“They are generous people, our master and mistress,” they said. “But they can afford it, and they take pleasure in it.”
“There’s good clothing for four of the children,” said Garden-Ole. “But why isn’t there anything here for the cripple? They usually remember him too, even though he can’t go to the party.”
It was their oldest child they called “the cripple.” His name was actually Hans.
When he was little he was the quickest and most lively of children, but he had suddenly became “limp legged” as they called it. He could not stand or walk, and he had been bedridden for five years.
“Well, I did get something for him too,” said his mother. “But it’s nothing much, just a book for him to read.”
“He won’t get much out of that,” said his father.
But Hans was happy to get it. He was a really bright boy who liked to read, but he also spent his time working. He did as much as someone who’s always in bed could to make himself useful. He had busy hands and used them to knit wool stockings, even whole bedspreads. The mistress on the estate had praised them and bought them.
The book that Hans had received was a book of fairy tales. There was much to read and much to think about in it.
“That’s of no use in this house!” said his parents. “But let him read. It will pass the time, and he can’t always be knitting stockings.”
Spring came, and flowers and greenery began to sprout. Weeds too, as you can certainly call the nettles, even if they are so nicely talked about in the hymn:“Tho’ all the kings on earth did show
Their upmost strength and power,
They could not make a nettle grow
Nor mend a broken flower ”1
There was a lot to do in the manor garden, not just for the gardener and his apprentices, but also for Garden-Kirsten and Garden-Ole.
“It’s total drudgery,” they said, “and when we have raked the paths and gotten them really nice, they immediately are walked on again and messed up. There’s a constant stream of strangers here on the estate. What a lot it must cost! But the master and mistress are rich.”
“Things are oddly distributed,” said Ole. “The pastor says we’re all the Lord’s children. Why is there such a difference between us then?”
“It’s because of the fall from grace,” said Kirsten.
They talked about it again in the evening, where cripple Hans was lying with his fairy tale book.
Straitened circumstances, drudgery, and toil had hardened the parents’ hands and also hardened their judgment and opinions. They couldn’t manage, couldn’t deal with things, and the more they talked, the more disgruntled and angry they became.
“Some people have wealth and good fortune, others only poverty! Why should we have to suffer for our first parents’ disobedience and curiosity. We wouldn’t have behaved the way those two did!”
“Yes, we would have!” cripple Hans said at once. “It’s all here in this book.”
“What’s in the book?” asked his parents.
And Hans read them the old fairy tale about The Woodcutter and His Wife.2 They also complained about Adam and Eve’s curiosity, the cause of their misfortune. Then the king of the country came by. “Come home with me,” he said, “And you’ll live as well as I do. Seven course meals and a dish for show. That one’s in a closed tureen and you mustn’t touch it, or your life of luxury will be over.” “What can be in the tureen?” asked the wife. “It isn’t our business,” said the husband. “Well, I’m not curious,” said his wife. “I would just like to know why we can’t lift the lid. It must be some delicacy. ”Just so there’s no booby trap about it,” said the man, “like a pistol shot that would go off and wake the whole house.” “Uff!” said the wife and didn’t touch the tureen. But during the night she dreamed that the lid lifted by itself, and there was the fragrance of the most lovely punch like you get at weddings and funerals. There was a big silver shilling lying there with the inscription : ”If you drink of this punch you’ll become the richest in the world and everyone else will become beggars.” And she woke up right away and told her husband her dream. ”You’re thinking too much about that thing!” he said. ”We could just lift it slightly and gently,” said the wife. “Very gently,” her husband answered. And the wife lifted the lid very slowly. Two nimble little mice jumped out and ran away into a mouse hole. “Good bye!” said the king. ”Now you can go home to your own bed. Don’t berate Adam and Eve any longer. You yourselves have been just as curious and ungrateful!”
“Where did that story come from and how did it get into the book?” asked Garden-Ole. “It’s just as if it pertains to us. It gives you a lot to think about.”
They went to work again the next day. They were scorched by the sun and soaked to the skin by rain. They were filled with grumpy thoughts and chewed them over in their minds.
It was still daylight that evening when they had eaten their milk porridge, and Garden-Ole said, “Read that story about the woodcutter for us again.”
“There are so many delightful stories in this book,” said Hans. “So many that you haven’t heard.”
“Well, I don’t care about them,” said Garden-Ole. “I want to hear the one I know.”
And he and his wife listened to it again, and more than one evening they came back to the same story.
“But I don’t really understand the whole thing,” said Garden-Ole. “People are like milk that curdles. Some become fine cottage cheese and others thin, watered whey. Some people are lucky in everything, always given the place of honor, and never knowing sorrow or want.”
Cripple Hans was listening to this. His legs were weak, but his mind was sharp. He read a story for them from the book of fairy tales. He read about The Man without Sorrow or Want.3 Well, where could he be found? Because he had to be found.
The King lay ill and could not be cured except by wearing a shirt that had been worn and worn out by a person who could truthfully say that he had never known sorrow or want.
Messengers went out to all the countries of the world, to all palaces and estates, to all wealthy and happy people, but when it came right down to it, they had all known sorrow and want.
“I haven’t!” said the swineherd, sitting by the ditch, laughing and singing. “I am the happiest person.”
“Then give us your shirt,” said the messengers. “You’ll be paid half a kingdom for it.”
He didn’t have a shirt, and yet he called himself the happiest person.
“That was a fine fellow!” exclaimed Garden-Ole, and he and his wife laughed like they hadn’t laughed for years.
Just then the schoolteacher came by.
“How merry you all are,” he said. “That’s rare in this house. Did you pick a lucky number in the lottery?”
“No, nothing like that,” said Garden-Ole. “It’s Hans. He read a story for us from his fairy tale book. He read about The Man without Sorrow or Want, and the fellow had no shirt. You laugh till you cry hearing something like that, and from a printed book, too. Everyone has his burdens to bear. We’re not alone in it, and there’s a comfort in that.”
“Where did you get that book?” asked the schoolteacher.
“Hans got it at Christmas over a year ago from the master and mistress. You know he loves to read, and he’s a cripple, of course. At that time we would rather he’d gotten a couple of everyday shirts, but the book is remarkable. It answers your questions somehow.”