A STORY FROM THE SAND-HILLS

　　 1872

　　 FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

　　 A STORY FROM THE SAND-HILLS

　　 by Hans Christian Andersen

　　 THIS story is from the sand-dunes or sand-hills of Jutland, but it

　　 does not begin there in the North, but far away in the South, in Spain. The wide sea is the highroad from nation to nation; journey in thought; then, to sunny Spain. It is warm and beautiful there;

　　 the fiery pomegranate flowers peep from among dark laurels; a cool

　　 refreshing breeze from the mountains blows over the orange gardens,

　　 over the Moorish halls with their golden cupolas and coloured walls.

　　 Children go through the streets in procession with candles and

　　 waving banners, and the sky, lofty and clear with its glittering

　　 stars, rises above them. Sounds of singing and castanets can be heard, and youths and maidens dance upon the flowering acacia trees, while even the beggar sits upon a block of marble, refreshing himself with a juicy melon, and dreamily enjoying life. It all seems like a beautiful dream.

　　 Here dwelt a newly married couple who completely gave themselves

　　 up to the charm of life; indeed they possessed every good thing they

　　 could desire- health and happiness, riches and honour.

　　 We are as happy as human beings can be," said the young couple

　　 from the depths of their hearts. They had indeed only one step

　　 higher to mount on the ladder of happiness- they hoped that God

　　 would give them a child, a son like them in form and spirit. The happy

　　 little one was to be welcomed with rejoicing, to be cared for with

　　 love and tenderness, and enjoy every advantage of wealth and luxury

　　 that a rich and influential family can give. So the days went by

　　 like a joyousfestival.

　　 "Life is a gracious gift from God, almost too great a gift for

　　 us to appreciate!" said the young wife. "Yet they say that fulness

　　 of joy for ever and ever can only be found in the future life. I

　　 cannot realise it!"

　　 "The thought arises, perhaps, from the arrogance of men," said the

　　 husband. "It seems a great pride to believe that we shall live for

　　 ever, that we shall be as gods! Were not these the words of the

　　 serpent, the father of lies?"

　　 "Surely you do not doubt the existence of a future life?"

　　 exclaimed the young wife. It seemed as if one of the first shadows

　　 passed over her sunny thoughts.

　　 "Faith realises it, and the priests tell us so," replied her

　　 husband; "but amid all my happiness I feel that it is arrogant to

　　 demand a continuation of it- another life after this. Has not so

　　 much been given us in this world that we ought to be, we must be,

　　 contented with it?"

　　 "Yes, it has been given to us," said the young wife, "but this

　　 life is nothing more than one long scene of trial and hardship to many

　　 thousands. How many have been cast into this world only to endure

　　 poverty, shame, illness, and misfortune? If there were no future life,

　　 everything here would be too unequally divided, and God would not be the personification of justice."

　　 "The beggar there," said her husband, "has joys of his own which

　　 seem to him great, and cause him as much pleasure as a king would find in the magnificence of his palace. And then do you not think that

　　 the beast of burden, which suffers blows and hunger, and works

　　 itself to death, suffers just as much from its miserable fate? The

　　 dumb creature might demand a future life also, and declare the law

　　 unjust that excludes it from the advantages of the higher creation."

　　 "Christ said: 'In my father's house are many mansions,'" she

　　 answered. "Heaven is as boundless as the love of our Creator; the dumb animal is also His creature, and I firmly believe that no life will be lost, but each will receive as much happiness as he can enjoy, which will be sufficient for him."

　　 "This world is sufficient for me," said the husband, throwing

　　 his arm round his beautiful, sweet-tempered wife. He sat by her side

　　> on the open balcony, smoking a cigarette in the cool air, which was

　　 loaded with the sweet scent of carnations and orange blossoms.

　　 Sounds of music and the clatter of castanets came from the road

　　 beneath, the stars shone above then, and two eyes full of affection-

　　 those of his wife- looked upon him with the expression of undying

　　 love. "Such a moment," he said, "makes it worth while to be born, to

　　 die, and to be annihilated!" He smiled- the young wife raised her hand

　　 in gentle reproof, and the shadow passed away from her mind, and

　　 they were happy- quite happy.

　　 Everything seemed to work together for their good. They advanced

　　 in honour, in prosperity, and in happiness. A change came certainly,

　　 but it was only a change of place and not of circumstances.

　　 The young man was sent by his Sovereign as ambassador to the

　　 Russian Court. This was an office of high dignity, but his birth and

　　 his acquirements entitled him to the honour. He possessed a large

　　 fortune, and his wife had brought him wealth equal to his own, for she

　　 was the daughter of a rich and respected merchant. One of this

　　 merchant's largest and finest ships was to be sent that year to

　　 Stockholm, and it was arranged that the dear young couple, the

　　 daughter and the son-in-law, should travel in it to St. Petersburg.

　　 All the arrangements on board were princely and silk and luxury on

　　 every side.

　　 In an old war song, called "The King of England's Son," it says:

　　 "Farewell, he said, and sailed away.

　　 And many recollect that day.

　　 The ropes were of silk, the anchor of gold,

　　 And everywhere riches and wealth untold."

　　 These words would aptly describe the vessel from Spain, for here

　　 was the same luxury, and the same parting thought naturally arose:

　　 "God grant that we once more may meet

　　 In sweet unclouded peace and joy."

　　 There was a favourable wind blowing as they left the Spanish

　　 coast, and it would be but a short journey, for they hoped to reach

　　 their destination in a few weeks; but when they came out upon the wide ocean the wind dropped, the sea became smooth and shining, and the stars shone brightly. Many festive evenings were spent on board. At last the travellers began to wish for wind, for a favourable breeze; but their wish was useless- not a breath of air stirred, or if it

　　 did arise it was contrary. Weeks passed by in this way, two whole

　　 months, and then at length a fair wind blew from the south-west. The

　　 ship sailed on the high seas between Scotland and Jutland; then the

　　 wind increased, just as it did in the old song of "The King of

　　 England's Son."

　　 "'Mid storm and wind, and pelting hail,

　　 Their efforts were of no avail.

　　 The golden anchor forth they threw;

　　 Towards Denmark the west wind blew."

　　 This all happened a long time ago; King Christian VII, who sat

　　 on the Danish throne, was still a young man. Much has happened since then, much has altered or been changed. Sea and moorland have been turned into green meadows, stretches of heather have become arable land, and in the shelter of the peasant's cottages, apple-trees and rose-bushes grow, though they certainly require much care, as the sharp west wind blows upon them. In West Jutland one may go back in thought to old times, farther back than the days when Christian VII ruled. The purple heather still extends for miles, with its barrows and aerial spectacles, intersected with sandy uneven roads, just as it did then; towards the west, where broad streams run into the bays, are marshes and meadows encircled by lofty, sandy hills, which, like a chain of Alps, raise their pointed summits near the sea; they are only broken by high ridges of clay, from which the sea, year by year, bites out great mouthfuls, so that the overhanging banks fall down as if by the shock of an earthquake. Thus it is there today and thus it was long ago, when the happy pair were sailing in the beautiful ship.

　　 It was a Sunday, towards the end of September; the sun was

　　 shining, and the chiming of the church bells in the Bay of Nissum

　　 was carried along by the breeze like a chain of sounds. The churches

　　 there are almost entirely built of hewn blocks of stone, each like a

　　 piece of rock. The North Sea might foam over them and they would not be disturbed. Nearly all of them are without steeples, and the bells

　　 are hung outside between two beams. The service was over, and the

　　 congregation passed out into the churchyard, where not a tree or

　　 bush was to be seen; no flowers were planted there, and they had not

　　 placed a single wreath upon any of the graves. It is just the same

　　 now. Rough mounds show where the dead have been buried, and rank grass, tossed by the wind, grows thickly over the whole churchyard; here and there a grave has a sort of monument, a block of half-decayed wood, rudely cut in the shape of a coffin; the blocks are brought from the forest of West Jutland, but the forest is the sea itself, and the inhabitants find beams, and planks, and fragments which the waves have cast upon the beach. One of these blocks had been placed by loving hands on a child's grave, and one of the women who had come out of the church walked up to it; she stood there, her eyes resting on the weather-beaten memorial, and a few moments afterwards her husband joined her. They were both silent, but he took her hand, and they walked together across the purple heath, over moor and meadow towards the sandhills. For a long time they went on without speaking.

　　 "It was a good sermon to-day," the man said at last. "If we had

　　 not God to trust in, we should have nothing."

　　 "Yes," replied the woman, "He sends joy and sorrow, and He has a

　　 right to send them. To-morrow our little son would have been five

　　 years old if we had been permitted to keep him."

　　 "It is no use fretting, wife," said the man. "The boy is well

　　 provided for. He is where we hope and pray to go to."

　　 They said nothing more, but went out towards their houses among

　　 the sand-hills. All at once, in front of one of the houses where the

　　 sea grass did not keep the sand down with its twining roots, what

　　 seemed to be a column of smoke rose up. A gust of wind rushed

　　 between the hills, hurling the particles of sand high into the air;

　　 another gust, and the strings of fish hung up to dry flapped and

　　 beat violently against the walls of the cottage; then everything was

　　 quiet once more, and the sun shone with renewed heat.

　　 The man and his wife went into the cottage. They had soon taken

　　 off their Sunday clothes and come out again, hurrying over the dunes

　　 which stood there like great waves of sand suddenly arrested in

　　 their course, while the sandweeds and dune grass with its bluish

　　 stalks spread a changing colour over them. A few neighbours also

　　 came out, and helped each other to draw the boats higher up on the

　　 beach. The wind now blew more keenly, it was chilly and cold, and when they went back over the sand-hills, sand and little sharp stones

　　 blew into their faces. The waves rose high, crested with white foam,

　　 and the wind cut off their crests, scattering the foam far and wide.

　　 Evening came; there was a swelling roar in the air, a wailing or

　　 moaning like the voices of despairing spirits, that sounded above

　　 the thunder of the waves. The fisherman's little cottage was on the

　　 very margin, and the sand rattled against the window panes; every

　　 now and then a violent gust of wind shook the house to its foundation.

　　 It was dark, but about midnight the moon would rise. Later on the

　　 air became clearer, but the storm swept over the perturbed sea with

　　 undiminished fury; the fisher folks had long since gone to bed, but in

　　 such weather there was no chance of closing an eye. Presently there

　　 was a tapping at the window; the door was opened, and a voice said:

　　 "There's a large ship stranded on the farthest reef."

　　 In a moment the fisher people sprung from their beds and hastily

　　 dressed themselves. The moon had risen, and it was light enough to

　　 make the surrounding objects visible to those who could open their

　　 eyes in the blinding clouds of sand; the violence of the wind was

　　 terrible, and it was only possible to pass among the sand-hills if one

　　 crept forward between the gusts; the salt spray flew up from the sea

　　 like down, and the ocean foamed like a roaring cataract towards the

　　 beach. Only a practised eye could discern the vessel out in the

　　 offing; she was a fine brig, and the waves now lifted her over the

　　 reef, three or four cables' length out of the usual channel. She drove

　　 towards the shore, struck on the second reef, and remained fixed.

　　 It was impossible to render assistance; the sea rushed in upon the

　　 vessel, making a clean breach over her. Those on shore thought they

　　 heard cries for help from those on board, and could plainly

　　 distinguish the busy but useless efforts made by the stranded sailors.

　　 Now a wave came rolling onward. It fell with enormous force on the

　　 bowsprit, tearing it from the vessel, and the stern was lifted high

　　 above the water. Two people were seen to embrace and plunge together into the sea, and the next moment one of the largest waves that rolled towards the sand-hills threw a body on the beach. It was a woman; the sailors said that she was quite dead, but the women thought they saw signs of life in her, so the stranger was carried across the sand-hills to the fisherman's cottage. How beautiful and fair she was!

　　 She must be a great lady, they said.

　　 They laid her upon the humble bed; there was not a yard of linen

　　 on it, only a woollen coverlet to keep the occupant warm.

　　 Life returned to her, but she was delirious, and knew nothing of

　　 what had happened or where she was; and it was better so, for

　　 everything she loved and valued lay buried in the sea. The same

　　 thing happened to her ship as to the one spoken of in the song about

　　 "The King of England's Son."

　　 "Alas! how terrible to see

　　 The gallant bark sink rapidly."

　　 Fragments of the wreck and pieces of wood were washed ashore; they were all that remained of the vessel. The wind still blew violently on the coast.

　　 For a few moments the strange lady seemed to rest; but she awoke

　　 in pain, and uttered cries of anguish and fear. She opened her

　　 wonderfully beautiful eyes, and spoke a few words, but nobody

　　 understood her.- And lo! as a reward for the sorrow and suffering

　　 she had undergone, she held in her arms a new-born babe. The child

　　 that was to have rested upon a magnificent couch, draped with silken

　　 curtains, in a luxurious home; it was to have been welcomed with joy

　　 to a life rich in all the good things of this world; and now Heaven

　　 had ordained that it should be born in this humble retreat, that it

　　 should not even receive a kiss from its mother, for when the

　　 fisherman's wife laid the child upon the mother's bosom, it rested

　　 on a heart that beat no more- she was dead.

　　 The child that was to have been reared amid wealth and luxury

　　 was cast into the world, washed by the sea among the sand-hills to

　　 share the fate and hardships of the poor.

　　 Here we are reminded again of the song about "The King of

　　 England's Son," for in it mention is made of the custom prevalent at

　　 the time, when knights and squires plundered those who had been

　　 saved from shipwreck. The ship had stranded some distance south of

　　 Nissum Bay, and the cruel, inhuman days, when, as we have just said,

　　 the inhabitants of Jutland treated the shipwrecked people so crudely

　　 were past, long ago. Affectionate sympathy and self-sacrifice for

　　 the unfortunate existed then, just as it does in our own time in

　　 many a bright example. The dying mother and the unfortunate child

　　 would have found kindness and help wherever they had been cast by

　　 the winds, but nowhere would it have been more sincere than in the

　　 cottage of the poor fisherman's wife, who had stood, only the day

　　 before, beside her child's grave, who would have been five years old

　　 that day if God had spared it to her.

　　 No one knew who the dead stranger was, they could not even form

　　 a conjecture; the fragments of wreckage gave no clue to the matter.

　　 No tidings reached Spain of the fate of the daughter and

　　 son-in-law. They did not arrive at their destination, and violent

　　 storms had raged during the past weeks. At last the verdict was given:

　　 "Foundered at sea- all lost." But in the fisherman's cottage among the

　　 sand-hills near Hunsby, there lived a little scion of the rich Spanish

　　 family.

　　 Where Heaven sends food for two, a third can manage to find a

　　 meal, and in the depth of the sea there is many a dish of fish for the

　　 hungry.

　　 They called the boy Jurgen.

　　 "It must certainly be a Jewish child, its skin is so dark," the

　　 people said.

　　 "It might be an Italian or a Spaniard," remarked the clergyman.

　　 But to the fisherman's wife these nations seemed all the same, and

　　 she consoled herself with the thought that the child was baptized as a

　　 Christian.

　　 The boy throve; the noble blood in his veins was warm, and he

　　 became strong on his homely fare. He grew apace in the humble cottage, and the Danish dialect spoken by the West Jutes became his language.

　　 The pomegranate seed from Spain became a hardy plant on the coast of West Jutland. Thus may circumstances alter the course of a man's life!

　　 To this home he clung with deep-rooted affection; he was to experience cold and hunger, and the misfortunes and hardships that surround the poor; but he also tasted of their joys.

　　 Childhood has bright days for every one, and the memory of them

　　 shines through the whole after-life. The boy had many sources of

　　 pleasure and enjoyment; the coast for miles and miles was full of

　　 playthings, for it was a mosaic of pebbles, some red as coral or

　　 yellow as amber, and others again white and rounded like birds' eggs

　　 and smoothed and prepared by the sea. Even the bleached fishes'

　　 skeletons, the water plants dried by the wind, and seaweed, white

　　 and shining long linen-like bands waving between the stones- all these

　　 seemed made to give pleasure and occupation for the boy's thoughts,

　　 and he had an intelligent mind; many great talents lay dormant in him.

　　 How readily he remembered stories and songs that he heard, and how

　　 dexterous he was with his fingers! With stones and mussel-shells he

　　 could put together pictures and ships with which one could decorate

　　 the room; and he could make wonderful things from a stick, his

　　 foster-mother said, although he was still so young and little. He

　　 had a sweet voice, and every melody seemed to flow naturally from

　　 his lips. And in his heart were hidden chords, which might have

　　 sounded far out into the world if he had been placed anywhere else

　　 than in the fisherman's hut by the North Sea.

　　 One day another ship was wrecked on the coast, and among other

　　 things a chest filled with valuable flower bulbs was washed ashore.

　　 Some were put into saucepans and cooked, for they were thought to be fit to eat, and others lay and shrivelled in the sand- they did not

　　 accomplish their purpose, or unfold their magnificent colours. Would

　　 Jurgen fare better? The flower bulbs had soon played their part, but

　　 he had years of apprenticeship before him. Neither he nor his

　　 friends noticed in what a monotonous, uniform way one day followed

　　 another, for there was always plenty to do and see. The ocean itself

　　 was a great lesson-book, and it unfolded a new leaf each day of calm

　　 or storm- the crested wave or the smooth surface.

　　 The visits to the church were festive occasions, but among the

　　 fisherman's house one was especially looked forward to; this was, in

　　 fact, the visit of the brother of Jurgen's foster-mother, the

　　 eel-breeder from Fjaltring, near Bovbjerg. He came twice a year in a

　　 cart, painted red with blue and white tulips upon it, and full of

　　 eels; it was covered and locked like a box, two dun oxen drew it,

　　 and Jurgen was allowed to guide them.

　　 The eel-breeder was a witty fellow, a merry guest, and brought a

　　 measure of brandy with him. They all received a small glassful or a

　　 cupful if there were not enough glasses; even Jurgen had about a

　　 thimbleful, that he might digest the fat eel, as the eel-breeder said;

　　 he always told one story over and over again, and if his hearers

　　 laughed he would immediately repeat it to them. Jurgen while still a

　　 boy, and also when he was older, used phrases from the eel-breeder's

　　 story on various occasions, so it will be as well for us to listen

　　 to it. It runs thus:

　　 "The eels went into the bay, and the young ones begged leave to go

　　 a little farther out. 'Don't go too far,' said their mother; 'the ugly

　　 eel-spearer might come and snap you all up.' But they went too far,

　　 and of eight daughters only three came back to the mother, and these

　　 wept and said, 'We only went a little way out, and the ugly

　　 eel-spearer came immediately and stabbed five of our sisters to

　　 death.' 'They'll come back again,' said the mother eel. 'Oh, no,'

　　 exclaimed the daughters, 'for he skinned them, cut them in two, and

　　 fried them.' 'Oh, they'll come back again,' the mother eel

　　 persisted. 'No,' replied the daughters, 'for he ate them up.' 'They'll

　　 come back again,' repeated the mother eel. 'But he drank brandy

　　 after them,' said the daughters. 'Ah, then they'll never come back,'

　　 said the mother, and she burst out crying, 'it's the brandy that

　　 buries the eels.'"

　　 "And therefore," said the eel-breeder in conclusion, "it is always

　　 the proper thing to drink brandy after eating eels."

　　 This story was the tinsel thread, the most humorousrecollection