In this chap­ter titled “The Naughty Boy” tells of a qui­et, elder­ly poet who leads a peace­ful life, sur­round­ed by books, mem­o­ries, and the com­fort of soli­tude. On a stormy evening, thun­der rum­bles and winds wail when a faint knock draws his atten­tion. Upon open­ing the door, he finds a drenched child with gold­en curls and rosy cheeks, del­i­cate as an angel yet trem­bling in the cold. The poet, guid­ed by kind­ness, brings the boy inside, offer­ing a warm blan­ket and a com­fort­ing meal of wine and roast­ed apples. As the boy dries off and his col­or returns, he is no longer help­less but vibrant, eyes gleam­ing with mis­chief. He soon reveals he is none oth­er than Cupid—the bringer of love and trouble—carrying with him a bow, a quiver of arrows, and a trou­ble­some spir­it that turns affec­tion into unex­pect­ed anguish.

After his short rest, Cupid announces that he must test his bow, pre­tend­ing it may have weak­ened from the storm. Before the poet can object, the mis­chie­vous boy shoots an arrow straight into his chest, caus­ing a sharp pang in both heart and mind. The poet stum­bles, sur­prised not just by the phys­i­cal sting but by the emo­tion­al upheaval that fol­lows. Cupid, laugh­ing glee­ful­ly, darts out into the clear­ing skies, leav­ing the once-serene poet now tan­gled in long­ing, con­fu­sion, and a cas­cade of new­found emo­tions. This betray­al marks a sharp tran­si­tion in the story—from warmth and pro­tec­tion to deceit and pain. The poet­’s kind ges­ture is turned against him, becom­ing a les­son not only in love but in the dan­gers of blind gen­eros­i­ty. Through this act, Ander­sen illus­trates how eas­i­ly trust can be weaponized, espe­cial­ly when appear­ances deceive.

The poet, though elder­ly and wise, becomes a vic­tim to the whims of love, illus­trat­ing how even the most guard­ed hearts can fall prey to Cupid’s arrows. He warns oth­ers, espe­cial­ly the young and unsus­pect­ing, of the seduc­tive charm that Cupid cloaks him­self in. The poet explains that the boy is not sim­ply a sym­bol of affec­tion but a cun­ning trick­ster who tar­gets the vul­ner­a­ble, mak­ing maid­ens swoon and young men lose rea­son. His warn­ings fall on deaf ears, for Cupid’s inno­cent appear­ance fools many. This speaks to a uni­ver­sal truth: love, when dri­ven by illu­sion or impulse, can cause tur­moil. The sto­ry ques­tions whether love is a bless­ing or a bur­den, and it chal­lenges read­ers to see beyond the sur­face when feel­ings begin to stir.

In the tale’s final mes­sage, the poet shares his grief—not out of bit­ter­ness, but from learned expe­ri­ence. His voice becomes one of both wis­dom and sor­row, urg­ing read­ers to rec­og­nize the dual nature of love. While it can uplift, it also wounds, often with­out warn­ing. His suf­fer­ing becomes sym­bol­ic of those who have offered care, only to be left aching by those they trust­ed. The sto­ry is less about revenge and more about rev­e­la­tion, show­cas­ing how vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty to love doesn’t dimin­ish one’s worth but under­scores the unpre­dictabil­i­ty of emo­tion. The poet’s words remain a time­less reminder: some­times, the most inno­cent-seem­ing vis­i­tors car­ry the sharpest arrows.

Cupid, in this tale, is not paint­ed as a mali­cious vil­lain but as a mis­chie­vous force rep­re­sent­ing love’s unpre­dictabil­i­ty. Ander­sen clev­er­ly per­son­i­fies emo­tion, por­tray­ing Cupid not as a gen­tle god, but as a play­ful spir­it who thrives on sur­prise and chaos. His vis­it to the poet sug­gests that no one is immune—whether old or young, learned or naive. Love strikes when least expect­ed, dis­rupt­ing peace with long­ing. Through this sto­ry, read­ers are encour­aged to be cau­tious with their hearts and aware of the illu­sions that affec­tion might bring. The cau­tion lies not in avoid­ing love, but in under­stand­ing its power—its beau­ty matched equal­ly by its dan­ger.