The Marsh King's Daughter Page #8

"The Marsh King's Daughter" is a captivating story by Hans Christian Andersen that draws the reader into a world of Norse mythology and ancient Egypt. The story revolves around a Marsh King who kidnaps a princess and has a child with her named Helga. Helga, who is beautiful by day but horrible at night, sets upon a journey of transformation. With compelling themes of love and redemption, the story encapsulates the struggle of good versus evil through the life of Helga and her journey to find her true self. It is a tale filled with symbolism, fantasy, and vivid imagery characteristic of Hans Christian Andersen's works.

• Children

								


The full moon had already risen, and was shining in all her
radiant splendor over the earth, when from the thicket, in the form of
a frog, crept poor Helga. She stood still by the corpse of the
Christian priest, and the carcase of the dead horse. She looked at
them with eyes that seemed to weep, and from the frog's head came
forth a croaking sound, as when a child bursts into tears. She threw
herself first upon one, and then upon the other; brought water in
her hand, which, from being webbed, was large and hollow, and poured
it over them; but they were dead, and dead they would remain. She
understood that at last. Soon wild animals would come and tear their
dead bodies; but no, that must not happen. Then she dug up the
earth, as deep as she was able, that she might prepare a grave for
them. She had nothing but a branch of a tree and her two hands,
between the fingers of which the webbed skin stretched, and they
were torn by the work, while the blood ran down her hands. She saw
at last that her work would be useless, more than she could
accomplish; so she fetched more water, and washed the face of the
dead, and then covered it with fresh green leaves; she also brought
large boughs and spread over him, and scattered dried leaves between
the branches. Then she brought the heaviest stones that she could
carry, and laid them over the dead body, filling up the crevices
with moss, till she thought she had fenced in his resting-place
strongly enough. The difficult task had employed her the whole
night; and as the sun broke forth, there stood the beautiful Helga
in all her loveliness, with her bleeding hands, and, for the first
time, with tears on her maiden cheeks. It was, in this transformation,
as if two natures were striving together within her; her whole frame
trembled, and she looked around her as if she had just awoke from a
painful dream. She leaned for support against the trunk of a slender
tree, and at last climbed to the topmost branches, like a cat, and
seated herself firmly upon them. She remained there the whole day,
sitting alone, like a frightened squirrel, in the silent solitude of
the wood, where the rest and stillness is as the calm of death.

Butterflies fluttered around her, and close by were several
ant-hills, each with its hundreds of busy little creatures moving
quickly to and fro. In the air, danced myriads of gnats, swarm upon
swarm, troops of buzzing flies, ladybirds, dragon-flies with golden
wings, and other little winged creatures. The worm crawled forth
from the moist ground, and the moles crept out; but, excepting
these, all around had the stillness of death: but when people say
this, they do not quite understand themselves what they mean. None
noticed Helga but a flock of magpies, which flew chattering round
the top of the tree on which she sat. These birds hopped close to
her on the branches with bold curiosity. A glance from her eyes was
a signal to frighten them away, and they were not clever enough to
find out who she was; indeed she hardly knew herself.

When the sun was near setting, and the evening's twilight about to
commence, the approaching transformation aroused her to fresh
exertion. She let herself down gently from the tree, and, as the
last sunbeam vanished, she stood again in the wrinkled form of a frog,
with the torn, webbed skin on her hands, but her eyes now gleamed with
more radiant beauty than they had ever possessed in her most beautiful
form of loveliness; they were now pure, mild maidenly eyes that
shone forth in the face of a frog. They showed the existence of deep
feeling and a human heart, and the beauteous eyes overflowed with
tears, weeping precious drops that lightened the heart.

On the raised mound which she had made as a grave for the dead
priest, she found the cross made of the branches of a tree, the last
work of him who now lay dead and cold beneath it. A sudden thought
came to Helga, and she lifted up the cross and planted it upon the
grave, between the stones that covered him and the dead horse. The sad
recollection brought the tears to her eyes, and in this gentle
spirit she traced the same sign in the sand round the grave; and as
she formed, with both her hands, the sign of the cross, the web skin
fell from them like a torn glove. She washed her hands in the water of
the spring, and gazed with astonishment at their delicate whiteness.
Again she made the holy sign in the air, between herself and the
dead man; her lips trembled, her tongue moved, and the name which
she in her ride through the forest had so often heard spoken, rose
to her lips, and she uttered the words, "Jesus Christ." Then the
frog skin fell from her; she was once more a lovely maiden. Her head
bent wearily, her tired limbs required rest, and then she slept.

Her sleep, however, was short. Towards midnight, she awoke; before
her stood the dead horse, prancing and full of life, which shone forth
from his eyes and from his wounded neck. Close by his side appeared
the murdered Christian priest, more beautiful than Baldur, as the
Viking's wife had said; but now he came as if in a flame of fire. Such
gravity, such stern justice, such a piercing glance shone from his
large, gentle eyes, that it seemed to penetrate into every corner of
her heart. Beautiful Helga trembled at the look, and her memory
returned with a power as if it had been the day of judgment. Every
good deed that had been done for her, every loving word that had
been said, were vividly before her mind. She understood now that
love had kept her here during the day of her trial; while the creature
formed of dust and clay, soul and spirit, had wrestled and struggled
with evil. She acknowledged that she had only followed the impulses of
an evil disposition, that she had done nothing to cure herself;
everything had been given her, and all had happened as it were by
the ordination of Providence. She bowed herself humbly, confessed
her great imperfections in the sight of Him who can read every fault
of the heart, and then the priest spoke. "Daughter of the moorland,
thou hast come from the swamp and the marshy earth, but from this thou
shalt arise. The sunlight shining into thy inmost soul proves the
origin from which thou hast really sprung, and has restored the body
to its natural form. I am come to thee from the land of the dead,
and thou also must pass through the valley to reach the holy mountains
where mercy and perfection dwell. I cannot lead thee to Hedeby that
thou mayst receive Christian baptism, for first thou must remove the
thick veil with which the waters of the moorland are shrouded, and
bring forth from its depths the living author of thy being and thy
life. Till this is done, thou canst not receive consecration."

Then he lifted her on the horse and gave her a golden censer,
similar to those she had already seen at the Viking's house. A sweet
perfume arose from it, while the open wound in the forehead of the
slain priest, shone with the rays of a diamond. He took the cross from
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