1. The Little Match Girl

Most terribly cold it was; it was snowing, and was nearly quite dark as the evening wore on. The market stalls in the square were shutting up, the hustle and bustle of the day soon to be replaced with the cold emptiness of night. People were bundled up well against the winter chill, with thick warm coats and heavy boots, for the temperatures were already below freezing. They hurried to and fro, intent on their own little errands, and few even noticed the small, thin girl dressed in rags and castoffs, and her little box of lucifers.

"Matches, sir? Buy my… my fine matches?" she asked in a small, weak voice, holding a few white phosphorus matches out in her pale hand.

"Out of the way, beggar," a well-dressed man shot, brushing her aside as he headed into the light and warmth of a shop. The little girl followed him with her eyes, seeing the welcoming golden glow, and knowing it was not meant for her; it would never be meant for her. With the leaden, blank-eyed gaze of unexpectant want, she turned away, returning to her work, and the only life she could ever know. Shuffling her feet, she tried to get some warmth into them: she had already lost one of her slippers, or it had simply fallen apart from long use; and the other was not long for this world.

Moving further out into the square, she approached a man with an unlit pipe, holding out one of her matches. "Sir?" she asked, then coughed.

Startled by the noise, the man glanced at her, seeing her unwashed red-blonde hair, her blue eyes with dark shadows underneath them, and a dusting of freckles that the grime could not quite hide. He shook his head and turned away, using one of his own matches to light his pipe.

The little match girl sighed softly, and turned to look for another potential customer. She had not been able to sell a single matchbox today, as it was the last evening before the New Year, and not many people were out. The cold snow, falling steadily and coating everything with a smothering blanket of deathly white, was also keeping people indoors, snug in their warm homes. The girl thought about her own home, the narrow, dark cold room she shared with her father and grandmother—she once had a brother, but he had died of the flux when she was very small, and her mother had left for Oslo many summers ago, and no word had ever come back. The match girl liked to dream that her mother was now living in a fine warm house, with nice clothes, and good food, but never mentioned this to her father, not after the time she was beaten until her thin body was a mass of bruises, and her father had told her never to daydream and make up stories again.

"No beggars!" came a stern voice, startling the little redhead. "Move along!"

The girl looked up to see a policeman glaring at her. "Please sir, I'm not a beggar, I'm… I'm an honest salesgirl," she said, repeating the story she had given so many times before. "I'm selling lucifers, sir. See?" She held out her carrying tray, with the boxes inside it.

The policeman snorted. "Arendelle is rife with you street-orphans. The sooner we can pack you all into a workhouse the better. What's your name, urchin?"

"A—Anna, sir," the girl said, trembling. "Please sir, I'm not an orphan; I have a family."

"No doubt you do, uh. Anna," the policeman said in a voice which suggested he didn't believe her, and didn't care either way. "Mind you don't disturb the good folk in their homes, now. Selling's only allowed on the streets. And if I hear any complaints about you loitering, or begging, or bothering the gentry, it's off to the workhouse, family or no."

"Thank you sir," Anna said, bobbing her head as the policeman passed on by, turning his coat collar up as a fresh blast of snow swirled around the square. Anna shivered, wrapping her thin shawl more tightly around her shoulders, and shook her bare head to get the snow off it as she trudged away from the square along the cobbled street, holding out her matches to the few people who passed.

A sudden noise of jingling sounded behind her and a shouted "Make way!" sent her scrambling as fast as she could on frozen feet to the side as a great red sleigh and two horses dashed past. Anna was able to just get a glimpse of a young girl, dressed in expensive furs, and surrounded by shopping bags from many different stores. The girl was nestled into the arms of an older woman, in elegant finery, and for a moment Anna was reminded of her own grandmother, and how, after her father had beaten for not selling enough lucifers, or had struck at her in one of his drunken rages, she had always been able to find comfort in the bony arms of her grandmother.

But the old woman had been ill for many years, ever since she had started coughing blood so red that little Anna had wondered at first if it were paint, and had finally gone to her eternal rest not more than a month before. Anna supposed that her grandmother was now happy in Heaven, but it was so much harder for her to be left behind, without anyone to protect her from her father's wrath. Tonight would be no different, she knew, if she were to return home with anything less than half a dozen skillings. Her insides twisted at the thought of yet another beating, so she trudged wearily back to the main square.

The small girl passed a large, well-lit house, and through a large window, glowing with the warmth of a good fire, she could glimpse a Christmas Tree, the candles in its branches flickering brightly. As she stood there, mesmerized by the tiny lights, the scent of roasted goose caught her nostrils. Anna's empty stomach clenched as the succulent odours crept out into the street: she had not eaten since breakfast, and that was only a thin crust of stale bread and butter, washed down with some weak cabbage soup. Some days, if she was able to sell many matches, she could afford to have a whole pastry, bought from one of the stallkeepers. And once she had found an entire roast chicken just lying on the ground in the snow, dropped by some careless shopper—her family had eaten well for several nights then. But goose! Oh, that such a food could exist! Anna took a deep breath, trying vainly to extract some nutrition, some flavour, from the thin air. For a brief moment she even forget how cold she was, and how much her feet hurt.

"Begone with ya, ya little beggar!"

Anna jerked around to see a portly woman brandishing a broom at her from the neighbour's front stoop. Not wanting any trouble, the little match girl hobbled away as quickly as she could on feet almost numb with cold, heading back towards the square. She rested briefly on a pile of empty crates and, out of habit, checked to see if any food had been left in them. She was not surprised to find there was nothing—she was not the only beggar-child in the city, after all.

She cast a final despondent look around the market square. By now there was almost no one out, save for a few beggars and mendicants shuffling around, like herself, in the forlorn hope of collecting a skilling or two for what might be their only meal of the day. Anna cast a look down into her little carrying-box, and sighed deeply. She would have wept, but there was no point in weeping. Not for her, not here. She had learned that lesson a long time ago. Even when she was beaten, she did not weep, for it would not make the pain ease, or her father less angry. Only after it was all over and she could find solace in her grandmother's arms would the tears finally come, to be delicately wiped away by the old woman's gnarled hands. But with her grandmother now gone, there was no respite from her father's wrath. She could not go home like this, not having sold a single matchbox. There was nothing for it but to spend yet another night outside, in some quiet corner, and hope that the morrow would bring better luck.

The small girl shuffled down a narrow alley that was out of the wind and snow, and found a little corner where one house projected farther out than its neighbour, where she slumped down, drawing her feet under her, tucking them under the ragged hem of her dress. She put the carrying-box of matches into her lap, and stuck her fingers, red with cold, into her mouth to try and warm them. But it was like sucking ice, as she was so cold herself that it did not have much effect.

Anna glanced down at the boxes of matches she was carrying. Surely she could spare one, a single match, just to thaw her fingers out slightly? Just one would not make any difference, and her father would never bother to account for each skilling. Her hands shaking, partly from the cold, but mostly from her daring, she opened a box, and took out a long sliver of sulphur-impregnated cypress wood, the tip dipped in deadly white phosphorous. She gazed at it longingly, as if merely by looking she could enjoy its warmth, then she slowly stretched out a hand, and struck it on the stone foundation wall beside her.

The match flared into life, its flame lighting up the alleyway with yellow and gold, bringing the promise of warmth and comfort. A flame that could light up a great hearth-fire, bringing solace to an entire family. Or perhaps instead of a hearth, there would be an iron stove filled with coal, pushing out its welcome heat, and on top a kettle would be singing merrily, ready for the tea. Anna almost felt as if she could see that stove, and feel its embracing warmth. She stretched out her feet, blue with cold, to try and warm them as well, but all too soon the weak flame flickered and died, leaving nothing but a faint tracing of smoke curling up into the leaden night sky, from which the unrelenting snow drifted steadily down.

The cold and dark after the match had gone out seemed even more oppressive than before, and Anna quickly tucked her feet back under her thin skirts. She waited for a few moments, and then took out another match. Her hands shook less this time, for she cared less what her father would do. After all, he never beat her enough to cripple her, as he needed her to work. She would survive whatever he could do to her, even with no one to turn to to ease her suffering.

The second match scratched into golden life, even more brilliantly than the first, its light dancing in front of her eyes. Anna felt almost warm as she gazed as it. Through the flame, beyond the alley and over the wide moat, she could see the windows of the castle, lit up and full of cheer. She even felt she could hear snatches of music, borne on the wind, as the lords and ladies of Arendelle danced the old year away. Ah, to be in that ballroom, to be warm and safe and happy, Anna thought. She gazed into the burning flame, imagining what wonders lay there for the lucky. There would be good bread, and warm soup, and juicy, plump goose, and maybe even chocolates. Anna had heard people talking about chocolate, and seen it for sale in the shops, but she had never tasted it before. Would the princess of Arendelle be eating chocolate, she wondered. Oh, surely she must! Chocolate and plum tart and pudding and cakes—such a feast the flame promised! But then the fickle fire flickered and died, and Anna's small stomach was as empty as ever.

Princess Elsa of Arendelle was gazing out of a window high up in her castle, watching the people go to and fro, busy on various errands. She was exquisitely bored with the New Year's festivities, and hated the thought of mingling with the various nobles and court hangers-on. There was far too much pressure to pretend to emotions she dared not feel, to put on a pleasant face of welcome when she wished they would all go away and leave her alone. Far too much pressure to conceal her power, her curse.

So instead she had retreated here, to the topmost tower, as soon as she could, leaving her mother and father to entertain the guests. They did it so well, and she found it so impossible to maintain the pretence for long. At least being a princess meant she was expected to be somewhat aloof and cold. If only they knew just how cold, Elsa thought with a joyless smile, as she conjured up a swirl of snow. She sent it outside to join the rest, directing it high into the sky, watching as it danced and spun, like a ballroom full of angels in time with the strains of music that wafted up from the ballroom. With a sweeping gesture out the window she caused a sudden small blizzard, sending it soaring up over the town, showering its myriad lacy flakes upon the people below.

People…. Elsa did not much like other people, being around them. It was too nerve-wracking. Her power had always isolated her; for her own protection, her father always said, and to protect others. He had told her she needed to control her emotions to control her power; to conceal her feelings and conceal her gift. For even in this modern scientific nineteenth century, when the power of steam was changing the face of Europe, no good would come of rumours that the sole child of the king and queen, heiress to the throne of Arendelle, was a witch.

So Elsa seldom ventured outside, and if she lacked real playmates, at least she had as many as she liked in the form of characters in the stories she would read over and over again. And her father had given her a telescope for Christmas just the previous week, so the young princess had spent many hours gazing down on the city from her perch near the very highest part of the castle. She had been doing so again this evening, watching the people go by—the merchants, the young ladies in their finery, the tall dandies with their elegant coats, the tradesmen rolling out of the pubs, arm in arm and faces red, the fat old women who tended the pepperkaker gingerbread stalls, and the soldiers keeping an eye on everything. It was amusing to spy on them, seeing and not being seen. It was a way to participate vicariously, without having to actually interact with anyone as she remained apart, aloof, above them all.

But the market was almost still now, and so Elsa had been playing with the snow, creating swirls and eddies of flakes that danced in the night sky, flying over the still town and settling on roof, tree, stall, road, and windowpane, dusting the world with a gentle white blanket that hid the ugly imperfections of reality. Snow was so elegant, so pure, Elsa thought—it was crystallized perfection. Geometrical precision brought to life, each tiny flake a universe unto itself, forever and ever, as far as her microscope could see.

There was no season better than winter, Elsa felt. She loved the snow and ice, which turned the kingdom into a fantasy playground: summer's prosaic landscapes magically transformed into soft, glittering, white and blue shapes that concealed mysteries beneath their cold exteriors. And there was the rich, warm food, the elegant long dresses, the festivals, and especially the long dark nights when those mysterious, shimmering green curtains of fire would march down from the pole and dance for her high in the sky.

In winter Elsa felt most alive, most able to face the world. It was her time. Sometimes she would even get her parents to take her, incognito, into the city and its marketplaces. They would swish through the streets in their great sleigh, visiting bookshops and toy stores, but they would always end with a stop at one of the stalls that sold pepperkaker, where she would marvel at the way they were made into all sorts of wonderful shapes, some coated with glaze and sweets and used to decorate windows. What they did with dough, she could do with snow. Elsa cast up a gust of flakes, shaping it into hearts, diamonds, clubs, stars, and all the other delightful patterns the gingerbread came in, imagining them floating down into the town, forming their own frozen decorations on windowpanes around the city. Tomorrow, New Year's Day, she knew her family would have to leave early to visit the great cathedral of St. Olav, and she was determined to ensure that her father bought her a large bag of pepperkaker to make up for having to go out into the city and face all those watching, staring eyes. The eyes that always seemed to say, we know what you are, we know what you did.

A sudden spark in the distance caught her eye. Over among the large merchant houses that lined the harbour, across from the castle, a tiny light flickered and wavered. Too small to be a lamp, Elsa's first thought was that it was a reflection of the castle lights on a bit of broken glass. But then the light went out, and she thought no more about it, concentrating on creating a particularly fine pattern of snow, which she sent out over the castle courtyard, letting the wind catch it and take it to create its own unique patterns.

Another spark flared up, in the same place, and Elsa peered towards it, curious as to what could be causing it. It seemed to be coming from down one of the narrow alleyways. The light was too bright to be a reflection from anywhere, and Elsa leaned on the windowsill, chin in hand, looking out at the gleam in the darkness and wondering. She dreamed for a moment that it could be a fairy, like in her stories, but her father had been most specific that such things did not exist. Perhaps a troll, with gleaming gold? Come down from its mountain home to spirit away a beautiful maiden to be its bride—and as trolls were known to prefer princesses, Elsa found amusement in imagining it might be looking out over the water at her, yearning for her. Then her little fantasy was interrupted by the church bells tolling midnight, signalling the new year, and the mysterious light faded again.

The snow was slowly easing, and Elsa knew her mother would be expecting her in bed. She picked up her telescope and was about to start down to her bedroom when yet another spark caught her eye, much brighter than the others. This time she raised her telescope and peered through it. It was hard to make out, as the snow was still falling, but it looked like a small figure hunched in the snow. A small woman, or a child, perhaps. Elsa couldn't imagine what the person was doing, or why they would be outside so late. Of course it was never going to be a fairy or a troll, but could it perhaps be smugglers, or even pirates, making secret signals? Pirates in Arendelle would be an exciting adventure—the idea sent a mild chill up the young princess's spine. Playing along with her fantasy imaginings, Elsa grabbed the candlestick from the table and held it out so it could be seen, moving it from side to side in reply. But there was no response from the light, and when it eventually faded, having lasted longer than the others, she turned away in disappointment, leaving her fantasies to return to the tedium of her life. It would have been so much more interesting, she thought, if she could have gone out there and discovered the pirates, or trolls, or fairies, or whatever was making that strangely hypnotic light. Elsa glanced at her hands, and sighed. She could never do that, not as long as she was afflicted with this curse. There was too much risk—she simply wasn't safe to be around.

Already half-asleep, Anna nestled into the snowbank, which felt warm and soft, more inviting that the fluffiest feather bed. She could hear, far off, the sound of the bells ringing in the New Year, and sighed as a distant memory from her childhood surfaced, of visiting the castle many years ago, when it was open to all, with her grandmother. Anna felt she would so like to be with her again, to be held and comforted, protected from everything harsh and cold. Perhaps the warmth of the flames could bring them together again, at least in her heart.

Anna drew out several matches, knowing this would cost her dearly on her return home, and lit them. Oh, they were so bright and warm! So much more so than a single match! What a marvel a flame was! The young girl breathed in the hot, slightly acrid smell, feeling it warm her chest right down to the bottom as she gazed into the dancing flames. She could see shapes in there, twisting figures, laughing and dancing. And there was her grandmother! Just a figure in the flames, reaching out her hands to the young ragged child. A small smile stole across Anna's dirty face, and fresh tears of happiness sparkled in her eyes. Behind her grandmother she could see the lights of the castle, the lanterns gleaming from the windows and eaves, and in her mind's eye the castle lanterns became the candles on the tree she had seen earlier, with one near the top, brighter than the rest, forming the star. The tall, narrow alley transformed into a warm, inviting ballroom, and she and her grandmother were dancing happily through a snowstorm of golden lights that surrounded her, lifting her up, filling her heart with joy.

The final matches flickered and died, falling unnoticed from the child's pale hands. Anna's last thought, before she drifted off, was a blissful happiness that her feet didn't feel sore any more.

The young princess had left the candlestick in the open window, where it burned brightly for a few more minutes, then started to gutter as the wind picked up. The flame struggled to survive, but in the end the snow was too much for it, and it slowly faded and died, leaving the room in darkness as the cold winter night reclaimed its icy grip on the world.

NOTES:

I saw Disney's version of The Little Match Girl the other day, and was very impressed. For such a short segment, it really resonated quite powerfully. The cold and snow immediately made me think of Frozen, and the way that, even at its worst, the depiction of winter in Frozen still has that fairy tale-like air, one which the wealthy could indulge in, but the poor would have to just suffer through. So I decided to explore these different reactions to winter through Anna and Elsa, making Anna the poor girl, and Elsa the rich one who inadvertently makes things worse. Unlike Andersen's tale, however, this one will have a somewhat happier ending (there wouldn't be much of a story to tell if I followed the original too closely, after all…).

The first sentence is almost a direct quote from HCA's first sentence. Much of the descriptions of match-selling is taken from Henry Mayhew's "London Labour and London Poor," a fascinating bit of social history written during the 1840s, the same time "Frozen" is set. Therefore the conditions I describe here will probably tend towards more London than Arendelle, but I will try and keep it from being too British. The odd mention of skilling coins or pepperkaker gingerbread, for example. Pepperkaker is Norwegian gingerbread, and like many countries in Germany/Scandinavia, it is commonly eaten as a Christmas treat, or used for decorations.

The behaviour of trolls is based on Scandinavian folklore—it does seem princesses were a preferred target of trolls.

The bit about the "leaden blank-eyed stare of unexpectant want" is pinched from George Eliot's The Mill on the Floss: "…the homes where the hearth was not very warm, and where the food had little fragrance; where the human faces had had no sunshine in them, but rather the leaden, blank-eyed gaze of unexpectant want." A wonderfully haunting bit of imagery describing the poor. I have used it in a couple of works before already. I think "unexpectant want" is such a perfect description.

The "deadly white phosphorus" tip refers to the older style of white phosphorus matches, which used a particularly dangerous form of phosphorus that could in the worst cases lead to a condition known as "phossy jaw," when the jawbone would literally rot from the inside. I really don't recommend looking it up if you're eating. Red phosphorus was developed later, and found to be much safer, but it was also more expensive, so for many decades matchmakers tried to use the cheaper form. However, the appalling conditions did create a foundation for some of the first modern labour reform movements.

Incidentally, it seems, based on Mayhew and others, that selling individual matches, as shown in the Disney short, would be highly unusual: the standard was for a box, for a few pennies or so. So I have made Anna sell matchboxes, rather than individual matches (which is really a bit like selling single staples…).

[Edited 21-Oct-14: Guest reviewer Pottere1 spotted that I had given Anna two sisters in this chapter, and then later had her have none, and one brother. Oops. So it's now one brother and one mother...]

[Edited 21-Apr-15: St Olav's is not a stave cathedral in the chapter in which it features, so I have removed that reference, and made a few other very minors edits.]