The Galoshes of Fortune

On a rainy evening in Copenhagen, a grand party was held at the Councilor of Justice’s house. While the guests laughed and talked, two invisible visitors slipped inside: Dame Care, who likes to teach lessons, and her light-footed sister, Lady Fortune. Dame Care carried a shiny pair of black galoshes.

“These are my Galoshes of Fortune,” she whispered. “Anyone who puts them on will be sent exactly where they wish to be—this minute, that place, that time. It sounds delightful. It is not always so.”

Lady Fortune smiled. “Let us see what people do with such luck.” They placed the galoshes by the door among the guests’ shoes and vanished.

Soon the party ended. The Councilor of Justice, who had spent the evening praising the ‘good old days,’ took the shiny galoshes by mistake. “Ah, the Middle Ages,” he sighed as he stepped into the street. “How grand they must have been! If only I could stand in those times for a moment.”

At once the lamps went out. The cobblestones turned muddy. The air smelled of smoke and horses. The Councilor looked up and gasped—no glass windows, no neat houses, no carriages, only narrow streets, rough men in capes, and a watchman with a pike.

“This is most uncomfortable,” he muttered, dodging a wagon without springs. He entered an inn where people drank from wooden cups and spoke Latin over parchment with goose-feather pens. “How very learned,” he said at first, but the room was dark, the benches hard, and everybody stared at his coat as if it were strange.

“I only wished for the old days,” he said, “not for cold and splinters!” A sudden splash from a passing cart soaked his legs. “I wish I were back in my own time! My own room! My own slippers!” He stumbled at the doorstep, one galosh slipped, and in a blink the street lamps glowed again. He found himself at home, shaking rain from his hat. “The present has its troubles,” he told his fire, “but at least it has pillows.” He set the shiny galoshes by the door and went to bed.

In the same house lived a young Student who loved books and big thoughts more than boots. He noticed the galoshes and pulled them on to run an errand. The night was wet and the wind sharp. He looked up at the clouds and sighed, “Oh, to be a lark and fly above this weather, singing my way to warm countries!”

The wish was hardly finished when his coat and cap fell empty on the steps. Up in the air fluttered a small brown lark with a quick, surprised heart. “I can fly!” he trilled, swinging over rooftops, skimming chimneys, darting like an arrow through the rain.

Dawn broke. The little lark sang out of sheer joy, and a boy below clapped his hands. “A lark! I’ll catch it!” A net flashed. The Student felt the light, clever feet of a bird tangled. He was taken indoors and placed in a cage by a window. The boy whistled kindly, but the Student-lark pressed his beak against the bars and thought of his books, his warm bed, and his steaming cup of tea.

“Freedom is not only wings,” he thought sadly. “I wish I were myself again, in my room, this moment.” He tucked his head under his wing, and when he looked up, there he was—shivering, but human—on the edge of his bed, the galoshes still on his feet and a feather stuck in his hair as if a dream had been playing tricks. He laughed a little, then gently set the galoshes by the door.

That evening the Student put the galoshes on once more. “It would be lovely to walk in the country,” he mused, “to smell spring grass and hear nightingales.” He stepped outside and, with one thought, was far from town—on a lonely road. But it was not spring. Rain filled the ditches. The wind blew hard. He slipped, tumbled into cold water, and struggled up, coughing.

“Help!” he cried. A cart creaked by. Kind hands pulled him out and carried him to a nearby hospital. They laid him in a clean bed and covered him with blankets. The room was warm, but the Student felt very tired. “If only I could rest and not think at all,” he whispered. “Rest as if everything were finished.”

His wish was granted. The walls melted into a soft, gentle light. A great quiet opened, wide and peaceful, like a clear sky after a storm. Before him stood a kind gatekeeper with bright, serious eyes.

“Is this the next world?” the Student asked softly.

“The door to it,” said the gatekeeper. “But your road is not done.”

At once the Student thought of the smell of fresh bread, of friends’ voices, of ink on paper, of the way streetlamps shine on rain. He thought of a thousand small, good things that only the living can taste. “Please,” he said, “send me back. I have much to learn.”

“Go, then,” said the gatekeeper, smiling. “Remember what you asked.”

The Student opened his eyes. A nurse was untying the wet galoshes from his feet. “You’ll be fine,” she said kindly. “What a night you must have had!” He pressed her hand and nodded. He did not try on the shiny shoes again.

The galoshes, left in the hospital corridor, were soon found by the Night Watchman. “A good pair against puddles,” he said, pulling them on. The rain had stopped, and the stars winked. Outside the hospital stood a lieutenant with a bright sword and smooth gloves.

“What a grand life,” thought the Watchman. “No stomping through mud for him. I wish I were a lieutenant.”

He blinked—and sat in a fine room with polished boots, a tight collar, and a table stacked with papers. Bells rang. Voices called. Orders to read, reports to write, complaints to settle. No strolling. No star-counting. No friendly nods from night-owls at their windows.

The Watchman tugged at his stiff collar. “I miss my slow walk,” he thought. “I miss the city as it sleeps.” He closed his eyes. “I wish I were just a watchman again.”

The bells fell silent. The stars returned. He stood once more on his corner, warm in his simple cloak, humming a tune. “A man should know when he is well off,” he said, and he meant it.

As dawn colored the sky, Dame Care and Lady Fortune came back, unseen by anyone but the sparrows. They picked up the galoshes.

“People wish quickly,” said Lady Fortune.

“And learn slowly,” said Dame Care, tucking the galoshes away. “These shoes bring more muddles than joy.”

They looked over the waking city—lamps going out, shop doors opening, coffee brewing—and they smiled.

“The best luck,” said Lady Fortune, “is often the life already under one’s own feet.”

And that, the Councilor, the Student, and the Watchman never forgot.