検索キーワード： "Hans Christian Andersen" 短編小説

Es war so schön draußen auf dem Land, es war Sommer – die Weizenfelder waren golden, der Hafer war grün, und unten zwischen den grünen Wiesen stand das Heu aufgestapelt. Dort schritt der Storch auf seinen roten Beinen umher und klapperte auf Ägyptisch, was die Sprache war, die seine Mutter ihn gelehrt hatte. Rund um die Felder und Wiesenländer erhoben sich riesige Wälder, in denen verborgene tiefe Seen lagen. Ja, es war in der Tat wunderschön dort draußen auf dem Land.

There was once a young man who studied to become a poet. He wanted to be a poet by next Easter, so that he could marry and earn his living from poetry, which he knew was just a matter of making things up. But he had no imagination. He firmly believed he had been born too late. Every subject had been used up before he had a chance at it, and there was nothing in the world left to write about.

The country around the town of Kjöge is very bare. The town itself lies by the seashore, which is always beautiful, although it might be more beautiful than it is, because all around are flat fields, and a forest a long way off. But one always finds something beautiful in the spot that is one's own home, something for which one longs, even when one is in the most wonderful spot in the world.

A couple of large ships were sent up toward the North Pole to discover the boundaries of land and sea and how far it would be possible for the human race to penetrate in that direction.

Poor John was greatly troubled, because his father was very ill and could not recover. Except for these two, there was no one in their small room. The lamp on the table had almost burned out, for it was quite late at night.

A mother sat by her little child. She was so sad, so afraid he would die. The child's face was pallid. His little eyes were shut. His breath came faintly now, and then heavily as if he were sighing, and the mother looked more sadly at the dear little soul.

Once upon a time there was an old poet, one of those right good old poets. One evening, as he was sitting at home, there was a terrible storm going on outside; the rain was pouring down, but the old poet sat comfortably in his chimney-corner, where the fire was burning and the apples were roasting.

There was once a perfect gentleman whose whole household goods consisted of one bootjack and a comb. But he also had one of the most remarkable shirt collars in the world. I'll tell you a story about it.

There was once a king's son, no one had so many beautiful books as he. In them he could read of everything that had ever happened in this world, and he could see it all pictured in fine illustrations. He could find out about every race of people and every country, but there was not a single word about where to find the Garden of Paradise, and this, just this, was the very thing that he thought most about.

There is a street in Copenhagen with a very strange name. It is called "Hysken" street. Where the name came from, and what it means is very uncertain. It is said to be German, but this is unjust to the Germans, for it would then be called "Hauschen," and not "Hysken." "Hauschen," means a little house; and for many years it consisted only of a few small houses, which were scarcely larger than the wooden booths we see in the market places at a fair time.

Hans Christian Andersen’s The Old House tells the story of a dilapidated, centuries-old house in a street of modern homes. A curious boy befriends the lonely old man who lives there and explores the house, filled with relics and memories of the past. The house and its contents, including a lost tin soldier, are eventually sold and the house is demolished, yet its history and the friendship it fostered endure as memories in the boy’s mind, represented by the rediscovery of the tin soldier years later.

There is an old fairy tale: "The Thorny Road of Honor was trodden by a marksman named Bryde, to whom came great honor and dignity, but not until after manifold adversities and peril of life." More than one of us had heard that tale in childhood, and perhaps read it in later years, and thought of his own unsung "thorny road" and "manifold adversities." Romance and reality are very nearly alike, but romance has its harmonious ending here on earth, while reality more often delays it and leads us to time and eternity.

The Bell is one of Hans Christian Andersen’s most profound and contemplative tales: a spiritual allegory about longing, humility, and the courage to seek truth beyond appearances. Moving from crowded streets to silent woods, from social rank to shared humanity, the story unfolds as a quiet pilgrimage—where revelation comes not through explanation or authority, but through perseverance and openness of heart.

I am a poor lad, and live in one of the narrowest of lanes; but I have plenty of light: my room is high up in the house, and there is a good prospect over the roofs of the opposite houses. During the first few days I lived in the town, I felt very lonely and low-spirited. Instead of the forest and the green hills of the country, I had nothing but black chimney-pots on the horizon of my view. And then I had not a single friend, nor one familiar face to greet me.

There came a soldier marching down the high road-one, two! one, two! He had his knapsack on his back and his sword at his side as he came home from the wars. On the road he met a witch, an ugly old witch, a witch whose lower lip dangled right down on her chest.

There is nobody in the world who knows so many stories as Ole-Luk-Oie, or who can relate them so nicely. In the evening, while the children are seated at the table or in their little chairs, he comes up the stairs very softly, for he walks in his socks, then he opens the doors without the slightest noise, and throws a small quantity of very fine dust in their eyes, just enough to prevent them from keeping them open, and so they do not see him.

The Emperor of China is a Chinaman, as you most likely know, and everyone around him is a Chinaman too. It's been a great many years since this story happened in China, but that's all the more reason for telling it before it gets forgotten.

In Beauty of Form and Beauty of Mind, Hans Christian Andersen offers one of his most mature and quietly devastating tales—a reflective allegory about love, art, and the cost of mistaking appearance for substance.

Wir sagen euch an, den lieben Advent! Wir, das sind 9 frisch ausgebildete SprecherInnen aus Wien und Umgebung. Gerade zur Adventszeit erinnern sich doch viele an die Magie der Geschichten, die einen schon in Kindertagen in ihren Bann zogen. Sei es am Heimweg im Auto oder in der U-Bahn, oder auch abends mit den Kindern vorm Schlafengehen: Jetzt könnt ihr unkompliziert täglich Hörbuch-Kurzgeschichten abrufen und in die Weihnachtsstimmung eintauchen.

Lytt til Hans Christian Andersens fortryllende eventyr om Grantreet i denne stemningsfylte lydboken med musikk og lyd, lest inn på norsk av Edith Lauglo Endsjø. Det lille grantreet som står i skogen mellom alle de store trærne har så travelt med å bli stor, at det slett ikke opplever alle tingene som skjer omkring det. Det tenker kun på hva det skal oppleve når det blir større, eldre og klokere. Det blir felt og kommer inn i stuen til jul, og en dag er det for sent å nå å oppleve noe som helst.