted for a moment by a newspaper that had nothing worth reading—let's step into the hallway, where coats, umbrellas, sticks, and shoes were left. There sat two women, one young and one old. At first glance, you might think they were maids waiting for their mistresses, but if you looked closer, you could see they were no ordinary servants. They had noble features, smooth skin, and striking clothes. They were fairies. The younger one wasn't Lady Fortune herself, but one of her helpers, who handed out small bits of good luck. The other looked very gloomy—it was Care. She always took care of her own serious business, so she could be sure it was done properly.

They were telling each other, in a secret conversation, where they had been that day. The messenger of Fortune had done only a few unimportant things, like saving a new bonnet from rain, but she still had an unusual task ahead of her. "I must tell you," she said, "today is my birthday, and to celebrate, I've been given a pair of walking shoes—galoshes—to bring to people. These shoes can take whoever wears them to the place or time they most wish to be. Every wish about time, place, or state of being will come true right away, and then everyone will be happy here on Earth." "Do you really believe that?" Care replied in a strict, scolding tone. "No. They will become very unhappy, and they will be glad when they finally get rid of those terrible shoes." "Nonsense!" said the other fairy angrily. "I'll put them here by the door. Someone will surely take the wrong ones by mistake—and they will be a happy person." That was their conversation.

IIWhat Happened to the Councillor
It was late. Councillor Knap, still thinking about the time of King Hans, wanted to go home. But bad luck made him put his feet into Fortune's galoshes instead of his own. Wearing them, he walked out of the brightly lit rooms into East Street. The magic of the shoes took him back to the time of King Hans. His foot sank into the mud and puddles of the street because Copenhagen didn't have paved roads back then.
"Oh, this is terrible! How dirty it is!" sighed the Councillor. "I can't find any pavement, and all the lamps seem to be asleep."
The moon wasn't very high yet, and it was foggy, so everything looked jumbled in the dark. At the next corner hung a votive lamp in front of a statue of Mary. But the light was so dim he didn't see it until he was right under it, and his eyes fell on the bright colors of the picture, which showed Mary and the baby Jesus.
"That's probably a wax museum," he thought. "Maybe they haven't taken down the sign because they're waiting for a few more visitors."
A few people in old-fashioned clothes from King Hans's time walked quickly past him.
"How strange they look! They must be coming from a costume party!"

Suddenly, drums and fifes sounded. A bright fire blazed up from time to time, and its red glow fought with the bluish light of the torches. The Councillor stopped and watched a very strange procession go by. First came a dozen drummers who knew how to handle their instruments. Then came soldiers with halberds and crossbows. The main person in the procession was a priest. The Councillor was amazed and asked what this show was about and who that man was.

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

"Good heavens! What's gotten into the Bishop?" sighed the Councillor, shaking his head. It certainly couldn't be the Bishop, even though everyone said he was the most absent-minded man in the kingdom and told funny stories about him. Thinking about this, not looking left or right, the Councillor walked through East Street and across Habro-Platz. The bridge to Palace Square was gone. He could hardly believe his eyes when he found a shallow stream and two men rocking back and forth in a boat.

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

"Cross to the Holme?" said the Councillor, who didn't know what time he was in. "No, I'm going to Christianshafen, Little Market Street."

Both men stared at him in surprise.

"Please tell me where the bridge is," he said. "It's unforgivable that there are no lamps here, and it's so dirty you'd think you were wading through a swamp."

The more he talked to the boatmen, the less he understood their language.

"I don't understand your Bornholm dialect," he finally said angrily, and turned his back on them. He couldn't find the bridge. There was no railway either. "It's disgraceful how bad this place is," he muttered to himself. He was always complaining about his own time, but now it seemed worse than ever. "I'll take a cab!" he thought. But where were the cabs? Not one in sight.

"I must go back to the New Market. Hopefully, I'll find some coaches there; otherwise, I'll never get safely to Christianshafen."

So he headed back toward East Street. When he almost reached the end, the moon came out.

"God bless me! What is that wooden scaffolding they've put up?" he cried when he saw the East Gate, which in those days stood at the end of East Street.

But he found a small side door open. He went through it and stepped into what is now the New Market. It was a huge empty plain with a few wild bushes, and a wide canal or river flowed across the field. Some miserable huts for Dutch sailors, like big boxes, were scattered on the opposite bank. That's why the place was called the Dutchmen's Field.

"Either I'm seeing things, or I'm drunk," whimpered the Councillor. "But what is this?"

He turned around again, now sure he was very ill. He stared at the street that used to be so familiar, now so strange. The houses were mostly made of wood, poorly built, and many had thatched roofs.

"No, I'm really sick," he sighed. "And I only had one glass of punch. But it was wrong of them to serve punch and hot salmon for supper. I'll complain about it at the first opportunity. I feel like going back and telling them how I feel. But no, that would be silly. And only heaven knows if they're still awake."

He looked for the house, but it was gone.

"This is awful," he groaned, more and more worried. "I can't recognize East Street at all. There isn't a single decent shop from one end to the other. I only see miserable huts, like I'm in Ringstead. Oh, I'm sick! I can barely stand. Where can the house be? It must be right here, but nothing looks the same. Everything has changed tonight! At least some people are up and about. Oh, I'm definitely very ill."

He came across a half-open door with a faint light shining through it. It was a tavern from those times, a kind of pub. The room looked like a clay-floored hall in Holstein. A fairly large group of people—sailors, Copenhagen citizens, and a few scholars—sat deep in conversation over their pewter mugs. They barely noticed the man who entered.

"Excuse me," said the Councillor to the landlady, who came bustling toward him. "I've suddenly felt very strange. Could you please send for a cab to take me to Christianshafen?"

The woman stared at him in surprise and shook her head. Then she spoke to him in German. The Councillor thought she didn't understand Danish, so he repeated his request in German. Because of his clothes, she now thought he was a foreigner. She could see he was sick, so she brought him a pitcher of water. It tasted quite salty, even though it was from the well.

The Councillor rested his head on his hand, took a deep breath, and thought about everything strange around him.

"Is this tonight's newspaper?" he asked automatically as the landlady pushed aside a large sheet of paper.

She didn't understand his question, but she handed him the paper without answering. It was a rough woodcut showing a bright meteor "as seen in the town of Cologne," with the words below in big letters.

"That's very old!" said the Councillor, who started to feel a bit better looking at this old thing. "Where did you get this rare print? It's very interesting, even though it's a fairy tale. Such meteors can be explained as reflections of the northern lights, probably caused by electricity."

The people sitting closest stared at him in wonder. One of them stood up, took off his hat respectfully, and said with a serious face, "You must be a very learned man, sir."

"Oh, no," answered the Councillor. "I can only join conversations on different topics, as one must these days."

"Modesty is a fine virtue," continued the gentleman. "But about what you said, I must say I think otherwise. Still, I will suspend my judgment."

"May I ask who I have the pleasure of speaking with?" asked the Councillor.

"I am a Bachelor of Theology," answered the man with a stiff bow.

This answer satisfied the Councillor. The title matched the clothes. "He's probably a village schoolmaster or some old fellow you still meet in Jutland," he thought.

"This is not a place for teaching," began the clergyman, "but I beg you to let us learn from your wisdom. You have certainly read many ancient works?"

"Oh, yes, I've read a few," replied the Councillor. "I like reading useful books, but I don't despise modern ones. I just can't stand those unfortunate 'Everyday Life Stories.' We have more than enough of that in reality."

"'Everyday Life Stories'?" asked the scholar.

"I mean those new-fashioned novels that crawl in the dust of common life and still expect to be read."

"Oh," said the clergyman, smiling, "there's much wit in them. They're even read at court. The king particularly likes the story of Sir Iffven and Sir Gaudian, about King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. He has joked about it with his nobles."

"I haven't read that novel," said the Councillor. "It must be a new one, recently published by Heiberg."

"No," answered the theologian from King Hans's time, "that book was not written by a Heiberg. It was printed by Godfrey von Gehmen."

"Oh, is that the author's name?" said the Councillor. "That's a very old name. If I remember right, he was the first printer in Denmark."

"Yes, he is our first printer," replied the clergyman quickly.

So far, everything went well. One of the worthy citizens mentioned the terrible plague that had struck the country a few years back, meaning the plague of 1484. The Councillor thought they meant the cholera that people were so worried about, so the conversation went smoothly. The war of the pirates in 1490 was so recent that it had to come up. The English pirates, they said, had shamefully taken their ships while they were in the harbor. The Councillor, who still vividly remembered the events of 1801, agreed completely and joined in cursing the rascally English. But other topics didn't go as well. Every moment brought new confusion, threatening to turn the talk into total chaos. The good Bachelor was much too ignorant, and the Councillor's simplest remarks seemed too bold and strange to him. They stared at each other from head to toe.

When things got too heated, the Bachelor spoke Latin, hoping to be better understood—but it didn't help.

"What's going on?" asked the landlady, pulling the Councillor's sleeve. Then he remembered everything, because during the conversation he had forgotten what had happened before.

"Dear God, where am I!" he shouted in pain. As he thought this, all his dizzy feelings, which he tried to fight with all his strength, came back even stronger.

"Let's drink claret and mead and Bremen beer!" shouted one of the guests. "And you will drink with us!" Two young women came forward. One wore a cap with two bright colors, showing what kind of person she was. They poured the drinks and made friendly gestures, while cold sweat trickled down the poor Councillor's back. "How will this end? What will become of me?" he groaned. But even though he didn't want to, he had to drink with the others. They grabbed the good man, and when he heard everyone say he was drunk, he believed it. He begged the ladies and gentlemen to get him a cab, but they thought he was speaking Russian. Never before had he been in such a rude and ignorant group. It was almost as if they had turned into pagans again. "This is the worst moment of my life. The whole world is against me!" Suddenly, he thought he could duck under the table and crawl out the door unseen. He did that, but just as he was about to leave, the others noticed. They grabbed his legs. And luckily, at that moment his fatal shoes fell off—and the magic ended. The Councillor saw a lantern burning clearly in front of him, and behind it a big, handsome house. Everything looked normal again. It was East Street, beautiful and elegant as we know it today. He was lying with his feet toward a doorway, and right across from him sat the watchman, asleep. "Good heavens!" he said. "Have I been lying here in the street dreaming? Yes, it's East Street! How bright and beautiful it is! But that one glass of punch must have had a terrible effect on me!" Two minutes later, he was sitting in a cab driving to Frederickshafen. He thought about the fear and pain he had endured, and from the bottom of his heart, he praised the happy reality of his own time. For all its flaws, it was so much better than the time he had just been forced to visit.

IIIThe Watchman's Adventure
"Well, there's a pair of galoshes, as sure as I live!" said the watchman, waking from a light nap. "They must belong to the lieutenant who lives across the way. They're lying right by the door."

The good man thought about ringing the bell and returning them, since there was still a light in the window. But he didn't want to disturb other people in their beds, so he sensibly left them alone.

"Such shoes must be very warm and comfortable," he said. "The leather is so soft and supple." They fit his feet as if made for him. "It's a strange world," he continued, talking to himself. "There's the lieutenant, who could go to bed quietly if he wanted, and stretch out comfortably. But does he do it? No, he walks up and down his room, probably because he had too much good food at dinner. He's lucky! He doesn't have a sick mother or a whole bunch of ever-hungry children to torment him. Every evening he goes to a party where he gets a nice dinner for free. I wish I could change places with him! How happy I would be!"

As he said this, the magic of the shoes, which he had put on, began to work. The watchman turned into the lieutenant. He stood in a beautifully furnished room, holding a small sheet of pink paper with some verses on it, written by the officer himself. (Who hasn't had a poetic moment at least once in their life? And if you write down your thoughts, that's poetry.) Here is what was written:

OH, WERE I RICH!

"Oh, were I rich! Such was my wish, yea such When hardly three feet high, I longed for much. Oh, were I rich! an officer were I, With sword, and uniform, and plume so high. And the time came, and officer was I! But yet I grew not rich. Alas, poor me! Have pity, Thou, who all man's wants dost see.

"I sat one evening sunk in dreams of bliss, A maid of seven years old gave me a kiss, I at that time was rich in poesy And tales of old, though poor as poor could be; But all she asked for was this poesy. Then was I rich, but not in gold, poor me! As Thou dost know, who all men's hearts canst see.

"Oh, were I rich! Oft asked I for this boon. The child grew up to womanhood full soon. She is so pretty, clever, and so kind Oh, did she know what's hidden in my mind-- A tale of old. Would she to me were kind! But I'm condemned to silence! oh, poor me! As Thou dost know, who all men's hearts canst see.

"Oh, were I rich in calm and peace of mind, My grief you then would not here written find! O thou, to whom I do my heart devote, Oh read this page of glad days now remote, A dark, dark tale, which I tonight devote! Dark is the future now. Alas, poor me! Have pity Thou, who all men's pains dost see."

That's the kind of poem people write when they're in love. But no sensible person would ever think of printing it. The true sorrows of life, full of real poetry, came out here: not just abstract grief, but actual misery and need—the kind of hunger that makes you grab at a fallen leaf if you can't reach the fruit. The higher your position, the greater your suffering. Daily needs are like a stagnant pool where no beautiful picture reflects. The lieutenant, love, and lack of money—that was his fate. He felt it deeply, and that's why he leaned his head against the window and sighed.

"The poor watchman out there in the street is so much happier than me. He doesn't know what I call poverty. He has a home, a wife, and children who cry with him and laugh with him. Oh, I would be so much happier if I could change places with him—share his wishes and hopes and walk the weary road of life! He is a hundred times happier than I!"

In that moment, the watchman was a watchman again. The shoes had made him change into the officer, feeling the officer's thoughts and feelings. But as we just saw, he was less happy in that new situation, and now he wanted what he had rejected just minutes ago. So the watchman was a watchman again.

"That was an unpleasant dream," he said. "But it was funny enough. I imagined I was the lieutenant over there. I didn't like it much, though. I missed my good old mother and the dear little ones, who almost tear me apart with love."

He sat down again and nodded off. The dream continued because he still had the shoes on. A shooting star lit up the dark sky.

"There goes another star," he said. "But what does it matter? There are plenty left. I wouldn't mind looking at those twinkling things a bit closer, especially the moon—that wouldn't slip through your fingers so easily. When we die, at least according to the student who does my wife's washing, we'll fly about as light as a feather from one star to another. That's probably not true, but it would be nice. If I could just take a leap up there, my body could stay here on the steps for all I care."

You see, there are some things you should never say without being very careful. And you have to be doubly careful when you have the Shoes of Fortune on your feet. Now listen to what happened to the watchman.

We all know how fast steam can travel, whether by train or boat. But even that is slow compared to light. Light flies nineteen million times faster than the best racehorse. And electricity is even quicker. Death is an electric shock that our heart receives, and the freed soul flies upward on the wings of electricity. The sun's light takes eight minutes and some seconds to travel more than twenty million Danish miles. The soul, carried by electricity, takes even less time to cover the same distance. For the soul, the space between stars is no bigger than the distance between our friends' houses in town, even if they live a short way apart. But that electric shock in the heart costs us our body here on Earth—unless, like the watchman of East Street, we happen to have the Shoes of Fortune on our feet.

In a few seconds, the watchman had traveled the fifty-two thousand miles up to the moon. The moon, as everyone knows, is made of lighter stuff than our Earth—as soft as fresh snow. He found himself on one of the mountain ridges shown in Dr. Madler's "Map of the Moon." Below him was a deep crater, about a Danish mile deep. At the bottom lay a town that looked like egg white beaten in a glass of water. The buildings were made of that soft material, with transparent towers, domes, and pillars swaying in the thin air. Above his head, the Earth rolled like a big fiery ball.

He soon saw many beings that we would call "people," but they looked different from us. A much more correct imagination than the one in the fake Herschel book had created them. "* They had a language too, but surely no one expects the watchman's soul to understand it. But it did understand, because in our souls lie hidden powers greater than we poor mortals realize. Our soul, the queen of enchantment, shows amazing talent in our dreams. In dreams, everyone you know appears on stage, perfectly in character, with the same voice—something you can't imitate when awake. The soul can bring back people you haven't thought of for years, exactly as they were, down to the finest details, and make them heroes in your dream world. In reality, such memories can be unpleasant. Every sin and evil thought can come back like a clock with an alarm. Then you ask yourself if you can account for every wrong word in your heart and on your lips.

* This refers to a book published some years ago in Germany, said to be by Herschel, describing the moon and its inhabitants so convincingly that many were fooled. It was probably a translation of the famous Moon hoax written by Richard A. Locke, originally published in New York.

The watchman's spirit understood the moon people's language well. The Selenites (moon dwellers) were arguing about Earth. They doubted it could be inhabited, saying the air was too thick for any rational being to breathe freely. They believed only the moon was inhabited—the real heart of the universe, where true world citizens lived. Strange things people—or rather, Selenites—sometimes think!

They talked a lot about politics. But little Denmark had better be careful not to upset the moon, that great realm that could, in a bad mood, send a hailstorm or make the Baltic flood its banks.

So we won't listen to what was said. We definitely won't repeat any gossip. Instead, like good, quiet citizens, we'll go back to East Street and see what happened to the watchman's body.

He sat lifeless on the steps. His "morning star"—that is, the heavy wooden club with iron spikes, which had nothing in common with the star in the sky save the name—had slipped from his hand. His eyes stared glassily at the moon, looking for the good old spirit that was still up there. "What time is it, watchman?" asked a passerby. When the watchman didn't answer, the merry fellow, who was coming home from a noisy drinking party, decided to tweak his nose. The supposed sleeper lost his balance, and his body lay stretched out motionless on the pavement. The man was dead. When the patrol came, all his comrades, who had no idea what had happened, were terrified. He was dead, and he stayed dead. The proper authorities were informed, people talked about it, and in the morning, the body was taken to the hospital. Now that would be quite a joke if the spirit, when it came back and looked for its body on East Street, couldn't find it. No doubt it would, in a panic, run to the police and then to the lost-and-found to offer a reward, and finally to the hospital. But we can safely say that the soul is smartest when it shakes off every chain—the body just makes it stupid. The seemingly dead body of the watchman, as we said, went to the hospital. It was brought into the viewing room. The first thing they did was pull off the galoshes. Then the spirit, which had just been on an adventure, must have shot back like lightning to its earthly body. It headed straight for the body, and a few seconds later, the man showed signs of life. He declared that the previous night had been the worst fate had ever dealt him. He wouldn't go through that moon-struck suffering again for two silver marks. But now it was over. That same day, he was discharged from the hospital as perfectly cured. The Shoes, however, stayed behind.

IVA Moment of Head Importance—An Evening's "Dramatic Readings"—A Most Strange Journey
Everyone who lives in Copenhagen knows what the entrance to Frederik's Hospital looks like. But since others who aren't from Copenhagen might also read this story, we'll give a short description here.

The big building is separated from the street by a fairly high railing. The iron bars are so far apart that, seriously, it's said some very thin fellow has squeezed through at night to visit friends in town. The hardest part to get through in such cases is the head. As happens so often, long-headed people get through easiest. So much for the introduction.

One of the young men, whose head (physically speaking) was quite thick, was on watch that evening. It was pouring rain. Despite the rain and his thick head, he had to go out for at least a quarter of an hour. He thought he didn't need to tell the doorman if he could slip through the bars unharmed. On the floor lay the galoshes the watchman had forgotten. The young man never dreamed they were Fortune's Shoes, but they looked useful in the wet, so he put them on. Now the question was whether he could squeeze through the grating. He had never tried before. So there he stood.

"If only I could get my head through!" he said without thinking. And in it slipped, easily and painlessly, even though it was quite large and thick. But now he had to get the rest of his body through!

"Alas, I'm too fat!" he groaned aloud, stuck as if in a vice. "I thought the head would be the hardest part. Oh! I can't squeeze through!"

Now he wanted to pull his hasty head back, but he couldn't. His neck had enough room, but nothing else. At first he was angry; then his spirits sank to zero. The Shoes of Fortune had put him in a terrible situation. Unfortunately, it didn't occur to him to wish himself free. The pitch-black clouds poured down even heavier rain. Not a soul was in the street. He didn't want to ring the bell; calling for help wouldn't do much good, and he'd be ashamed to be caught like a foolish fox. How could he twist himself out? He saw clearly that it was his fate to stay trapped until dawn, or perhaps late in the morning. Then they'd have to fetch a smith to file away the bars. But that wouldn't happen as fast as he could think about it. The whole charity school across the street would be in motion; all the new booths with their rough sailors would join out of curiosity and greet him with a wild cheer while he stood in the stockade.

There would be a mob—hissing, shouting, and jeering, ten times worse than the anti-Jewish riots a few years ago. "Oh, my blood is rushing to my brain! It's enough to drive me mad! I'll go wild! I don't know what to do! If only I were free, my dizziness would stop! Oh, if only my head were loose!"

You see, he should have said that sooner. The moment he wished it, his head was free. Cured of all his lovesick fits, he rushed to his room, where the fright the Shoes had given him didn't fade quickly.

But don't think the story is over. It gets much worse.

The night passed, and the next day too. No one came to claim the Shoes.

In the evening, there were "Dramatic Readings" at the little theater in King Street. The house was packed. Among the pieces to be recited was a new poem by H. C. Andersen called "My Aunt's Spectacles." The poem was about a boy whose aunt was good at fortune-telling with cards and had a pair of magic spectacles. The boy begged for them and, using them in a theater, could see into people's futures. He described what he saw in a funny, gentle way.

The poem was wonderfully recited and applauded. In the audience was the young man from the hospital, who seemed to have forgotten his adventure the night before. He still had the Shoes on, since no owner had claimed them. Besides, it was so muddy outside, they were perfect.

He praised the poem generously, even finding the idea original. But he thought the ending was weak, like a river that fizzles out, and that showed the author's lack of imagination. He wished he had such a pair of spectacles himself. Then he could look into people's hearts, which would be much more interesting than just seeing the future. "I can imagine the whole row of ladies and gentlemen in the front row," he said to himself. "If I could see into their hearts—what a revelation! A sort of bazaar! In that oddly dressed lady, I'd find a big millinery shop. In that one, the shop is empty but needs cleaning. But there would also be fine, stately shops. " he sighed. "I know one where everything is stately, but a fresh young shopman sits there, which is the only problem. Everything else is splendid. You'd hear, 'Walk in, gentlemen, pray walk in; you'll find whatever you want.'

Oh, I wish I could walk in and travel through the hearts of everyone here!"

That was the cue for the Shoes of Fortune. The whole man shrank, and a most unusual journey through the hearts of the front row began. The first heart he entered belonged to a middle-aged lady. He thought he was in a clinic for crooked and deformed people, where plaster casts of misshapen limbs hung on the wall. But here, the casts were kept in the heart even after the healthy people left. They were casts of female friends with physical or mental flaws, faithfully preserved.

Like a snake, he slithered into another woman's heart. This one seemed like a great temple. The white dove of innocence fluttered over the altar. He would have gladly knelt, but he had to move on to the next heart. Still, he heard the organ peal, and he felt like a newer, better man. He felt unworthy to tread the neighboring sanctuary—a poor attic with a sick, bedridden mother. But God's warm sun streamed through the open window, lovely roses nodded from wooden flower boxes on the roof, and two sky-blue birds sang joyfully while the sick mother prayed for God's richest blessings on her pious daughter.

Now he crept on hands and feet through a butcher's shop, where everything was flesh. It was the heart of a very rich, respectable man, whose name would surely be in the directory.

Then he was in the heart of that man's wife. It was an old, decrepit dovecote. The husband's portrait was used as a weathercock, connected to the doors so they opened and shut whenever the stern husband turned around.

Next, he wandered into a boudoir made entirely of mirrors, like one in Rosenborg Castle, but here the mirrors made everything huge. On the floor, in the middle, sat the insignificant "self" of the person, like a Dalai Lama, amazed at his own greatness. Then he seemed to be in a needle case full of sharp needles of all sizes.

"This must be an old maid's heart," he thought. But he was wrong. It was the heart of a young military man, a man of talent and feeling.

Very confused, he came out of the last heart. He couldn't sort his thoughts and thought his lively imagination had run away with him.

"Good heavens!" he sighed. "I'm going mad! It's terribly hot here. My blood is boiling, and my head is burning like a coal." He remembered the important event of the previous evening, when his head got stuck in the hospital railings. "That's it, no doubt," he said. "I must do something in time. Under these circumstances, a Russian steam bath might help. I only wish I were already on the top bench."* And there he lay on the top bench in the steam bath, fully dressed, with his boots and galoshes on, while hot drops fell scalding from the ceiling onto his face.

* In Russian steam baths, you lie on a bench and, as you get used to the heat, move to a higher bench closer to the ceiling, where it's hotter. That way you go up gradually.

"Hey!" he yelled, jumping down. The bath attendant screamed in surprise at a fully dressed man in the bath.

But the young man kept his wits and whispered, "It's a bet, and I won!" The first thing he did when he got home was to have a large blister plaster put on his chest and back to draw out his madness.

The next morning, he had a sore chest and a bleeding back. Apart from the fright, that was all he got from the Shoes of Fortune.

V. Metamorphosis of the Copying Clerk

The watchman, whom we haven't forgotten, thought about the galoshes he had found and taken to the hospital. He went to get them. Since neither the lieutenant nor anyone else claimed them, they were brought to the police station.*

* In many European countries, everything in law and police work is written down, even small things. So there are many copying clerks.

"Why, these shoes look just like mine!" said one of the clerks, eyeing the newly found treasure. Even he, sharp as he was, didn't discover its hidden powers. "You'd need more than a shoemaker's eye to tell them apart," he said to himself, putting the galoshes next to his own in the corner.

"Here, sir!" said a man, panting as he brought a huge pile of papers.

The copying clerk turned and spoke with the man about the reports and legal documents. When he finished and looked at the shoes again, he couldn't tell which pair was his. "At least the wet ones must be the ones I wore," he thought. But he guessed wrong, because Fate's Shoes had practically fallen into his hands—or onto his feet. And why, I ask, are the police never supposed to be wrong? So he put them on quickly, stuffed his papers in his pocket, and took a few under his arm to read at home and make notes. It was noon. The weather, which had threatened rain, began to clear up, and people in holiday clothes filled the streets. "A little trip to Frederiksberg wouldn't hurt," he thought. "I, poor beast of burden, have so many annoyances that I don't know what a good appetite is. It's a bitter crust I'm forced to gnaw."

No one could be steadier or quieter than this young man. We wish him a good trip with all our hearts—it will surely help someone who leads such a sedentary life. In the park, he met a friend, a young poet, who told him he was finally going on a long-planned trip.

"So you're leaving again!" said the clerk. "You're a free, happy being. We others are chained to our desks."

"Yes, but that chain gives you the blessed bread of life," answered the poet. "You don't have to worry about tomorrow. When you're old, you get a pension."

"True," said the clerk, shrugging. "But you're better off. Sitting at ease and writing poetry—that's a pleasure. Everyone says nice things to you, and you're your own master. No, friend, you should try sitting year after year dealing with trivial matters."

The poet shook his head, the copying clerk did the same. Each stuck to his opinion, and they parted.

"Those poets are a strange breed!" said the clerk, who liked talking to himself. "I'd like to try being a poet myself one day. I'm sure I wouldn't write such miserable verses as others. Today seems perfect for a poet. Nature looks as if it's waking up. The air is so clear, the clouds sail by so lightly, and the green grass smells so sweet. I haven't felt like this in years."

We already see from his thoughts that he has become a poet, but it would be silly to say poets are different from others. Many ordinary people have more poetic natures than some recognized poets. The only difference is that a poet has a better mental memory; he can hold onto feelings and thoughts until he writes them down. Others can't. Changing from an ordinary person to a richly gifted one is always a leap over a deep dark chasm. So the sudden change in the clerk might surprise us.

" continued the police clerk in his dreamy thoughts. "It reminds me of the violets in my aunt Magdalena's garden. Yes, I was a wild little boy who didn't go to school regularly. Oh, it's been a long time since I thought about those days. The good old woman! She lived behind the Exchange. She always had twigs or green shoots in water, no matter how harsh the winter. The violets gave off their sweet smell while I pressed a heated coin against the frost-covered windowpanes to make peepholes. What wonderful views! What change! What splendor! Out in the canal, the ships were frozen in, deserted by their crews, with only a screaming crow on board. But when spring came, life began anew. With songs and cheers, we sawed the ice, tarred and rigged the ships, and they sailed away to distant lands. But I stayed here—I always have to stay here, sitting at my desk, watching others get passports to go abroad. That's my fate! Alas!"

He sighed and was silent again. "Great heavens! What is happening to me? I've never thought or felt like this before! It must be the summer air, making me feel both uneasy and refreshed."

He felt in his pocket for the papers. "These police reports will stop my wild thoughts and keep my official duties in check," he said to himself, looking at the first page. "'Dame Tigbrith, a tragedy in five acts.' What's this? It's my own handwriting! Did I write a tragedy? Amazing! And this—'Intrigue on the Ramparts; or, The Day of Repentance: a vaudeville with new songs to favorite tunes.' The devil! Where did all this nonsense come from? Someone must have slipped it into my pocket as a joke. There's also a letter to me—crumpled, with a broken seal."

Yes, it was a rather rude letter from the theater manager, flatly rejecting both plays.

"Hm," said the clerk breathlessly, sinking onto a bench. His thoughts were so lively, his heart so soft. He picked a nearby flower—a simple daisy, just opening. What a botanist might tell in many lectures, the flower told in a moment. It told the myth of its birth, of the sun spreading its delicate leaves and filling the air with scent. Then he thought about the struggles of life that awaken the budding flowers of feeling in our hearts. Light and air compete for the love of a beautiful flower. The flower longs for the light, and when it disappears, the flower rolls up its leaves and sleeps in the air's embrace.

"The light adorns me," said the flower.

"But the air lets you breathe," said the poet's voice.

Nearby, a boy hit a wet ditch with his stick. Drops of water splashed up to the green leaves, and the clerk thought of the millions of tiny insects that were thrown up as high, for their size, as we would be thrown above the clouds. Thinking about this and his own transformation, he smiled and said, "I'm sleeping and dreaming. But it's amazing how naturally you can dream and know it's a dream. If only I could remember it all so clearly when I wake up tomorrow! I feel unusually happy, clear-headed, light and cheerful, as if I were in heaven. But I know that tomorrow it will seem like stupid nonsense. I've experienced that before, especially before I joined the police. The police blow away all fanciful visions like a whirlwind. Everything we hear or say that's beautiful in a dream is like the gold of underground spirits—rich and splendid when given, but in daylight only dry leaves."

He sighed sadly and looked at the chirping birds hopping from branch to branch. "They are much better off than I! Flying must be a heavenly skill. I'd love to be a happy lark!"

No sooner had he said those rash words than his coat sleeves and tails folded into wings. His clothes became feathers, and the galoshes became claws. He saw it clearly and laughed to himself. "Now there's no doubt I'm dreaming, but I've never had such crazy tricks before!" He flew up into the green canopy and sang, but there was no poetry in his song, for the poet's spirit was gone. The Shoes, which do only one thing at a time, had turned him into a poet and then into a bird. When he became a bird, his previous traits vanished. "This is really quite pleasant," he said. "All day I sit in the office among dry legal papers, and at night I fly in my dream as a lark in the gardens of Frederiksberg. I could write a nice comedy about it!"

He fluttered down into the grass, turned his head gracefully, and pecked at the flexible grass blades, which seemed as grand as palm branches in North Africa compared to his tiny size.

But the fun didn't last. Suddenly, darkness fell over the enthusiast who had missed his calling as a copying clerk. A large object seemed to cover him. It was a big oilskin cap that a sailor boy had thrown over the struggling bird. A rough hand reached under the brim and seized the clerk by the back and wings. In his first panic, he shouted as loud as he could, "You impudent little blackguard! I'm a copying clerk at the police station! You know you can't insult a police official without punishment! Besides, you good-for-nothing rascal, it's strictly forbidden to catch birds in the royal gardens of Frederiksberg! Your blue uniform gives you away!"

But to the wicked sailor boy, this fine speech sounded like mere "Pippi-pi." He knocked the noisy bird on the beak and walked on.

Soon, two schoolboys from the upper class—at least in person, but in learning they were at the bottom—met him and bought the stupid bird. So the copying clerk came to Copenhagen as a guest, or rather a prisoner, in a family living on Gother Street.

"Good thing I'm dreaming," said the clerk, "or I'd really be angry. First a poet, now sold for a few pennies as a lark! It must be that cursed poetic nature that turned me into such a poor harmless creature. It's pitiful, especially when you fall into the hands of a little rascal who's cruel to animals. I wonder how this story will end."

The two boys, now owners of the transformed clerk, carried him into an elegant room. A stout, stately lady greeted them with a smile, but she was very unhappy that a common field bird, as she called the lark, should appear in such fine company. But for today, she would allow it. They had to shut him in the empty cage by the window. "Perhaps he'll amuse my good Polly," added the lady, looking kindly at a large green parrot swinging comfortably on his ring inside a fancy brass-wired cage. "Today is Polly's birthday," she said with stupid simplicity, "and the little brown field bird must wish him joy."

Mr. Polly said nothing but swung back and forth, dignified. Meanwhile, a pretty gold-yellow canary, recently brought from its sunny fragrant home, began to sing loudly.

"Noisy creature! Be quiet!" screamed the lady, covering the cage with an embroidered white handkerchief.

"Chirp, chirp!" sighed the canary. "That was a terrible snowstorm." He sighed again and fell silent.

The copying clerk—or, as the lady called him, the brown field bird—was put into a small cage next to the canary, not far from "my good Polly." The only human words the parrot could shout were, "Come, let us be men!" Everything else he said was as unintelligible as the canary's chirping, except to the clerk, who was now a bird too and understood his companions perfectly.

"I flew beneath the green palms and blossoming almond trees," sang the canary. "I flew with my brothers and sisters over beautiful flowers and glassy lakes, where bright water plants nodded up at me. I saw many splendidly dressed parrots who told the funniest stories and endless wild fairy tales."

"Oh, those were uncouth birds," answered the parrot. "They had no education and talked of whatever came into their heads. If my mistress and all her friends can laugh at what I say, so should you. It's a great fault to have no taste for wit or fun. Come, let us be men."

"Ah, you don't remember the love for the charming maidens who danced beneath the tents beside the fragrant flowers? Don't you recall the sweet fruits and cool juice from the wild plants of our never-to-be-forgotten home?" continued the canary from the Canary Islands.

"Oh, yes," said the parrot. "But I'm much better off here. I'm well fed and treated kindly. I know I'm clever, and that's all I care about. Come, let us be men. You have a poetic nature, as they call it. I have deep knowledge and endless wit. You have genius, but clear, calm common sense doesn't fly so high or make such loud noises. That's why they cover your cage—they never do that to me, because I cost more. Besides, they're afraid of my beak. I always have a witty answer ready. Come, let us be men!"

"O warm spicy land of my birth!" sang the canary. "I will sing of your dark green bowers, of calm bays where hanging branches kiss the water, of the joy of all my brothers and sisters where the cactus grows wild."

"Spare us your sad tunes," chuckled the parrot. "Speak of something that makes us laugh! Laughing is the surest sign of the highest intelligence. Can a dog or a horse laugh? No, but they can cry. The gift of laughter was given only to humans. Ha, ha, ha!" shrieked Polly, adding his usual joke: "Come, let us be men!"

"Poor little Danish grey bird," said the canary. "You've been caught too. It must be cold in your woods, but there at least you have freedom. Fly away! In the rush, they forgot to close your cage, and the top window is open. Fly, my friend, fly away! Farewell!"

Instinctively, the clerk obeyed. With a few wing strokes, he was out of the cage. But at the same moment, the door to the next room, which was only ajar, began to creak, and the big, sleek tomcat crept in and started chasing him. The frightened canary fluttered in its cage. The parrot flapped his wings and cried, "Come, let us be men!" The clerk felt deadly fear and flew out the window, far over houses and streets. At last, he had to rest. The neighboring house looked familiar. A window was open. He flew in—it was his own room. He landed on the table. "Come, let us be men!" he said, imitating the parrot without thinking. At once, he was a copying clerk again, but he was sitting on the table. "Heaven help me!" he cried. "How did I get up here, and so deeply asleep! That was a very unpleasant, nasty dream! The whole thing is just silly, stupid nonsense!"

VIThe Best That the Galoshes Gave
The next morning, while the clerk was still in bed, someone knocked on his door. It was his neighbor, a young theology student who lived on the same floor. He came in.
"Lend me your galoshes," he said. "It's so wet in the garden, though the sun is shining invitingly. I'd like to go out a bit."
He got the galoshes and soon was in a small, tiny garden where, between two huge walls, stood a plum tree and an apple tree. Even such a little garden was a great luxury in Copenhagen.
The young man walked back and forth on the narrow paths, as far as the limits allowed. The clock struck six. Outside, he heard the horn of a postman.
"To travel! To travel!" he exclaimed, overcome by painful, passionate memories. "That is the happiest thing in the world! The highest aim of all my wishes! Then at last the agonizing restlessness that destroys me would be calmed. But it must be far, far away! I want to see magnificent Switzerland; I want to travel to Italy, and—"

It was a good thing the power of the galoshes worked as instantly as lightning in a powder magazine, otherwise the poor man with his extreme wishes would have traveled around the world too much for himself and us. In short, he was traveling. He was in the middle of Switzerland, packed in a creaky carriage with eight other passengers. His head ached as if it would split. His tired neck could barely hold the heavy load, and his feet, pinched by his torturous boots, were badly swollen. He was half asleep, half awake, at odds with himself, his companions, the country, and the government. In his right pocket was his letter of credit; in the left, his passport. In a small leather purse, he had some gold coins carefully sewn into his waistcoat. Every dream told him that one of these valuables was lost, so he started up as if in a fever.

His first movement was to trace a magic triangle from the right pocket to the left and then to his chest, to feel if everything was safe. Inside the carriage, umbrellas, walking sticks, hats, and other things hung from the roof, blocking the view, which was otherwise impressive. He tried to shake his gloom, caused only by external circumstances, and to drink in the pure joy of nature.

The landscape was grand, solemn, and dark around him. The giant pine forests on the pointed crags looked like little tufts of heather colored by the clouds. It began to snow. A cold wind blew and roared as if looking for a bride.

"Ugh!" he sighed. "If only we were on the other side of the Alps! Then we would have summer, and I could cash my letter of credit. The anxiety I feel about it stops me from enjoying Switzerland. If only I were on the other side!"

As he said this, he was on the other side—in Italy, between Florence and Rome. Lake Trasimeno, lit by the evening sun, lay like flaming gold between dark blue mountain ridges. There, where Hannibal defeated Flaminius, the rivers now held each other in green embraces. Beautiful, half-naked children tended a herd of black pigs under a group of fragrant laurel trees by the roadside. If we could paint this wonderful picture, everyone would say, "Beautiful, matchless Italy!" But the young theology student didn't say that, nor did any of his grumbling companions in the coach.

The poisonous flies and gnats swarmed by the thousands. In vain, people waved myrtle branches like mad. The daring insects kept stinging. There wasn't a single person in the crowded carriage whose face wasn't swollen and sore from their bites. The poor horses, tortured almost to death, suffered most from this Egyptian plague. The flies settled on them in huge, disgusting swarms. If the coachman got down and scraped them off, in less than a minute they were back. The sun set. A freezing cold, though brief, spread over everything. It felt like a horrible gust from a burial vault on a warm summer day. But all around, the mountains had that wonderful green hue you see in old paintings. If you hadn't seen similar colors in the South, you would call it unnatural. It was a glorious sight, but the stomach was empty, the body tired. What the heart truly wanted was a good night's lodging. But what would that be like?

They worried about that more than all the beauties of nature.

The road led through an olive grove, where a solitary inn stood. Ten or twelve crippled beggars had camped outside. The healthiest among them looked, in the words of Marryat, like "Hunger's eldest son when he came of age." The others were blind, had withered legs and crept on their hands, or had withered arms and no fingers. It was the worst misery, dressed in the filthiest rags. "Excellenza, miserabili!" they sighed, thrusting out their deformed limbs. Even the landlady, barefoot, with uncombed hair and a dress of doubtful color, greeted the guests grumpily. The doors were fastened with a loop of string. The floor was stone, half torn up. Bats fluttered wildly around the ceiling. And the smell there—it was beyond words.

"Better to set the table down in the stable," said one of the travelers. "At least there you know what you're breathing."

The windows were quickly opened to let in fresh air. But even faster than the breeze, the withered, pale arms of the beggars came in, accompanied by the eternal whine: "Miserabili, miserabili, excellenza!" On the walls were countless inscriptions in nearly every European language—some in verse, some in prose—mostly not praising "bella Italia."

The meal was served: soup of salted water with pepper and rancid oil. The oil played a big part in the salad. Stale eggs and roasted cockscombs were the main dish. Even the wine had a disgusting taste, like medicine.

At night, the passengers put their boxes and belongings against the rickety doors. One kept watch while the others slept. The watchman was our young theology student. The room was so hot—the heat was suffocating. The gnats hummed and stung without stopping. The "miserabili" outside whined and moaned in their sleep.

"Traveling would be nice," he groaned, "if only one had no body, or could send it to rest while the spirit went on its pilgrimage wherever it wanted. Wherever I go, I'm chased by a restless longing I can't explain. It tears my heart. I want something better than what is, but it disappears in an instant. But what is it, and where can I find it? Yet I know what I really wish for. Oh, I would be so happy if I could reach one goal—if I could reach the happiest of all!"

As he spoke those words, he was home again. The long white curtains hung from the windows, and in the middle of the floor stood a black coffin. In it, he lay in the sleep of death. His wish was fulfilled—the body rested while the spirit went freely on its pilgrimage. "Let no one be called happy before his end," Solon said. And here was new, brilliant proof of that old wisdom.

Every corpse is a sphinx of immortality. Here, on the black coffin, the sphinx gave us no answer to what he had written two days before:

"O mighty Death! thy silence teaches nought, Thou leadest only to the near grave's brink; Is broken now the ladder of my thoughts? Do I instead of mounting only sink?

Our heaviest grief the world oft seeth not, Our sorest pain we hide from stranger eyes: And for the sufferer there is nothing left But the green mound that o'er the coffin lies."

Two figures moved in the room. We knew them both: the fairy of Care and the messenger of Fortune. They both bent over the corpse.

"Do you see now," said Care, "what happiness your Galoshes have brought people?"

"To him who sleeps here, they brought an eternal blessing," answered the other.

"Ah, no," replied Care. "He left on his own; he was not called away. His mental powers here on Earth were not strong enough to reach the treasures beyond this life, which fate had meant for him. I will now give him a benefit."

She took the Galoshes from his feet. His sleep of death ended, and he who had been called back to life rose from his dreadful bed, full of youthful strength. Care vanished, and with her the Galoshes. She has surely kept them for herself, to hold onto forevermore.

"I haven't read that novel," said the Councillor. "It must be a new one, recently published by Heiberg."

"The poor watchman out there in the street is so much happier than me. He doesn't know what I call poverty. He has a home, a wife, and children who cry with him and laugh with him. Oh, I would be so much happier if I

The seemingly dead body of the watchman, as we said, went to the hospital. It was brought into the viewing room. The first thing they did was pull off the galoshes. Then the spirit, which had just been on an adventure,

Now he crept on hands and feet through a butcher's shop, where everything was flesh. It was the heart of a very rich, respectable man, whose name would surely be in the directory.

He felt in his pocket for the papers. "These police reports will stop my wild thoughts and keep my official duties in check," he said to himself, looking at the first page. "'Dame Tigbrith, a tragedy in five acts.'

"Oh, those were uncouth birds," answered the parrot. "They had no education and talked of whatever came into their heads. If my mistress and all her friends can laugh at what I say, so should you. It's a great fault to

The poisonous flies and gnats swarmed by the thousands. In vain, people waved myrtle branches like mad. The daring insects kept stinging. There wasn't a single person in the crowded carriage whose face wasn't swollen