Chap­ter IV opens with a pecu­liar turn of events inside Frederick’s Hos­pi­tal, where a pair of seem­ing­ly ordi­nary galosh­es con­tin­ues to shape lives in unex­pect­ed ways. A patient’s sud­den recov­ery, traced back to the removal of those shoes, leaves the staff puz­zled. These galosh­es, for­got­ten in the com­mo­tion, are found and tak­en by a young hos­pi­tal watch­man. Fas­ci­nat­ed more by prac­ti­cal­i­ty than mag­ic, he decides to wear them on his shift. When a heavy rain begins and he’s faced with the chal­lenge of squeez­ing between iron bars, he wish­es to slip through effort­less­ly. The wish is grant­ed, but not as he expects. Instead of suc­cess, he finds him­self stuck in a rather com­ic but uncom­fort­able posi­tion, con­fused by the force behind it. His strug­gle ends not with tri­umph but humil­i­ty. What he want­ed, he got—but the expe­ri­ence left him ques­tion­ing the nature of con­ve­nience, and more impor­tant­ly, of inten­tion.

Once free from his strange predica­ment, the watch­man heads to a the­ater in King Street, hop­ing for rest and enter­tain­ment. The night fea­tures dra­mat­ic read­ings, with an espe­cial­ly curi­ous poem tak­ing cen­ter stage. It tells the tale of a young man who bor­rows his aunt’s enchant­ed spec­ta­cles. When worn, these glass­es reveal not appear­ances but inner truths. Through them, the wear­er sees into people’s hearts—their hid­den desires, jeal­ousies, regrets, and virtues. The audi­ence laughs, though the humor has sharp edges. It’s satire laced with moral insight, and the mes­sage isn’t lost on the young watch­man. He begins to won­der about the world beneath appear­ances. How much is hid­den? And if such a view were pos­si­ble, would he even want to see it?

After the read­ing, he slips back into the galosh­es, still unaware of their full pow­er. A qui­et wish to under­stand oth­ers bet­ter sets off anoth­er sur­re­al journey—this time, not through space, but through con­scious­ness. Sud­den­ly, he finds him­self mov­ing through the hearts of strangers in the the­ater. Each heart becomes a land­scape: one a bit­ter win­ter of envy, anoth­er a hol­low echo cham­ber of pride. Some are gar­dens of hope, while oth­ers are crum­bling ruins of fear and guilt. The expe­ri­ence is not just enlightening—it’s over­whelm­ing. He sees a priest whose com­pas­sion masks deep sor­row, a child with dreams too big for the world, and a noble­woman trapped by her own van­i­ty. Every life is com­pli­cat­ed, every soul car­ry­ing bur­dens no one else can see. The watchman’s under­stand­ing grows, but so does his weari­ness.

In one heart, he finds end­less ambi­tion. In anoth­er, an aching lone­li­ness dis­guised by laugh­ter. This meta­phys­i­cal jour­ney opens a win­dow into the lay­ered truths peo­ple car­ry. It becomes clear to him that sur­face appear­ances often tell the least accu­rate sto­ry. Those who appear hap­py may be aching. Those who are qui­et may be wise. And those who laugh the loud­est often hide the most pain. As the watch­man trav­els deep­er into this unseen world, a ques­tion begins to sur­face: how much truth is too much? If we tru­ly saw into oth­ers, could we still inter­act with kind­ness and with­out fear?

The watch­man even­tu­al­ly begs to return. The sights have taught him more than he thought pos­si­ble, but they also leave him shak­en. The galosh­es respond to his desire, and he is pulled gen­tly back into his body, seat­ed again in the the­ater, sur­round­ed by strangers whose hearts he now knows. A qui­et grat­i­tude fills him. Though changed, he feels more human—not because he saw oth­ers clear­ly, but because he now real­izes how lit­tle we often under­stand. He removes the galosh­es and places them beside his seat, unsure whether the jour­ney was dream or truth.

This chap­ter clev­er­ly folds fairy-tale ele­ments into psy­cho­log­i­cal depth. Ander­sen uses fan­ta­sy not for spec­ta­cle, but to reveal some­thing about the reader’s world. The galosh­es are not mere­ly magical—they are mir­rors reflect­ing our wants, unfil­tered. The sto­ry asks: if you could see every­one as they tru­ly are, would you still be kind? Would you still admire, trust, or love? In doing so, it encour­ages com­pas­sion, not just curios­i­ty. Every­one has unseen strug­gles. Every soul is its own uni­verse. And some­times, not know­ing every­thing allows us to treat each oth­er with gen­tle­ness and grace.

What’s also com­pelling is the way Ander­sen plays with per­spec­tive. The galosh­es grant pow­er, but with every wish ful­filled comes a consequence—discomfort, con­fu­sion, or deep reflec­tion. Through this, the author teach­es restraint. Desires, even noble ones, can have sharp edges when grant­ed too quick­ly. The galosh­es chal­lenge the wear­er not just to wish but to think. That mes­sage remains rel­e­vant today, espe­cial­ly in an age where speed and instant grat­i­fi­ca­tion are often mis­tak­en for progress. Ander­sen reminds us that the heart of wis­dom is not knowl­edge alone, but humil­i­ty. And in that humil­i­ty lies a path toward under­stand­ing, both of our­selves and each oth­er.