A STORY FROM THE SAND-HILLS
by Hans Christian Andersen
This story is from the sand-dunes of Jutland, but it does not begin there in the North, but far away in the South, in Spain. The wide sea is the highroad from nation to nation. Journey in thought to sunny Spain. It is warm and beautiful there; the fiery pomegranate flowers peep from among dark laurels; a cool refreshing breeze from the mountains blows over the orange gardens, over the Moorish halls with their golden cupolas and coloured walls.
Children go through the streets in procession with candles and waving banners, and the sky, lofty and clear with its glittering stars, rises above them. Sounds of singing and castanets can be heard, and youths and maidens dance, while even the beggar sits upon a block of marble, refreshing himself with a juicy melon, and dreamily enjoying life. It all seems like a beautiful dream.
Here dwelt a newly married couple who completely gave themselves up to the charm of life; indeed they possessed every good thing they could desire—health and happiness, riches and honour.
"We are as happy as human beings can be," said the young couple from the depths of their hearts. They had indeed only one step higher to mount on the ladder of happiness—they hoped that God would give them a child, a son like them in form and spirit. The happy little one was to be welcomed with rejoicing, to be cared for with love and tenderness, and enjoy every advantage of wealth and luxury that a rich and influential family can give. So the days went by like a joyous festival.
...
[The story continues, detailing the couple's philosophical debate about life and the afterlife, their journey by ship to Russia, the shipwreck off the coast of Jutland, the death of the mother in childbirth, and the survival of their son, Jurgen. It follows Jurgen's life as he is raised by poor fisherfolk, his struggles, his love for Else, his wrongful imprisonment for the murder of his rival Martin, his eventual exoneration, his new life with the merchant Bronne and his daughter Clara, the tragic shipwreck where Clara dies, Jurgen's mental decline, and his final, mystical vision in the buried church before his death.]
...
One evening Jurgen sat in his room alone: all at once his mind seemed to become clearer. "Home, home!" he cried. He went out and walked towards the dunes and in the direction of the church. The sand was banked up the walls, but the entrance was free, so Jurgen went in.
The storm raged over the town of Skjagen. But Jurgen was in the temple of God, and while the darkness of night reigned outside, a light arose in his soul that was never to depart from it. He fancied he heard the organ. He sat down, and lo! the candles were lighted one by one, and there was brightness and grandeur. The portraits of the old citizens became alive. The gates flew open, and all the dead people from the churchyard came in, and filled the church, while beautiful music sounded. Jurgen saw his foster parents, old merchant Bronne with his wife and their daughter Clara, who gave him her hand. They went up to the altar, and the priest joined their hands and united them for life.
Then the little ship that hung from the roof of the choir was let down and looked wonderfully large and beautiful with its silken sails and rigging. The young couple went on board, accompanied by the whole congregation. The walls of the church were covered with flowering junipers and lime trees breathing forth fragrance; the branches waved, creating a pleasant coolness; they bent and parted, and the ship sailed between them through the air and over the sea. Every candle in the church became a star, and the wind sang a hymn in which they all joined.
"Through love to glory, no life is lost, the future is full of blessings and happiness. Hallelujah!" These were the last words Jurgen uttered in this world, for the thread that bound his immortal soul was severed, and nothing but the dead body lay in the dark church, while the storm raged outside, covering it with loose sand.
The next day, the congregation found the whole church completely buried in sand. Jurgen could not be found anywhere. They came to the conclusion that one of the great waves had carried him away; but his body lay buried in a great sepulchre—the church itself. The Lord had thrown down a covering for his grave during the storm, and the heavy mound of sand lies upon it to this day.
Nothing disturbs the peaceful sleep of the dead. I was the first to hear this story, for the storm sung it to me among the sand-hills.