my little boy and i have had an exceedingly interesting walk in the frederiksberg park.
there was a mouse, which was irresistible. there were two chaffinches, husband and wife, which built their nest right before our eyes, and a snail, which had no secrets for us. and there were flowers, yellow and white, and there were green leaves, which told us the oddest adventures: in fact, as much as we can find room for in our little head.
now we are sitting on a bench and digesting our impressions.
suddenly the air is shaken by a tremendous roar:
"what was that?" asks my little boy.
"that was the lion in the zoological gardens," i reply.
no sooner have i said this than i curse my own stupidity.
i might have said that it was a gunshot announcing the birth of a prince; or an earthquake; or a china dish falling from the sky and breaking into pieces: anything whatever, rather than the truth.
for now my little boy wants to know what sort of thing the zoological gardens is.
i tell him.
the zoological gardens is a horrid place, where they lock up wild beasts who have done no wrong and who are accustomed to walk about freely in the distant foreign countries where they come from. the lion is there, whom we have just heard roaring. he is so strong that he can kill a policeman with one blow of his paw; he has great, haughty eyes and awfully sharp teeth. he lives in africa and, at night, when he roars, all the other beasts tremble in their holes for fear. he is called the king of beasts. they caught him one day in a cunning trap and bound him and dragged him here and locked him up in a cage with iron bars to it. the cage is no more than half as big as petrine's room. and there the king walks up and down, up and down, and gnashes his teeth with sorrow and rage and roars so that you can hear him ever so far away. outside his cage stand cowardly people and laugh at him, because he can't get out and eat them up, and poke their sticks through the rails and tease him.
my little boy stands in front of me and looks at me with wide-open eyes:
"would he eat them up, if he got out?" he asks.
"in a moment."
"but he can't get out, can he?"
"no. that's awfully sad. he can't get out."
"father, let us go and look at the lion."
i pretend not to hear and go on to tell him of the strange birds there: great eagles, which used to fly over every church-steeple and over the highest trees and mountains and swoop down upon lambs and hares and carry them up to their young in the nest. now they are sitting in cages, on a perch, like canaries, with clipped wings and blind eyes. i tell him of gulls, which used to fly all day long over the stormy sea: now they splash about in a puddle of water, screaming pitifully. i tell him of wonderful blue and red birds, which, in their youth, used to live among wonderful blue and red flowers, in balmy forests a thousand times bigger than the frederiksberg park, where it was as dark as night under the trees with the brightest sun shining down upon the tree-tops: now they sit there in very small cages and hang their beaks while they stare at tiresome boys in dark-blue suits and black stockings and waterproof boots and sailor-hats.
"are those birds really blue?" asks my little boy.
"sky-blue," i answer. "and utterly broken-hearted."
"father, can't we go and look at the birds?"
i take my little boy's hands in mine:
"i don't think we will," i say. "why should still more silly boys do so? you can't imagine how it goes to one's heart to look at those poor captive beasts."
"father, i should so much like to go."
"take my advice and don't. the animals there are not the real animals, you see. they are ill and ugly and angry because of their captivity and their longing and their pain."
"i should so much like to see them."
"now let me tell you something. to go to the zoological gardens costs five cents for you and ten cents for me. that makes fifteen cents altogether, which is an awful lot of money. we won't go there now, but we'll buy the biggest money-box we can find: one of those money-boxes shaped like a pig. then we'll put fifteen cents in it. and every thursday we'll put fifteen cents in the pig. by-and-by, that will grow into quite a fortune: it will make such a lot of money that, when you are grown up, you can take a trip to africa and go to the desert and hear the wild, the real lion roaring and tremble just like the people tremble down there. and you can go to the great, dark forests and see the real blue birds flying proud and free among the flowers. you can't think how glad you will be, how beautiful they will look and how they will sing to you. . . ."
"father, i would rather go to the zoological gardens now."
my little boy does not understand a word of what i say. and i am at my wits' end.
"shall we go and have some cakes at josty's?" i ask.
"i would rather go to the zoological gardens."
i can read in his eyes that he is thinking of the captive lion. ugly human instincts are waking up in his soul. the mouse is forgotten and the snail; and the chaffinches have built their nest to no purpose.
at last i get up and say, bluntly, without any further explanation:
"you are not going to the zoological gardens. now we'll go home."
and home we go. but we are not in a good temper.
of course, i get over it and i buy an enormous money-box pig. also we put the money into it and he thinks that most interesting.
but, later in the afternoon, i find him in the bed-room engaged in a piteous game.
he has built a cage, in which he has imprisoned the pig. he is teasing it and hitting it with his whip, while he keeps shouting to it:
"you can't get out and bite me, you stupid pig! you can't get out!"
