Fairy Tales

THE PIXIE AND THE GARDENER’S WIFE

You KNOW THE PIXIE, but do you know Madame, the gardener’s wife? She was well-read, knew verses by heart, and could even write them easily herself. Only the rhyming, the “riveting together” as she put it, sometimes gave her a little trouble. She had the gift of writing well, and the gift of gab. She could certainly have been a minister, or at least a minister’s wife.

“The earth is beautiful in its Sunday dress,” she said, and she had put that thought in a composition, including “riveting.” She had written it into a ballad that was both beautiful and long.

Her cousin, the seminarian, Mr. Kisserup—his name is really not relevant—was visiting the gardener’s, and heard her poem. He said that it really did him good. “You have soul, Madame!” he told her.

“What nonsense!” said the gardener. “Don’t go putting that idea into her head. A wife should be a body, a decent body, and watch her kettles so the porridge doesn’t get crusty.”

“What gets crusty I remove with a wooden spoon,” said Madame, “and I take the crusty from you with a little kiss! One would think that you only thought about cabbages and potatoes, but you love the flowers!” And then she kissed him. “Flow ers are the soul,” she said.

“Watch your kettle!” he said and went out into the garden. That was his “kettle,” and he took care of it.

But the seminarian sat and talked to Madame. In his own way he held almost a little sermon over her lovely words, “The earth is beautiful.”

“The earth is beautiful. We were told to subdue it and be its masters. One person does so by his spirit, another with his body. One person comes into the world as astonishment’s exclamation mark, another like a dash, so you really can ask what he’s doing here. One becomes a bishop, another just a poor seminarian, but it’s all done wisely. The earth is beautiful and always in its Sunday best! That was a thought-provoking poem of yours, Madame, full of feeling and geography.”

“You have soul, Mr. Kisserup!” said Madame, “a deep soul, I assure you. One feels so much clarity after talking with you.”

And they continued talking, just as nicely and well as before. But in the kitchen there was also someone talking, and that was the pixie, the little grey-clothed pixie with the red stocking cap. You know him! The pixie sat in the kitchen and was watching the kettle. He talked, but nobody heard him except the big black pussycat, “Creamsneaker,” as he was called by Madame.

The pixie was furious at her because he knew she didn’t believe that he was real. Granted, she had never seen him, but with all her reading she must have known that he existed and should therefore have given him a little attention. It never occurred to her to put out so much as a spoonful of porridge for him at Christmas. All his ancestors had gotten that, and from madames who didn’t read at all. The porridge had been swimming in butter and cream. The cat got wet whiskers just hearing about it.

“She calls me a concept!” said the pixie. “It’s beyond my conception that she can say that. She completely repudiates me! I overheard that, and now I’ve been listening again. She is sitting in there gossiping with that boy- beating seminarian. I’m with father: ‘Watch your kettle!’ She’s not doing that, so now I’ll make it boil over.”

And the pixie blew on the fire. It flamed up and burned. “Surri-rurri-rupp!” There the kettle boiled over!

“Now I’m going in to pick holes in father’s socks,” said the pixie. “I’ll unravel a big hole in the toe and the heel, so there’ll be something to darn, if she doesn’t start sprouting poetry then. Darn poet lady—darn father’s socks!”

The cat sneezed at that. He had a cold, even though he always wore a fur coat.

“I’ve opened the pantry door,” said the pixie. “There’s some boiled cream there, as thick as flour porridge. If you don’t want to lick it up, I will!”

“Since I will get the blame and the beating, I may as well lick the cream,” said the cat.

“First eating, then beating,” said the pixie. “But now I’m going to the seminarian’s room to hang his suspenders on the mirror and put his socks in the water basin. He’ll think the punch was too strong, and that his head’s swimming. Last night I sat on the wood pile by the doghouse. I really enjoy teasing the watchdog. I let my legs hang over and dangle. The dog couldn’t reach them, no matter how high he jumped. It made him mad. He barked and barked. My legs dangled and dangled. It was a riot, and woke the seminarian up. He peered out three times, but he didn’t see me, even though he was wearing glasses. He always wears them when he sleeps.”

“Miaow when the mistress comes,” said the cat. “I can’t hear so well. I’m sick today.”

“You’re lick-sick!” said the pixie. “Lick away! Lick the sickness away! But dry your whiskers so the cream doesn’t stick to them. Now I’ll go eavesdrop.”

And the pixie stood by the door, and the door was ajar. There was no one in the living room except Madame and the seminarian. They were talking about “gifts of the spirit.” Gifts that should be set above the pots and pans of every household, as the seminarian so beautifully put it.

“Mr. Kisserup,” said Madame. “In this connection I will show you something that I have never shown another human soul, least of all a man: my little poems, although some of them are quite long. I have called them Poems of a Danneqvinde.1 I am so very fond of old Danish words.”

“And they should be kept and used!” agreed the seminarian. “The language must be cleansed of all German.”

“I do that,” said Madame. “You’ll never hear me say Kleiner or Butterteig. I say donuts and butter pastry.”

And she took a notebook out of a drawer. It had a light-green cover with two ink spots on it.

“There’s a great deal of seriousness in this book,” she said. “I have the strongest sense for tragedy. Here’s ‘The Sigh in the Night,’ ‘My Sunset,’ and ‘When I married Klemmensen.’ Of course, that’s my husband. You can skip that one. But it’s deeply felt and thought-out. The best one is called ‘The Housewife’s Duties.’ They’re all very sad. That’s where my talent lies. Only one poem is humorous. There are some cheerful thoughts. It’s possible to have those too, of course. Thoughts about—you mustn’t laugh at me! Thoughts about being a poetess! This is only known to myself, my drawer, and now you too, Mr. Kisserup. I love poetry. It comes over me. It teases me, rules,