rsen's
beautiful romance.

[19] R. L. Stevenson in speaking of the "Character of Dogs" makes
the following cruel observation: "Hans Christian Andersen, as we
behold him in his startling memoirs, thrilling from top to toe with
an excruciating vanity and scouting even along the streets for the
shadows of offence--here was the talking dog."--Memories and
Portraits, p. 196.

The same feminine sentimentality which, in spite of its picturesqueness,
makes "The Improvisatore" unpalatable to many readers, is still more
glaringly exhibited in "O. T." and "The Two Baronesses." In "The Story
of My Life" the same quality asserts itself on every page in the most
unpleasant manner. The author makes no effort to excite the reader's
admiration, but he makes constant appeals to his sympathy. Nevertheless
this autobiography rivals in historic and poetic worth Rousseau's
"Confessions" and Benvenuto Cellini's "Life." The absolute candor with
which Andersen lays bare his soul, the complete intentional or
unintentional self-revelation, gives a psychological value to the book
which no mere literary graces could bestow. I confess, until I had the
pleasure of making Andersen's acquaintance, "The Fairy Tale of My Life"
impressed me unpleasantly. After I had by personal intercourse possessed
myself of the clew to the man's character, I judged differently.
Andersen remained, until the day of his death, a child. His innocence
was more than virginal; his unworldliness simply inconceivable. He
carried his heart on his sleeve, and invited you to observe what a soft,
tender, and sensitive heart it was. He had the harmless vanity of a
child who has a new frock on. He was fidgety and unhappy if anybody but
himself was the centre of attraction; and guilelessly happy when he
could talk and be admired and sympathized with. His conversation was
nearly always about himself, or about the kings and princes and lofty
personages who had graciously deigned to take notice of him. He was a
tuft-hunter of a rare and curious sort; not because he valued the glory
reflected upon himself by royal acquaintances, but because the pomp and
splendor of a court satisfied his thirst for the marvellous. A king
seemed to him, as to the boy who reads his fairy-tales, something grand
and remote; and in invading this charmed sphere he seemed to have
invaded his own fairy-tales, and to live actually in the fabulous region
of wonders in which his fancy revelle