In the middle of the village there lived an old shoemaker’s widow. She sewed a pair of little shoes out of old, red strips of cloth as best she could. They were quite awkwardly made, but she meant well, and they were made for the little girl. The little girl’s name was Karen.

The very day her mother was buried, she received the red shoes and wore them for the first time. They weren’t exactly appropriate for mourning, but she didn’t have any others, and so she walked behind the poor straw coffin in the red shoes without stockings.

Just then a large, old coach came by and in it sat a large, old woman. She looked at the little girl and felt sorry for her so she said to the parson, “Listen, let me take that little girl. I’ll be good to her.”

And Karen thought it was because of the red shoes, but the old woman said they were awful, and they were burned. Karen herself was dressed in neat, clean clothes. She had to learn to read and sew, and people said that she was pretty. But the mirror said, “You’re much more than pretty—you’re beautiful!”

One day the queen was traveling through the country, and she had her little daughter, the princess, with her. People streamed to the castle—Karen too—to see the little princess standing in lovely white clothes in a window being admired. She was wearing neither a train nor a gold crown, but had lovely red leather shoes on. Of course, they were altogether nicer than the shoes the old shoemaker had sewed for Karen. Yes, nothing in the world can compare to red shoes!

Now Karen was old enough to be confirmed. She had gotten new clothes, and she was also to have new shoes. The rich shoemaker in town measured her little foot. This was in his own house, where there were big glass cases full of elegant shoes and shiny boots. They were lovely, but the old woman couldn’t see very well so she got no pleasure from them. Among the shoes was a pair of red ones, just like those the princess had worn. How splendid they were! The shoemaker said they had been made for a count’s daughter, but had not fit.

“They must be patent leather,” said the old woman, “they’re shiny.”

“Yes, they are shiny,” said Karen, and they fit and were bought, but the old woman didn’t know they were red. She would never have allowed Karen to wear red shoes for Confirmation, but that is what she did.

Everyone looked at her feet, and as she walked up the church aisle towards the chancel, it seemed to her that even the old pictures on the tombs, the portraits of ministers and their wives with stiff collars and long black garments, looked at her red shoes. When the minister laid his hand on her head and talked about holy baptism, the covenant with God, and that she was now to be a true Christian, all she thought about was the red shoes. The organ played so solemnly, beautiful children’s voices sang, and the old cantor sang too, but Karen thought only about the red shoes.

By afternoon the old woman had been told by everyone that the shoes were red, and she said that that was indecent and improper. She told Karen that in the future she should always wear black shoes to church, even if they were old.

The next Sunday there was communion, and Karen looked at the black shoes and looked at the red ones—and then she looked at the red ones again and put them on.

It was a beautiful sunny day. Karen and the old woman took the path through the cornfield, and it was a little dusty. There was an old soldier with a crutch standing by the church door. He had a strange long beard that was more red than white, in fact it was red, and he bowed way down to the ground and asked the old woman if he could wipe off her shoes. And Karen also stretched out her little foot. “My, what lovely dancing shoes,” said the soldier, “Stick tight when you dance!” and then he tapped the soles with his hand.

The old woman gave the soldier a coin, and then she and Karen went into the church.

And all the people there looked at Karen’s red shoes, and all the pictures looked at them, and when Karen knelt at the altar and put the gold chalice to her lips, she thought only about the red shoes, and it was as if they were swimming in the chalice in front of her. She forgot to sing the hymns, and she forgot to say the Lord’s Prayer.

Then all the people left the church, and the old woman climbed into her coach. Karen lifted her foot to follow behind her, but the old soldier, who was standing nearby, said, “What lovely dancing shoes!” And Karen couldn’t help herself; she had to do a few dance steps, and once she started her legs kept dancing. It was as if the shoes had power over them. She danced around the corner of the church. She couldn’t stop. The coachman had to run after her and grab her, and he lifted her into the coach, but her feet kept on dancing so that she kicked the good old woman horribly. Finally they got the shoes off, and her legs stopped moving.

At home the shoes were put away in a cupboard, but Karen couldn’t help looking at them.

Then one day the old woman became ill. They said she wouldn’t live long. She needed to be cared for and watched over, and no one was better suited to do this than Karen, but in town there was a great ball and Karen had been invited. She looked at the old woman, who couldn’t live anyway, and she looked at the red shoes and there wasn’t any harm in that. She put on the red shoes, and she certainly could do that too—but then she went to the dance and started dancing.

But when she wanted to go right, the shoes danced to the left, and when she wanted to dance up the floor, the shoes danced down—down the stairs and through the streets and out the gates of the town. Dance she did and dance she must, way out into the dark woods.

There was something shining up in the trees, and she thought it was the moon, because it was a face. But it was the old soldier with the red beard. He nodded and said, “What lovely dancing shoes!”

Then she got scared and wanted to throw the red shoes away, but they stuck fast, and she flung off her stockings but the shoes had grown onto her feet. Dance she did and dance she must, over fields and meadows, in rain and in sunshine, night and day, but it was worst at night.

She danced into the open churchyard, but the dead weren’t dancing there. They had much better things to do than dance. She wanted to sit down on the grave of the poor where the bitter tansy grew, but there was neither rest nor repose for her, and when she danced towards the open church door, she saw an angel there with long white robes and wings that stretched from his shoulders to the ground. His face was stern and serious, and in his hand he held a sword, broad and shining.

“Dance you shall!” he said, “dance in your red shoes until you are pale and cold! Until your skin shrinks together like a skeleton. Dance you shall from door to door and wherever proud and vain children live, you are to knock at the door so that they hear you and fear you! Dance you shall, dance—!”

“Mercy!” cried Karen. But she didn’t hear what the angel answered because the shoes carried her through the gate, out to the fields, over roads and paths, and she had no choice but to dance.

One morning she danced past a door she knew well. There was the sound of hymn singing from inside, and they carried out a coffin decorated with flowers. Then she knew that the old woman was dead, and she believed that now she was deserted by everyone and cursed by God’s angel.

Dance she did and dance she must, dance in the dark night. The shoes carried her away over thorns and stubble that scratched her until she bled. She danced over the heath until she came to a lonely little cottage. She knew that the executioner lived there, and she tapped on the window with her fingers and said:

“Come out! Come out!—I can’t come inside because I’m dancing.”

And the executioner said, “Maybe you don’t know who I am? I chop heads off evil people, and I notice that my axe is vibrating!”

“Don’t chop my head off!” said Karen, “because then I can’t repent my sin. But chop off my feet along with the red shoes.”

And then she confessed all her sins, and the executioner chopped off her feet along with the red shoes, but the shoes with the small feet in them danced away over the meadow into the deep forest.

Then he whittled wooden legs and crutches for her, taught her a hymn that sinners always sing, and she kissed the hand that had guided the axe and went on across the heath.

“Now I have suffered enough for the red shoes,” she said. “I’ll go to the church so everyone can see me.” And she walked quite quickly towards the church door, but when she got there, the red shoes were dancing in front of her, and she became terrified and turned around.

All week long she was sad and cried many heavy tears, but when Sunday came she said, “Surely now I have suffered and struggled enough. I should think that I am just as good as many of those who sit and hold their heads high in church.” And she walked quite bravely, but she didn’t get further than the gate when she saw the red shoes dancing in front of her. She was terrified, turned around, and regretted her sins with all her heart.

Then she went to the parsonage and asked if she could work there. She would be diligent and do everything she could. She didn’t care about the salary, she just wanted a roof over her head and to be with good people. And the minister’s wife felt sorry for her and gave her a job. And she was diligent and thoughtful. She sat still and listened in the evenings when the minister read aloud from the Bible. All of the little children liked her very much, but when they talked about finery and frills and about being as beautiful as a queen, she shook her head.

The following Sunday they all went to church, and they asked her if she wanted to go along, but with tears in her eyes she looked sadly at her crutches, and so the others went to hear God’s word while she went alone into her little room. It was only big enough for a bed and a chair and she sat there with her hymnal, and as she read it with a pious spirit, the wind carried the organ music from the church to her, and she lifted her face with tears in her eyes and said, “Oh, God help me!”

Then the sun shone brightly and right in front of her stood God’s angel in the white robes, the one she had seen that night in the church door. But now he wasn’t holding the sharp sword, but rather a lovely green branch that was full of roses. He touched the ceiling with it, and it rose up so high and where he had touched there was a golden star shining. Then he touched the walls and they extended, and she saw the organ, which was playing. She saw the old pictures with ministers and their wives. The congregation was sitting in the decorated pews, singing in their hymnals. The church itself had come home to the poor girl in the narrow little room, or maybe she had come to the church. She sat in the pews with the others from the parsonage, and when they had finished the hymn and looked up, they nodded and said, “It’s good you came, Karen!”

“It was grace,” she said.

And the organ sounded, and the children’s voices in the choir sang so softly and beautifully! The clear sunshine streamed so warmly through the window into the church pew where Karen sat. Her heart grew so full of sunshine, peace, and joy that it burst. Her soul flew on the sunshine up to God, and there was no one there who asked about the red shoes.