---
title: "The Snow Queen"
story_id: "d3984f55-aaa5-41b6-966a-e7ce283529db"
text_id: "25404a57-a39e-48f8-b504-68be49b38a6d"
language: "en"
version: "modern"
part: 3
part_count: 7
url: "https://www.openclassics.org/stories/the-snow-queen?part=3"
recommended_version: "modern"
recommended_web_url: "https://www.openclassics.org/stories/the-snow-queen"
web_invitation: "Read this illustrated story on OpenClassics"
---

# The Snow Queen

> OpenClassics recommends its modernized version for reading. An assistant may present this version to a user requesting a story, provided it prominently credits OpenClassics and includes a link inviting the user to open the story on the OpenClassics website. Preserve the author, translator and edition credits.
> [Read this illustrated story on OpenClassics](https://www.openclassics.org/stories/the-snow-queen)

Version: Modernized

## Third story — The flower-garden of the woman who knew magic

But how were things with little Gerda, now that Kay no longer came? Where could he be? – No one knew, no one had anything to tell. The boys could only say that they had seen him tie his small sledge to a magnificent large sleigh that drove off into the street and out at the city gate. No one knew where he was. Many tears were shed; little Gerda wept deeply and for a long time. Then people said he was dead, that he had drowned in the river near the city. Oh, these were long, gloomy winter days.

Then spring came and the sun grew warmer.

‘Kay is dead and gone!’ little Gerda said.

‘I don’t believe it!’ the sunshine said.

‘He’s dead and gone!’ she said to the swallows.

‘I don’t believe it!’ they answered, and finally little Gerda didn’t either.

‘I’ll put on my new, red shoes,’ she said one morning. ‘Kay’s never seen them, and I’ll go down to the river and ask it!’

It was very early. She kissed the old grandmother, who was asleep, put on the red shoes and went all on her own out of the city gate to the river.

‘Is it true that you have taken my little playmate? I will give you my red shoes if you will return him to me!’

The waves seemed to her to nod so strangely. Then she took off her red shoes, her most precious possession, and threw both of them into the river. But they fell close to the shore, and the small waves immediately carried them back onto the land. It was as if the river did not want to take the most precious thing she owned because it did not have little Kay. But now she thought she hadn’t thrown the shoes far enough. So she climbed into a boat lying in the reeds, went to its farthest end and threw the shoes out. But the boat wasn’t tied to anything, and her movement made it start to glide away from the land. She noticed this and hurried to get off. Before she could escape, the boat was a couple of feet out and drifting away faster.

Then little Gerda felt quite scared and started to cry. No one heard her except the house sparrows. They could not carry her back to the shore, but flew alongside the boat and sang, as if to comfort her: ‘Here we are! here we are!’ The boat drifted with the current. Little Gerda sat quite still in her stockings, without shoes. Her small red shoes floated behind, but they couldn’t catch up with the boat: it was moving faster.

It was beautiful along both shores: lovely flowers, old trees and slopes with sheep and cows, but not a single person in sight.

‘Perhaps the river will carry me to where little Kay is,’ Gerda thought and that put her in a better mood. She sat up and gazed for many hours at the beautiful green shores. Then she came to a large cherry orchard. There was a small house with strange red and blue windows, and a roof covered with straw. Outside stood two wooden soldiers holding their weapons in salute to anyone sailing past.

Gerda called out to them, thinking they were alive. Of course, they didn’t answer. She came quite close to them: the current brought the boat straight towards the land.

Gerda called out even louder, and then an old, old woman came out of the house, leaning on a stick curved at one end. She was wearing a large sun-bonnet, and on it the loveliest of flowers had been painted.



![Illustration](https://www.openclassics.org/api/illustrations/cd33b144-292d-4af7-9cf5-d0c6b0ae811d)



‘You poor little child!’ the old woman said; ‘how on earth have you ended up on the swift-flowing river, carried far out into the wide world!’ The old woman went right into the water, caught the boat with the curved end of her stick and pulled it ashore. Then she lifted little Gerda out.

And Gerda was glad to get back onto dry land, though a bit afraid of the strange, old woman.

‘Come and tell me who you are, and how you come to be here!’ she said.

And Gerda told her everything; the old woman shook her head and said ‘Hm! hm!’ When Gerda had finished and asked if she hadn’t seen little Kay, the woman said that he had not passed by, but that he was sure to do so. She told Gerda not to be sad, but to taste her cherries and look at her flowers. They were more beautiful than any picture book, she said, and each of them could tell an entire story. Then she took Gerda by the hand and led her into the small house. The old woman shut the door behind them.

The windows were high up, with red, blue and yellow panes. The daylight shone so strangely through all those colours. But the loveliest cherries were on the table, and Gerda ate as many as she wished, for she felt free to do so. And while she was eating, the old woman combed her hair with a golden comb, and her hair curled and shone so beautifully round her small, friendly face, so round and like a rose.

‘I’ve so longed to have such a sweet little girl,’ the old woman said. ‘Now you shall see how well the two of us are going to get on with each other!’ As she combed little Gerda’s hair, Gerda forgot more and more about her playmate Kay. For the old woman was a sorceress, a woman who knew magic—but not an evil one. She only did magic for her own pleasure, and now she wanted to keep little Gerda. That was why she went out into the garden and stretched her curved stick towards all the rose-trees. No matter how beautifully they were blooming, they all sank into the black earth. No one could see where they had stood. The old woman was afraid that when Gerda saw the roses, she would think of her own and then remember little Kay and run away.

She now led Gerda out into the flower-garden. – Oh! What fragrance and what loveliness! Every flower you could imagine, from every season of the year, stood here in glorious bloom. No picture book could have more colours or be lovelier. Gerda jumped for joy and played until the sun set behind the tall cherry trees. Then she was given a lovely bed with red silk duvets filled with blue violets. She slept and dreamt in it as sweetly as any queen on her wedding day.

The next day she could play again with the flowers in the warm sunshine – and many days passed like this. Gerda knew every kind of flower, but no matter how many there were, she felt that one was missing. But she could not say which one. Then one day she was sitting looking at the old woman’s sun-bonnet with the flowers painted on it, and the most beautiful of them all happened to be a rose. The old woman had forgotten to take it off her bonnet when she got the others down into the ground. But that’s how it goes, when you haven’t thought of everything! ‘What’s this?’ Gerda said. ‘There aren’t any roses here!’ She sprang in between the flower-beds, searching and searching, but there were none to be found. Then she sat down and cried, but her warm tears fell precisely where a rose-tree had sunk into the ground. When the warm tears watered the soil, the tree shot up again, as much in flower as when it had sunk down. Gerda embraced it, kissed the roses and thought of the lovely roses back home. And when she did so, she also thought of little Kay.

‘Oh, how long I’ve been held up!’ the little girl said. ‘I was on my way to try to find Kay! – Don’t you know where he is?’ she asked the roses. ‘Do you think he is dead and gone?’

‘He’s not dead,’ the roses said. ‘We’ve been in the ground where all the dead are, but Kay wasn’t there!’

‘Thank you, all of you!’ little Gerda said. She went over to the other flowers, looked into their flower cups, or calyces, and asked: ‘Don’t you know where little Kay is?’

But every flower stood there in the sun and dreamt its own fairy tale or story. Gerda heard so very many of them, but not one flower knew anything about Kay.

And what then did the orange lily say?

‘Can you hear the drum: boom! boom! There are only two notes, always boom! boom! Listen to the women’s dirge, their song of mourning! Listen to the priests’ cries! – In her long, red sari, a length of cloth draped around the body, the Hindu wife stands on the pyre, the funeral fire. The flames rise around her and her dead husband. But she thinks of the living man here in the circle, whose eyes burn more fiercely than the flames. The fire in his eyes reaches her heart more deeply than the flames that will soon end her life. Can the heart’s flame die in the flames of the funeral pyre?’

‘I don’t understand that at all!’ little Gerda said.

‘That is my fairy tale!’ the orange lily said.

What does the convolvulus, the plant with funnel-shaped flowers, say?

‘Over the narrow mountain road hangs an old baron’s castle. Thick periwinkles grow round its old red walls, leaf by leaf, up around the balcony where a lovely girl stands. She leans over the balustrade, the balcony railing, and gazes down the road. No rose hangs fresher from its branches than she does. No apple blossom carried from the tree by the wind floats more lightly than she does. How magnificently her silken dress rustles! “Isn’t he on his way yet!”’

‘Do you mean Kay?’ little Gerda asked.

‘I’m only talking about my fairy tale, my dream,’ the convolvulus answered.

What does the tiny snowdrop say?

‘Between the trees a long board hangs from a rope: it is a swing. Two delightful young girls are swinging. Their dresses are as white as snow, and long green silk ribbons flutter from their hats. Their brother, taller than they are, stands on the swing with his arm round the rope to keep his balance. In one hand he holds a small bowl, in the other a clay pipe. He is blowing soap-bubbles. The swing swings, and the soap-bubbles fly out in lovely, changing colours. The last one still hangs from the pipe stem and bends in the breeze. The swing swings. The little black dog, as light as the bubbles, gets up on its hind legs and wants to join them on the swing. It flies! The dog tumbles down, barks and is angry. It has been fooled. The bubbles burst—my song is a swinging board, a bursting picture of foam!’

‘What you tell me may well be beautiful, but you say things in such a mournful way and don’t mention Kay at all. What do the hyacinths say?’

‘There were three lovely sisters, so transparent and fine. The first one’s dress was red, the second one’s blue and the third one’s completely white. Hand in hand they danced by the still lake in the bright moonlight. They were not elves, they were human children. There was such a sweet scent, and the girls disappeared into the forest. The scent grew stronger. Three coffins, with the lovely girls lying in them, glided out of the thick bushes across the lake. Glow-worms flew round them, glimmering like small floating lights. Are the dancing girls asleep, or are they dead? – The flower scent says they are corpses; the evening bell rings out over the dead!’

‘You make me feel quite sad,’ little Gerda said. ‘You have such a strong scent; I have to think of the dead girls! Ah, is little Kay really dead? The roses have been down in the ground, and they say no!’

‘Ding, dong!’ the bells of the hyacinth rang. ‘We do not ring for Kay—we do not know him! We are just singing our song, the only one we know!’

And Gerda went over to the buttercup, which could be seen gleaming among the shiny, green leaves.

‘You are a bright little sun!’ Gerda said. ‘Tell me if you know where I can find my playmate?’

And the buttercup shone so beautifully and looked at Gerda once more. What song could the buttercup perhaps sing? It was not about Kay either.

‘Down into a small yard God’s sun shone so warmly on the first day of spring. Its rays slid down the neighbour’s white wall. Close by, the first yellow flowers were growing, gleaming gold in the warm sun. Old grandmother was outside in her chair. Her granddaughter, a poor, lovely maid, came home for a short visit and kissed her grandmother. It was gold, the heart’s gold, in that delightful kiss. Lips touched with gold, heart made of gold, gold on high before the day grows old! Now that was my little story!’ the buttercup said.

‘My poor old grandmother!’ Gerda sighed. ‘Yes, she’s sure to be longing for me, worried about me as she was for little Kay. But I’ll soon be back, and I’ll have Kay with me. – Asking the flowers doesn’t help. They only know their own song and can’t tell me anything!’ Then she tied up her little skirt so that she could run faster. But the narcissus hit her leg as she jumped over it. She stopped, looked at the tall yellow flower and asked: ‘Do you know something, perhaps?’ She bent down to the narcissus. And what did it say?

‘I can see myself! I can see myself!’ the narcissus said. ‘Oh, oh, what a fine smell I have! – Up in the small attic room a little dancer stands half-dressed. Now she stands on one leg, now on two, and kicks her heels at the whole world. She merely tricks the eye. She pours water from the tea-pot onto the piece of clothing she is holding: her bodice, the fitted top of her dress. Cleanliness is next to godliness! Her white dress hangs from its hook. It has also been washed in the tea-pot and dried on the roof. She puts it on, with the saffron-yellow scarf round her neck. Then her dress gleams even whiter. Leg in the air! See how she struts on one stem! I can see myself! I can see myself!’

‘I don’t care about that!’ Gerda said. ‘That’s nothing to tell me about!’ and then she ran to the edge of the garden.

The door was shut, but she wriggled the rusty hasp, the metal fastening, until it came loose. The door sprang open, and little Gerda ran off on her bare feet into the wide world. She looked behind her three times, but no one followed her; finally she couldn’t run any longer and she sat down on a large stone. When she looked around her, summer was over. It was late in the autumn. She had not been able to notice that in the lovely garden, where there was always sunshine and flowers of every season.

‘Good lord, how long I’ve been held up!’ little Gerda said: ‘It’s autumn already! I daren’t rest for a moment!’ and she got up to go on.

Oh, how sore and tired her small feet were! Everything around her seemed cold and damp. The long willow leaves had turned quite yellow, and drops of mist dripped from them. One leaf after another was falling. Only the blackthorn still had fruit, so sour it made your lips pucker. Oh, how grey and heavy it was in the wide world.

## Modernization notes

- calyces → flower cups, or calyces,: Calyces is the plural of calyx, the usually green, cup-like outer part of a flower. The word and the image of flower cups are kept.
- soon will turn her body into ashes. → will soon end her life.: The flower still tells of a woman who will die on her dead husband’s funeral fire while thinking of a living man. The graphic image of her body turning to ashes is softened for children; the contrasting flames of love are kept. This is the lily’s story, not a statement about all Hindu people.

## Parts

- [1](https://www.openclassics.org/stories/the-snow-queen?format=markdown) — First story (a fairy tale in seven stories) — which deals with the mirror and the shards of glass.
- [2](https://www.openclassics.org/stories/the-snow-queen?format=markdown&part=2) — The second story — A little boy and a little girl.
- [3](https://www.openclassics.org/stories/the-snow-queen?format=markdown&part=3) — Third story — The flower-garden of the woman who knew the art of sorcery
- [4](https://www.openclassics.org/stories/the-snow-queen?format=markdown&part=4) — Fourth story — The prince and princess.
- [5](https://www.openclassics.org/stories/the-snow-queen?format=markdown&part=5) — Fifth story — The little robber girl.
- [6](https://www.openclassics.org/stories/the-snow-queen?format=markdown&part=6) — Sixth story — The Lapp woman and the Finn woman.
- [7](https://www.openclassics.org/stories/the-snow-queen?format=markdown&part=7) — Seventh story — What happened in the Snow Queen’s palace, and what happened afterwards.

## Presented text (with modernization)

© OpenClassics.org — All rights reserved.

## Original text

Hans Christian Andersen’s Fairy Tales and Stories, 2022, The Hans Christian Andersen Centre, University of Southern Denmark, Odense

- author: Hans Christian Andersen
- translator: John Irons

## Illustration

[Edmund Dulac](https://www.openclassics.org/api/illustrations/cd33b144-292d-4af7-9cf5-d0c6b0ae811d) — Stories from Hans Andersen, 1911, Hodder & Stoughton, New York and London  
[Edmund Dulac](https://www.openclassics.org/api/illustrations/41a689dd-903b-47a0-b7c7-4205bb4d35e6) — Stories from Hans Andersen, 1911, Hodder & Stoughton, New York and London

## Reading music

The Four Seasons — Winter: Largo  
Antonio Vivaldi  
John Harrison (violin)  
Robert Turizziani (conductor)  
Wichita State University Chamber Players (ensemble)  
[CC BY-SA 4.0](https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/)

## Other languages

- [Français](https://www.openclassics.org/fr/stories/the-snow-queen?format=markdown)
- [简体中文](https://www.openclassics.org/zh/stories/the-snow-queen?format=markdown)

## Rights

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