Fairy Tales

at least there’s freedom there. Fly away! They have forgotten to close the cage, and the upper window is open. Fly, fly!”

And that’s what the clerk did. In a second he was out of the cage. At the same moment the half-opened door to the next room creaked, and the housecat with green shining eyes snuck lithely in and started hunting him. The canary fluttered around in its cage. The parrot flapped his wings and shrieked, “Come, let’s now be human!” The clerk felt a deadly fear and flew away through the window over houses and streets. Finally he had to rest for a while.

The house across the street had something familiar about it, and a window was open. He flew in there and found that it was his own room! He sat down on the table.

“Come, let’s now be human,” he said without thinking about what he said. He was copying the parrot, but in the same instance he became the clerk again, but he was sitting on the table.

“God save us!” he said, “How did I get up here and then fall asleep? That was really a troubling dream I had. The whole thing was a lot of stupid nonsense.”

6. THE BEST THING THE GALOSHES BROUGHT

Early the next morning when the clerk was still in bed, someone knocked on his door. It was his neighbor on the same floor, a student who was studying to become a minister. He walked in.

“Let me borrow your galoshes,” he said. “It’s so wet in the yard, but the sun is shining so beautifully, and I want to go smoke a pipe down there.”

He put on the galoshes and was soon down in the garden where there was a plum tree and a pear tree. Even a little garden like this is considered wonderful in central Copenhagen.

The student walked up and down the path. It was only six o’clock, and out on the street he heard a coach horn.

“Oh, travel, travel!” he exclaimed. “That’s the most splendid thing in the world. That’s my heart’s fondest desire and would quiet this restlessness I feel. But it has to be far away! I want to see the wonders of Switzerland, travel in Italy, and—”

Well it’s a good thing that the galoshes work so quickly, or he would have gotten around way too much for both himself and for us. He traveled. He was in the middle of Switzerland, but was packed with eight others into a stagecoach. His head hurt, his neck was tired, and the blood had settled into his legs, which were swollen and pinched by his boots. He swayed between a dozing and waking state. In his right hand pocket he had his letter of credit, in his left he had his passport, and in a little leather pouch on his chest he had sewn some gold coins. Every dream proclaimed that one or another of these treasures was lost, and therefore he leapt up feverishly, and the first movement his hand made was a triangle from right to left and up to his chest to feel if he had them or not. There were umbrellas, canes, and hats rocking in the net above him, and they obstructed much of the view, which he saw was really impressive when he glimpsed it. Meanwhile his heart was singing with thoughts that at least one poet, whom we know, has written in Switzerland (but which have not yet appeared in print):Here’s beauty and more, sublime to tout

I’m eyeing Mt. Blanc, my dear.

If only my money will hold out

Oh, it would be good to stay here.

All of nature around was grand, severe and dark. The fir forests looked like a carpet of heather on the high mountains whose tops were hidden in the clouds. Then it started to snow, and the cold wind blew.

“Oh,” he sighed. “I wish we were on the other side of the Alps, then it would be summer, and I would have gotten money on my letter of credit. I can’t enjoy Switzerland because of the anxiety I have about this. Oh I wish I were on the other side!”

And so he was on the other side, deep within Italy, between Florence and Rome. Lake Trasimeno lay bathed in evening sun, like flaming gold, between the dark blue mountains. Here, where Hannibal defeated Flaminius, the grapevines now stood peacefully with green fingers intertwined. Delightful half-naked children were shepherding a litter of coal-black pigs under a grove of fragrant laurel trees by the side of the road. If we showed this as a painting, everyone would shout, “Lovely Italy,” but the young theologian and his traveling companions in the hired coach surely didn’t say that.

Thousands of poisonous flies and mosquitoes flew into the coach. In vain they swatted at them with a myrtle branch, but the flies bit anyway. There wasn’t a person in the coach whose face wasn’t bloated and bloody from bites. The poor horses looked like carrion. The flies were sitting on them like big crusts, and it only helped momentarily when the driver got down and scraped them off. Then the sun went down, and a short but icy chill went through all of nature. It was not at all pleasant, but the mountains and clouds had the most beautiful green color, so clear and shining. Go and see for yourself—that’s better than reading this description! It was unparalled! The travelers thought so too, but their stomachs were empty, their bodies tired. With all their hearts they yearned for a place to spend the night, but where would this be? They were looking more for that than at the beautiful view of nature.

The road went through an olive grove. It was like driving through a gnarled forest of willows at home. There lay a lone inn there. Ten to twelve crippled beggars were camped outside. The best of them looked like “Famine’s eldest son just arriving to years of discretion.”¹⁴ The others were either blind, had withered legs and crept on their hands, or shriveled arms with fingerless hands. It was pure misery wrung from the rags. “Eccellenza, miserabili!” they sighed and reached out their withered limbs. The innkeeper’s wife met the travelers herself. She was barefoot, had uncombed hair, and was wearing a dirty blouse. The doors were tied together with twine, and the floor tiles in the rooms were partly dug up. Bats were flying around under the roof and the smell in there—

“Well, she should set up our table down in the stable,” said one of the travelers. “At least there we’d know what we’re breathing.”

The windows were opened so that a little fresh air could get in, but, quicker than that, came the withered arms and the perpetual whimpering: miserabili, Eccellenza! There were a lot of inscriptions on the walls, and at least half of them were critical of bella Italia.

The food was brought out. There was a soup of water, spiced with pepper and rancid oil and then the same oil on the salad. The main course was tainted eggs and roasted rooster combs. Even the wine had a sour taste. It was a real mish-mash.

At night the suitcases were piled up against the door, and one of the travelers stood watch while the others slept. The student had the watch. Oh, how stuffy it was in there! The heat was oppressive, the mosquitoes swarmed and stung, and outside the miserabili whimpered in their sleep.

“Yes, traveling is very well,” sighed the student, “if one just didn’t have a body! If only the body could rest and