What the Moon Saw

"What the Moon Saw" by Hans Christian Andersen is a collection of 24 tales, framed as what the moon has watched each night and shared with a lonely artist. Each tale showcases Anderson’s poetic approach, stunning imagination, and in-depth understanding of human nature. Stories vary from experiences of personal growth, reflections on loneliness and poverty, to observations of natural beauty and urban life. The moon's tales serve not just as bedtime stories, but also as profound allegories that draw readers into deep contemplation.

• Children

								
INTRODUCTION

It is a strange thing, when I feel most fervently and most deeply,
my hands and my tongue seem alike tied, so that I cannot rightly
describe or accurately portray the thoughts that are rising within me;
and yet I am a painter; my eye tells me as much as that, and all my
friends who have seen my sketches and fancies say the same.

I am a poor lad, and live in one of the narrowest of lanes; but
I do not want for light, as my room is high up in the house, with an
extensive prospect over the neighbouring roofs. During the first few
days I went to live in the town, I felt low-spirited and solitary
enough. Instead of the forest and the green hills of former days, I
had here only a forest of chimney-pots to look out upon. And then I
had not a single friend; not one familiar face greeted me.

So one evening I sat at the window, in a desponding mood; and
presently I opened the casement and looked out. Oh, how my heart
leaped up with joy! Here was a well-known face at last--a round,
friendly countenance, the face of a good friend I had known at home.
In, fact, it was the MOON that looked in upon me. He was quite
unchanged, the dear old Moon, and had the same face exactly that he
used to show when he peered down upon me through the willow trees on
the moor. I kissed my hand to him over and over again, as he shone far
into my little room; and he, for his part, promised me that every
evening, when he came abroad, he would look in upon me for a few
moments. This promise he has faithfully kept. It is a pity that he can
only stay such a short time when he comes. Whenever he appears, he
tells me of one thing or another that he has seen on the previous
night, or on that same evening. "Just paint the scenes I describe to
you"--this is what he said to me--"and you will have a very pretty
picture-book." I have followed his injunction for many evenings. I
could make up a new "Thousand and One Nights," in my own way, out of
these pictures, but the number might be too great, after all. The
pictures I have here given have not been chosen at random, but
follow in their proper order, just as they were described to me.
Some great gifted painter, or some poet or musician, may make
something more of them if he likes; what I have given here are only
hasty sketches, hurriedly put upon the paper, with some of my own
thoughts, interspersed; for the Moon did not come to me every
evening--a cloud sometimes hid his face from me.


FIRST EVENING

"Last night"--I am quoting the Moon's own words--"last night I was
gliding through the cloudless Indian sky. My face was mirrored in
the waters of the Ganges, and my beams strove to pierce through the
thick intertwining boughs of the bananas, arching beneath me like
the tortoise's shell. Forth from the thicket tripped a Hindoo maid,
light as a gazelle, beautiful as Eve. Airy and etherial as a vision,
and yet sharply defined amid the surrounding shadows, stood this
daughter of Hindostan: I could read on her delicate brow the thought
that had brought her hither. The thorny creeping plants tore her
sandals, but for all that she came rapidly forward. The deer that
had come down to the river to quench her thirst, sprang by with a
startled bound, for in her hand the maiden bore a lighted lamp. I
could see the blood in her delicate finger tips, as she spread them
for a screen before the dancing flame. She came down to the stream,
and set the lamp upon the water, and let it float away. The flame
flickered to and fro, and seemed ready to expire; but still the lamp
burned on, and the girl's black sparkling eyes, half veiled behind
their long silken lashes, followed it with a gaze of earnest
intensity. She knew that if the lamp continued to burn so long as
she could keep it in sight, her betrothed was still alive; but if
the lamp was suddenly extinguished, he was dead. And the lamp burned
bravely on, and she fell on her knees, and prayed. Near her in the
grass lay a speckled snake, but she heeded it not--she thought only of
Bramah and of her betrothed. 'He lives!' she shouted joyfully, 'he
lives!' And from the mountains the echo came back upon her, 'he
lives!"


SECOND EVENING

"Yesterday," said the Moon to me, "I looked down upon a small
courtyard surrounded on all sides by houses. In the courtyard sat a
clucking hen with eleven chickens; and a pretty little girl was
running and jumping around them. The hen was frightened, and screamed,
and spread out her wings over the little brood. Then the girl's father
came out and scolded her; and I glided away and thought no more of the
matter.

"But this evening, only a few minutes ago, I looked down into
the same courtyard. Everything was quiet. But presently the little
girl came forth again, crept quietly to the hen-house, pushed back the
bolt, and slipped into the apartment of the hen and chickens. They
cried out loudly, and came fluttering down from their perches, and ran
about in dismay, and the little girl ran after them. I saw it quite
plainly, for I looked through a hole in the hen-house wall. I was
angry with the willful child, and felt glad when her father came out
and scolded her more violently than yesterday, holding her roughly
by the arm; she held down her head, and her blue eyes were full of
large tears. 'What are you about here?' he asked. She wept and said,
'I wanted to kiss the hen and beg her pardon for frightening her
yesterday; but I was afraid to tell you.'

"And the father kissed the innocent child's forehead, and I kissed
her on the mouth and eyes."


THIRD EVENING

"In the narrow street round the corner yonder--it is so narrow
that my beams can only glide for a minute along the walls of the
house, but in that minute I see enough to learn what the world is made
of--in that narrow street I saw a woman. Sixteen years ago that
woman was a child, playing in the garden of the old parsonage, in
the country. The hedges of rose-bush were old, and the flowers were
faded. They straggled wild over the paths, and the ragged branches
grew up among the boughs of the apple trees; here and there were a few
roses still in bloom--not so fair as the queen of flowers generally
appears, but still they had colour and scent too. The clergyman's
little daughter appeared to me a far lovelier rose, as she sat on
her stool under the straggling hedge, hugging and caressing her doll
with the battered pasteboard cheeks.

"Ten years afterwards I saw her again. I beheld her in a
splendid ballroom: she was the beautiful bride of a rich merchant. I
rejoiced at her happiness, and sought her on calm quiet evenings--ah,
nobody thinks of my clear eye and my silent glance! Alas! my
rose ran wild, like the rose bushes in the garden of the parsonage.
There are tragedies in every-day life, and tonight I saw the last
act of one.

"She was lying in bed in a house in that narrow street: she was
sick unto death, and the cruel landlord came up, and tore away the
thin coverlet, her only protection against the cold. 'Get up!' said
he; 'your face is enough to frighten one. Get up and dress yourself,

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