Andersen's workshop
■My childhood days: My father obeyed me in everything The cottage in which I spent my childhood days had almost the whole of its space taken up by the workshop and the bed in which I slept. The good thing was that the walls were full of paintings, the drawers were full of beautiful glasses and ornaments, and there was a shelf above my father's bench where I kept books and songbooks. The shelves on the cupboards of the kitchenette were full of plates and dishes, and looked spacious and interesting. On the paneling of the door was a picture of a landscape, which, now that I think about it, was like a gallery to me. The roof was reached by a ladder from the kitchen, and there was an earthen box with parsnips and celery in the gutter separating it from the neighbor's house. This was mom's garden. In my fairy tale, The Snow Queen, that garden still blooms. I was an only child and was very much loved. Mom always told me that I was much happier than when she was a child, as if I was raised as a nobleman's child. When she was a child, her grandfather and grandmother drove her out to beg. She could not do so, so she sat under a bridge over a river in Odense and cried all day. My father, Hans Andersen, obeyed me in everything, I took over his whole body and mind, he lived for me. So all Sundays - his only day of rest - he spent all day making me toys and pictures. In the evenings, he used to read aloud to me from La Fontaine, or Hallberg, or stories from Tenebrae. As far as I can remember, it was only at such times that I could see him smile, because as a craftsman he was never really happy. When Grandfather was in the country, the family was doing well, but many misfortunes followed: the cows died, the farm burned down, and finally Grandfather went mad. With that, the grandmother moved with him to Odense, and although his son wanted to go to grammar school the most, there was no other way but for his clever son to learn shoe repair. Poor father, his dreams never came true, but he never forgot the past either. I remember when I was a child, once when a grammar school student came to customize a new pair of shoes and show us the textbook he was studying, I saw my father's eyes glistening with tears. He kissed me fondly and said, "This is the way I should go too!" That night, my father said nothing more.Self-portrait of Hans Christian Andersen
■The first thing I remember: A ball in a castle full of robbers The first thing I remember about me is not very important, but extraordinary, and y imprinted in my childhood memory. It was a family ball in a prison in Odense, and I looked at it with fear and trepidation, like a child in Paris facing the Bastille. My parents knew the jailer there, and he invited us to dinner. I was very small and had to be carried. For me, Odense Prison was the kind of hiding place that depicted stories about thieves and robbers. I used to stand at a safe distance and listen to the men and women inside sitting at their spinning wheels and singing. Naturally, I went with my parents to the jailer's supper. With the sound of a grating set of keys, the huge iron bolted gate opened and closed. The stairs were very steep. We ate and drank, and two other prisoners waited on us. No one could convince me to even taste anything; I couldn't eat this sumptuous delicacy. Mom said I was sick and put me to bed. But I could hear the humming of spinning wheels and cheerful singing nearby. I couldn't tell if it was in my imagination or right there in reality. But one thing was clear: I was nervous and scared all the time. But it was fun to lie there and imagine myself entering a castle full of robbers. It was late when my parents carried me home. It was a wild night, and the rain was beating down on my face.My Fairytale Life translated by Fu Guangming Published by China Federation of Literature and Art Publishers in December 2004
■ My childhood home: To be a hundred years behind the times The Odense of my childhood was nothing like it is now. Its street lighting and flowing river were far worse than in Copenhagen. I don't know what else, but I think it's a hundred years behind the times. Some of the guilds and associations "moved their mark" by marching in formation with flags flying and ribbons on their swords. A clownish figure, with bells and a sword made of wood in his hand, walks merrily in front of the procession. An old man named Hans Struthers was extremely impressed by this, and spoke of it with great interest and chatter. At one time his face was painted so that, except for his nose, which was of a natural complexion, one side was painted black and the other bright red. Mom was happy with him, and she tried to convince us that he was a distant relative of ours. But what really sticks in my mind is the Spanish garrison on the Isle of Vern in 1808. Denmark and Napoleon, who had declared war on Sweden, had concluded an alliance, and a French army, together with Spanish reinforcements, had been stationed in the middle of the island of Vern in order to facilitate the crossing of Denmark into Sweden. I was not yet three years old, but I well remember the soldiers in dark brown garments pulling cannons noisily through the streets as they shelled the marketplace in front of the bishop's settlement. I saw these foreign soldiers spread out on all fours, lying either on the sidewalk or on bales of straw from the mostly destroyed church of Griffith. All around the country schools had been turned into barracks, and masses were held in the fields and under the great trees by the roadside. The French soldiers were said to be arrogant and haughty, the Spanish soldiers friendlier, and, moreover, there was a great deal of hatred between them. The poor Spaniards were most sympathetic. One day a Spanish soldier picked me up and pressed my lips to a silver statue on his bare chest. Mother was furious; she said it had Catholic overtones. But I loved the silver statue and the soldier dancing around me. He kissed me and cried. He must have had children back home in Spain. I saw one of his comrades executed for killing a Frenchman. Many years later, I remembered this event and wrote a little poem called "The Soldier". ■Big events of my childhood: A comet will destroy the earth Like this event that happened when I was 3 years old, what left a deep mark on me was the Great Comet Event of 1811 when I was 6 years old. Mom either said that the comet would destroy the earth, or she scared us with the terrible things mentioned in the Sibylline Prophecies. I was standing in the square in front of St. Canute's Church with my mother and some neighbors when we saw a very frightening sight: a huge fireball trailing a glittering, shiny tail. Everyone was talking about the ominous omen and the judgment of doom. Father joins in, pressing on to disagree with the others and instead giving an explanation that may be correct, or at least sounds like it. But this calls for a sigh from the mother and a shake of the head from the neighbor. Father, on the other hand, went away laughing. I was really shocked because he didn't believe what we were saying. At night, my mom talks to my grandmother about it, and I don't know how she explains it. I sat on her lap and gazed into her gentle eyes, ready for the comet to fall from the sky and the judgment of doom. ■Wonderful encounters of my childhood: Working in the asylum with my grandmother Even if it was only for a little while sometimes, my grandmother came every day to see her little grandson, Hans Christian, because I was a joy to her. She was an unassuming, but most delightful old lady, with gentle blue eyes and a still-moving physique. Life had become a serious piece of mind for her, and she had fallen from being a country daughter-in-law of a slightly better-off family to extreme poverty, living with her husband, who was full of funny ideas, in a small house bought with the last of her savings. Poverty was their fate. But I never saw my grandmother shed a tear; what impressed me very much was when she sighed softly and told me about her grandmother, whose family name I did not know, except that her maiden name was Nomeson. She was employed to look after the hospital gardens, and every Saturday night she brought back some of the flowers that were allowed to be brought back. These flowers adorned Mom's five-drawer dresser, but they were also mine, and I put them in a vase. What a joy that was! She loved me from the bottom of her heart and brought me everything. I know and can understand her love for me. Twice a year she would have to put the dead leaves that were cleared from the garden into the big fireplace at the hospital and burn them to ashes. I spent most of those days with her. I lay on piles of green leaves and beanstalk plants and played games with the flowers. Also, more attractive to me, was the fact that the food was better here than at home. The non-aggressive psychiatric patients, who were allowed to walk in the hospital's courtyard, used to come and spy on us. With both curiosity and fear, I listened to them sing, talk, and sometimes walk a short distance with them to the garden trees. I even dared to follow the medical staff into the madhouse, a dangerous, long corridor lined with small cells. One day I crouched down to peer through a doorway and saw a naked woman, hair down, sitting on a pile of straw singing a particularly moving song. Suddenly, she bounced up, crying, and came toward the door where I was standing. The paramedics had moved away and I was left alone. She slammed against the door, knocking open the small window pane used to deliver food. She saw me from the inside and reached out an arm to grab me. I screamed in terror and slumped all over the floor. I don't think even an adult could forget that scene. I think her fingertips were touching my shirt. By the time the paramedics came back, I was scared half to death.