THE CLERK'S TRANSFORMATION By Hans Christian Andersen The watchman,
Whom we of course have not forgotten,
Thought after a while of the galoshes which he had found and taken to the hospital,
So he went and fetched them.
But neither the lieutenant nor anyone in the street could recognize them as their own,
So he gave them to the police.
They look exactly like my own galoshes,
Said one of the clerks,
Examining the unknown articles as they stood by the side of his own.
It would require even more than the eye of a shoemaker to know one pair from the other.
Master clerk,
Said the servant who entered with some papers.
The clerk turned and spoke to the man,
But when he was done with them,
He turned to look at the galoshes again,
And now he was in greater doubt than ever as to whether the pair on the right or the left belonged to him.
Those that are wet must be mine,
Thought he.
But he thought wrong.
It was just the reverse.
The galoshes of fortune were the wet pair,
And besides,
Why should not a clerk in the police office be wrong sometimes?
So he drew them on,
Thrust his papers into his pocket,
Placed a few manuscripts under his arm,
Which he had to take with him,
And to make abstracts when at home.
Then,
As it was Sunday morning and the weather was fine,
He said to himself,
A walk to Fredericksburg will do me good.
So away he went.
There could not be a quieter or more steady young man than this clerk.
We will not grudge him this little walk.
It was just the thing to do after sitting so much.
He went on at first like a mere automation,
Without thought or wish.
Therefore the galoshes had no opportunity to display their magic power.
In the avenue he met with an acquaintance,
One of our young poets,
Who told him that he intended to start on the following day on a summer excursion.
Are you really going away so soon?
Asked the clerk.
What a free happy man you are.
You can roam about where you will,
While such as we are tied by the foot.
But it is fastened to the bread-tree,
Replied the poet.
You need have no anxiety for the morrow,
And when you are old,
There is a pension for you.
Ah,
Yes,
But you have the best of it,
Said the clerk.
It must be so delightful to sit and write poetry.
The whole world makes itself agreeable to you,
And then you are your own master.
You should try how you would like to listen to all the trivial things in the court of justice.
The poet shook his head.
So also did the clerk.
Each retained his own opinion.
And so they parted.
They are strange people,
These poets,
Thought the clerk.
I should like to try what it is to have a poetic taste,
And to become a poet myself.
I am sure I could not write such mournful verses as they do.
This is a splendid spring day for a poet.
The air is so remarkably clear,
The clouds are so beautiful,
And the green grass has such a sweet smell.
For many years I have not felt as I do at this very moment.
We perceive by these remarks that he had already become a poet.
By most poets,
What he had said would be considered commonplace,
Or as the Germans call it insipid.
It is a foolish fancy to look upon poets as different to other men.
There are many who are more than poets of nature than those who are professed poets.
The difference is this.
The poet's intellectual memory is better.
He seizes upon an idea or a sentiment until he can embody it,
Clearly and plainly in words,
Which the others cannot do.
But the transition from a character of everyday life to one of a more gifted nature is a great transition.
And so the clerk became aware of the change after a time.
What a delightful perfume,
Said he.
It reminds me of the violets at Aunt Laura's.
Ah,
That was when I was a little boy.
Dear me,
How long it seems since I thought of those days.
She was a good old maiden lady.
She lived yonder,
Behind the exchange.
She always had a sprig or a few blossoms in water.
Let the winter be ever so severe.
I could smell the violets,
Even while I was placing warm penny pieces against the frozen panes to make peepholes,
And a pretty view it was on which I peeped.
Out in the river lay the ships,
Icebound and forsaken by their crews.
A screaming crow represented the only living creature on board.
But when the breezes of spring came,
Everything started into life.
A mist shouting and cheers the ships were tarred and rigged,
And then they sailed to foreign lands.
I remain here and always shall remain,
Sitting at my post at the police office and letting others take passports to distant lands.
Yes,
This is my fate.
And he sighed deeply.
Suddenly he paused.
Good gracious,
What has come over me?
I never felt before as I do now.
It must be the air of spring.
It is overpowering,
And yet it is delightful.
He felt in his pockets for some of his papers.
These will give me something else to think of,
Said he.
Casting his eyes on the first page of one,
He read,
Mistress Sigberth,
An original tragedy in five acts.
What is this?
In my own handwriting,
Too.
Have I written this tragedy?
He read again.
The Intrigue on the Promenade,
Or The Fast Day of Vaudeville.
However did I get all this?
Someone must have put them in my pocket.
And here is a letter.
It was from the manager of a theater.
The pieces were rejected.
Not at all in polite terms.
Him,
Said he,
Sitting down on a bench.
His thoughts were very elastic,
And his heart softened strangely.
Involuntarily,
He seized one of the nearest flowers.
It was a little simple daisy.
All that botanists can say in many lectures was explained in a moment by this little flower.
It spoke of the glory of its birth.
It told of the strength of the sunlight,
Which had caused its delicate leaves to expand,
And given it such a sweet perfume.
The struggles of life which arouse sensations in the bosom have their type in any tiny flower.
Air and light are the lovers of flowers,
But light is the favored one.
Towards light it turns,
And only when light vanishes does it fold its leaves together and sleep in the embraces of the air.
It is light that adorns me,
Said the flower.
But the air gives you the breath of life,
Whispered the poet.
Just by him stood a boy,
Splashing with his stick in a marshy ditch.
The water drops spurted up amongst the green twigs,
And the clerk thought of the millions of anemiuchile which were thrown into the air with every drop of water.
At a height which must be the same to them as it would be us if we were hurled beyond the clouds.
As the clerk thought of all these things and became conscious of the great change in his own feelings,
He smiled and said to himself,
I must be asleep and dreaming,
And yet,
If so,
How wonderful for a dream to be so natural and real,
And to know at the same time too that it is but a dream.
I hope I shall be able to remember it all when I awake tomorrow.
My sensations seem most unaccountable.
I have a clear perception of everything,
As if I were wide awake.
I am quite sure if I recollect all this tomorrow,
It will appear utterly ridiculous and absurd.
I have had this happen to me before.
It is with the clever of wonderful things we say or hear in dreams,
As with the gold which comes from under the earth.
It is rich and beautiful when we possess it,
But when seen in a true light,
It is but as stones and withered leaves.
Ah,
He sighed mournfully as he gazed at the bird singing merrily or hopping from branch to branch.
They are much better off than I.
Flying is a glorious power.
Happy is he who is born with wings.
Yes,
If I could change myself into anything,
I would be a little lark.
At that same moment,
His coattails and sleeves grew together and formed wings.
His clothes changed to feathers and his galoshes to claws.
He felt what was taking place and laughed to himself.
Well,
Now isn't it evident I must be dreaming,
But I have never had such a wild dream as this.
And then he flew up into the green boughs and sang,
But there was no poetry in the song,
For his poetic nature had left him.
The galoshes,
Like all persons who wish to do a thing thoroughly,
Could only attend to one thing at a time.
He wished to be a poet,
And he became one.
Then he wanted to be a little bird,
And in this change,
He lost the characteristics of the former one.
Well,
Thought he,
This is charming.
By day I sit in a police office amongst the driest law papers,
And at night I can dream that I'm a lark flying about in the gardens of Fredericksburg.
Really,
A complete comedy could be written about it.
Then he flew down into the grass,
Turned his head about in every direction,
And tapped his beak on the bending blades of grass,
Which,
In proportion to his size,
Seemed to him as long as the palm leaves in northern Africa.
In another moment,
All was darkness around him.
It seemed as if something immense had been thrown over him.
A sailor boy had flung his large cap over the bird,
And a hand came underneath it and caught the clerk by the back and the wing so roughly that he squeaked,
And then cried out an alarm.
You impudent rascal,
I am a clerk in the police office.
But it only sounded to the boy like tweet,
Tweet,
So he tapped the bird on the beak and walked away with him.
In the avenue he met two schoolboys who appeared to belong to be a better class of society,
But whose inferior abilities kept them in the lowest class at school.
These boys bought the bird for eight pence,
And so the clerk returned to Copenhagen.
It is well for me that I am dreaming,
He thought,
Otherwise I should become really angry.
First I was a poet,
And now I am a lark.
It must have been the poetic nature that changed me into this little creature.
It is a miserable story indeed,
Especially now I have fallen into the hands of boys.
I wonder what will be the end of it.
The boys carried him into a very elegant room,
Where a stout,
Pleasant-looking lady received them,
But she was not at all gratified to find that they had brought a lark,
A common field bird,
As she called it.
However,
She allowed them for one day to place the bird in an empty cage that hung near the window.
It will please Polly,
Perhaps,
She said laughing at the great large parrot,
Who was swinging himself proudly on a ring in a handsome brass cage.
It is Polly's birthday,
She added in a simpering tone,
And the little field bird has come to offer his congratulations.
Polly did not answer a single word.
He continued to swing proudly to and fro,
But a beautiful canary,
Who had been brought from his own warm,
Fragrant fatherland the summer previous,
Began to sing as loud as he could.
"'You screamer!
' said the lady,
Throwing a white handkerchief over the cage.
"'Tweet,
Tweet!
' sighed he.
What a dreadful snowstorm!
' And then he became silent.
The clerk,
Or as the lady called for him the field bird,
Was placed in a little cage close to the canary,
And not far from the parrot.
The only human speech which Polly could utter,
And which sometimes chattered forth most comically,
Was,
"'Now let us be men!
' All besides was a scream,
Quite as unintelligible as the warbling of the canary bird,
Except to the clerk,
Who now being a bird,
Could understand his comrades very well.
"'I flew beneath green palm trees,
And amidst the blooming almond trees,
' sang the canary.
"'I flew with my brothers and sisters,
Over beautiful flowers,
And across the clear,
Bright sea,
Which reflected the waving foliage and its glittering depth.
And I have seen many gay parrots,
Who could relate long and delightful stories.
' "'They were wild birds,
' answered the parrot,
And totally uneducated.
"'Now let us be men!
Why do you not laugh?
If the lady and her visitors can laugh at this,
Surely you can.
It is a great failing not to be able to appreciate what is amusing.
Now let us be men!
' "'Do you remember,
' said the canary,
The pretty maidens who used to dance in the tents that were spread out beneath the sweet blossoms?
"'Do you remember the delicious fruit,
And the cooling juice from the wild herbs?
' "'Oh yes,
' said the parrot,
"'but here I am much better off.
I am well fed,
And treated politely.
I know that I have a clever head.
What more could I want?
Let us be men now.
You have a soul for poetry.
I have deep knowledge and wit.
You have genius,
But no discretion.
You raise your naturally high notes so much,
That you get covered over.
They never serve me so.
Oh no,
I cost them something more than you.
I keep them in order with my beak,
And fling my wit about me.
Now let us be men!
' "'O my warm,
Blooming fatherland,
' sang the canary bird,
"'I will sing of thy dark green trees and thy quiet streams,
Where the bending branches kiss the clear,
Smooth water.
I will sing of the joy of my brothers and sisters,
As their shining plumage flits among the dark leaves of the plants,
Which grow wild by the springs.
' "'Do leave off those dismal strains,
' said the parrot.
"'Sing something to make us laugh.
Laughter is the sign of the highest order of intellect.
Can a dog or a horse laugh?
No,
They can cry.
But to man alone is the power of laughter given.
' "'Ha,
Ha,
Ha!
' laughed Polly,
And repeated his witting,
Saying,
"'Now let us be men.
' "'You little grey Danish bird,
' said the canary,
"'you also have become a prisoner.
It is certainly cold in your forest,
But still there is liberty there.
Fly out!
They have forgotten to close the cage,
And the window is open at the top.
Fly!
Fly!
' Instinctively,
The clerk obeyed and left the cage.
At the same moment,
The half-open door leading into the next room creaked on its hinges,
And stealthily,
With green,
Fiery eyes,
The cat crept in and chased the lark around the room.
The canary bird fluttered in his cage,
And the parrot flapped his wings and cried,
"'Let us be men!
' The poor clerk,
In the most deadly terror,
Flew through the window over the houses and through the streets,
Till at length he was obliged to seek a resting place.
A house opposite to him had a look of home.
A window stood open.
He flew in and perched upon the table.
It was his own room.
"'Let us be men now,
' said he,
Involuntarily imitating the parrot,
And at the same moment he became a clerk again,
Only that he was sitting on the table.
"'Heaven preserve us,
' said he.
"'How did I get up here and fall asleep in this way?
' It was an uneasy dream,
Too,
That I had.
The whole affair appeared most absurd.
" And that is the end of our story this evening.
Until next time,
Sweet dreams.
