The Snow Queen

A mirror hung in the middle of the air, gleaming and strange. Whoever looked into it saw the best in themselves shrink until it nearly vanished, while the worst in them swelled up, so clear it made the skin crawl. A goblin had made that mirror. He was so pleased with himself that he wanted to carry it up to the very top of the sky to mock the angels.

But just as it came near the clouds, the mirror slipped from his hands and fell straight down to earth. It shattered into hundreds of millions, even billions of small pieces. Then each of those pieces broke again into countless smaller splinters, some no bigger than a grain of sand. The wind swept them all across the sky, and they fell like a strange snowfall the world had never seen. Some pieces flew into people's eyes, and from then on those people saw only the bad in everything. Other pieces dropped straight into someone's heart, and in a single moment that heart turned into a lump of cold ice.

A Danish writer told this tale in seven connected parts, and he called each part a little story. Here are all seven of them, starting from that broken mirror.

In a big city, two attic rooms stood side by side. Their windows almost touched, across a narrow yard below. Each family kept a wooden box on the windowsill, planted with a few rose bushes and some climbing peas. Together the boxes made a tiny garden that bridged the two windows. That was how a boy named Kay and a girl named Gerda grew up together. They sat on two little stools among the roses, as close as a real brother and sister. The two were inseparable, like a body and its shadow. On those afternoons side by side, they would softly sing a familiar song about roses blooming in the warm sun. It was a song they had both known by heart since they were small.

When winter came, a thick layer of ice covered the window panes. The children would warm coins on the stove and press them to the glass. Each coin melted a small round peephole, just big enough to see into the other room. Kay's grandmother often told them about the Snow Queen. She flew over the rooftops on winter nights and left countless beautiful ice flowers on the windows. Once, Kay saw a tall figure dressed all in white standing outside the window, nodding gently to him. Then summer came. One afternoon, as the two of them sat looking at a picture book, Kay suddenly cried out. Something had stabbed his heart, and something had flown straight into his eye. It was a tiny, invisible splinter of the goblin's mirror from long ago, slowly working its way toward his heart.

From that day on, Kay was a different boy. He called the roses in the window garden ugly. He mimicked the way people in the street walked, just to be cruel, and he teased even his own grandmother. He grew cold and distant, even toward Gerda, his closest friend.

That winter, Kay went to the square to go sledding with the other boys. In the middle of the fun, he tied his small sled to a large sleigh, painted pure white, that was gliding past. The big sleigh went faster and faster. It pulled him out through the city gate and on into wide white fields of snow. When it stopped, the driver stepped down. She was a tall woman, dressed all in white like the snow, and she was the Snow Queen. She lifted Kay into the sleigh and wrapped him in her own white fur cloak. Then she bent down and kissed his forehead. The kiss was colder than ice itself. She told him she would not kiss him again, because one more kiss that cold would be too much for him. From that kiss on, Kay forgot everything: Gerda, his grandmother, the little attic, and the roses. The sleigh raced on and on, through forests and over lakes, deep into the winter night.

All that winter, Gerda believed that Kay had drowned in the river near their home. When spring came, she put on her new red shoes, which still smelled of fresh leather, and went down to the riverbank. She dropped the shoes into the water and asked the river to give Kay back in exchange. Then she found a small boat tied at the bank, and she stepped in. Quietly, the boat slipped its rope, and the current carried her farther and farther away.

The river brought Gerda to the garden of an old woman who knew magic, though she was no wicked witch. With a crooked stick, the old woman pulled the boat to shore. She combed Gerda's hair with a shining golden comb. Then, without a word, she used her magic to sink every rose bush in the garden deep into the ground. Nothing would be left to remind Gerda of the roses at home. The old woman hoped to keep the girl with her as a companion forever.

Gerda lived peaceful days there and nearly forgot everything. In that garden, the flowers of all four seasons bloomed at once. Then one day she noticed a small rose painted on the brim of the old woman's hat, and suddenly she remembered Kay. She ran all over the garden, asking each flower whether it had seen him. But every flower only told its own story, and none of them knew anything about Kay. Gerda hurried out to the garden gate and stopped short. Outside, without her noticing, the season had quietly turned to autumn.

As she went on her way, a crow started talking with Gerda. He said he knew a boy who looked very much like Kay. That boy now lived in a palace, beside a princess. The princess was clever and had read a great deal. She had announced that she would marry only the person who could speak best in all the land. Suitors came one after another into the grand hall. The whole hall fell silent and waited for them to speak. Yet one after another, they went stiff and tongue-tied in front of the crowd. Then a poor boy in plain clothes walked in without the least shyness. He talked so well with the princess that he won her liking at once. Yet he had not come to court her. He had only come to hear her wise words.

That night, the crow and his close friend, a lady crow, slipped Gerda into the palace up a back staircase. In the great bedroom, the ceiling was shaped like the crown of a huge palm tree. Two beds shaped like flower petals hung from a single gilded stem. Gerda tiptoed closer and gently woke the sleeping boy, to see his face clearly. At once she knew it was not Kay. It was just a prince, and only his neck looked like Kay's. The prince and princess were not angry at all. Instead, they were moved by Gerda's story. They dressed her warmly in silk and velvet. The next morning they sent her on her way in a carriage of gold. They gave her warm boots, a soft muff, and a basket full of cakes and fruit.

The golden carriage rolled into a thick forest. There a band of robbers suddenly rushed out and blocked the road, greedy for the gold and silver it carried. They chased the coachman and the servants, who scattered into the trees. Then they pulled Gerda down from the carriage, all alone among strangers. An old robber woman raised her knife, meaning to harm Gerda. But at that very instant her daughter sprang forward and stopped her. She was a bold little robber girl, about the same age as Gerda. She declared that Gerda would be her playmate. Then she took Gerda's warm muff and pretty dress for herself.

The robber girl kept Gerda in the robbers' ruined castle. Crows lived there, and a flock of pigeons, and a reindeer named Bae, tied up by a copper ring around his neck. At night the girl kept a small knife beside her as she slept. Her moods changed in a flash. One moment she burst out laughing, and the next she was making threats. But she never let any other robber touch a single hair on Gerda's head. Gerda was her friend now, and anyone who wanted to touch Gerda would have to get past her first. The pigeons on the roof heard Gerda tell of her search for Kay. They remembered seeing a boy like Kay, sitting behind the Snow Queen's sleigh. And Bae whispered that he knew the way to Lapland, where the Snow Queen camped in summer. He also knew the way to a place colder still, near the North Pole. That was where she usually stayed once summer was over.

Hearing this, the robber girl's heart softened. While her mother lay fast asleep, she quietly untied Bae. She fastened Gerda firmly onto his back. She packed the warm boots too, along with her mother's big mittens, some bread, and some ham for the long road. She sent the two of them off to find Kay and told Bae to run as fast as he could.

Bae galloped for many days and nights. At last he brought Gerda to a tiny, low hut that belonged to an old woman of Lapland. The old woman was cooking fish by an oil lamp, and she listened to the whole story. Then she quickly wrote a line on a piece of dried fish. She sent it to a friend who was even wiser than she was, an old Finnish woman who lived farther north. She told Gerda to keep going to find her answer.

The old Finnish woman lived in a small house that was hot as an oven. There she read the line on the dried fish three times over. Then she drew Bae aside into a corner and quietly told him the truth. Kay was still with the Snow Queen, and he thought the place suited him perfectly. That was only because a splinter of the mirror was still in his eye, and another was still in his heart. If those two splinters were not taken out, Kay could never be himself again. And the Snow Queen would keep him forever.

The old Finnish woman said that Gerda's own heart, warm and brave and loving, was the greatest magic of all. No magic the old woman could add would be stronger than that. She told Bae the way. He must carry Gerda to a bush heavy with red berries, growing in the white snow not far from the Snow Queen's garden. Once there, Bae only had to set her down and hurry back. The rest was for Gerda to manage on her own.

Bae carried Gerda to that very bush of red berries and kissed her goodbye. Then he raced back home like the wind. Gerda was left alone in the biting cold, with no boots and no mittens. Living snowflakes in strange shapes came toward her. They were the Snow Queen's own guard. But Gerda kept walking and softly praying. Her breath turned into a white cloud, which slowly took the shape of little shining angels. The angels grew bigger as Gerda walked on, and they pushed the snowflakes back to either side. Gerda went the whole way to the Snow Queen's castle without feeling the cold, and there was no fear at all in her heart.

The Snow Queen's castle was built entirely of driven snow. It had hundreds of rooms, one after another. They were lit only by the northern lights, flickering blue and violet in the sky. The castle was vast and glittering, and so empty it gave a person chills. In the middle of the castle lay a frozen lake. It was cracked into thousands of pieces, all exactly alike. The Snow Queen called it her Mirror of Reason. She said proudly that it was the only mirror of its kind, and the most perfect one in the world.

Kay sat alone on that frozen lake, blue with cold. He was busy arranging flat, sharp-edged pieces of ice into one shape after another, as if he were working a puzzle. The Snow Queen called it the ice puzzle of reason. The splinter in his eye made Kay believe that this game was the most important thing in the world. The Snow Queen had given him a task. He had to lay out the pieces of ice so that they formed one word exactly, and the word was Eternity. She promised that if he could do it, he would be his own master. She would give him the whole world, and a brand-new pair of skates as well. Kay had tried and tried, but he still had not finished. Before Gerda arrived, the Snow Queen had flown far away to the hot countries. She went there to whiten the volcanoes with snow.

Gerda stepped into the endless hall. She saw Kay sitting stiff, blue and silent among the pieces of ice. She ran to him, threw her arms around him, and burst into tears of joy. But Kay did not move, and he did not even know she was there. Gerda's hot tears fell onto his chest and soaked slowly into his heart. They melted the lump of ice and the splinter of mirror hidden inside it. Only then did Kay see Gerda, and he burst into tears. The splinter in his eye washed out with his tears. Kay knew her at once, and he called out her name.

The two children held each other, laughing and crying at once. Their joy was so great that even the pieces of ice around them seemed swept up in it. The pieces spun and danced under the northern lights. Somewhere in that happiness, an old song about roses drifted back into both their memories. It was the song they knew from childhood afternoons by the window. At last the pieces of ice came to rest after their own dance. And by chance they lay in exactly the word the Snow Queen had set for Kay: Eternity. So, by the Snow Queen's own rule, Kay had finished his task and won back his freedom, without even knowing it.

Kay and Gerda walked hand in hand out of the empty castle. When they reached the bush of red berries, Bae was already waiting there with a young reindeer friend. She brought warm milk for the two children, to give them back their strength. The two reindeer took turns carrying Kay and Gerda on the long road home. They stopped at the house of the old Finnish woman, and then at the hut of the old woman of Lapland. There the children were warmed, well fed, and given new clothes. Then they set out again, just as the first green buds of spring were pushing up.

On the way home, a rider came galloping up from behind. It turned out to be the robber girl from long ago. She was older now, and she rode from place to place because she had grown bored of staying at home. She knew Gerda at once. She teased Kay for making her friend travel so far to find him. When she had heard the whole story from start to finish, she congratulated them both. Then she rode on, promising to visit someday.

Kay and Gerda walked on through green fields full of flowers. At last, far off, they saw the familiar pointed roofs of their own city. The two climbed the old staircase and came back to Grandmother's attic room. Everything was just as they had left it, the two little stools, and the roses still blooming in the wooden box by the window. Grandmother still sat there by the sunny window, with her familiar book lying open in her hands. It was just like so many warm afternoons when the children were very small. Only Kay and Gerda had changed. Both had grown much older, though inside they were still the same children they had always been. They sat side by side in the warm sun among the roses, hand in hand. The vast, empty castle of ice had fallen away behind them, fading like a winter dream now past. The goblin's mirror had once shattered across the whole sky and sown cold in so many eyes and hearts. Now not one splinter of it was left in their eyes or their hearts. There was only summer, warm and peaceful, spread wide over their roof.