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Updated: May 10, 2025
She rose as she said this and looked towards the door. I pressed her to take a little whiskey, for she was still as cold as death and as white as the snow queen in Hans Andersen's tale, but she refused to let me give her any. "Take me home, please," she repeated. Her carriage was waiting a block away.
From this time on, Andersen's life was in the main happy, although he was so sensitive and so sentimental that he was constantly fancying grievances where none existed, and making himself miserable over imaginary snubs.
The real Princess of Hans Andersen's story, who passed a miserable night because there was a small bean concealed beneath the twenty eider- down beds on which she slept, might stand for a type of the aristocracy of feeling that took a pride in these ridiculous susceptibilities. The modern sentimentalist works in a coarser material.
"Oh, I don't know, but it is good to know there will be some to weave. Do you remember Andersen's story of the flax? I was thinking of it this morning as I pulled out some weeds, and how when it was pulled up and cut and hackled, it said: 'One cannot always have good times.
"No," I said gently. "It would have been the soldier's." For a moment she smiled back. Then she slipped an arm round my neck. "Let's call it Hans Andersen's," she whispered. A perfect Babel arose suddenly from the kitchen. In the midst of the turmoil I seemed to discern Berry's fat laugh. The next second a large key hurtled through the window. I picked it up and strode to the door.
Why, that was the King, boy!" I was never so astonished in my life and expect never to be again. I had only known kings from Hans Christian Andersen's story books, where they always went in coronation robes, with long train and pages, and with gold crowns on their heads. That a king could go around in a blue overcoat, like any other man, was a real shock to me that I didn't get over for a while.
It was about you wasn't that funny? And you seemed to be dressed as a mermaid no, I suppose it must have been a merman and you were trying to follow Michael up the rocks by walking on your tail; and it seemed to hurt you awfully. Of course I know what it all came from. Michael had wanted me to read Hans Andersen's fairy stories don't you think they're pretty?
It was not, however, any attraction which he found in Mother Andersen's parlour which made him spend so much of his time there; it was that he was afraid of his own temper at home.
Round the fire the soldiers lay stretched out sleeping, all except the subaltern, who sat with his head drooping over his knees. The tall thin man on Andersen's right raised the revolver and pulled the trigger. A momentary blinding flash, a deafening report. Andersen saw the guard lift his hands and then sit down on the ground clasping his bosom.
No doubt elderly females admonished him for neglecting his opportunities, and small wits buzzed about him as they have about many another under similar conditions. It was Hans Andersen's story of the ugly duck that proved to be a swan.
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