Fairy Tales

by Ганс Христиан Андерсен

  It wasn’t even six years before the lord of the manor wandered away from the estate with a sack and a staff as a poor man. The manor was bought by a rich peddler, the very same man who had been the object of ridicule and offered beer in a stocking. But honesty and hard work bring prosperity, and now the peddler was lord of the manor. From that day forward, no card playing was allowed there. “Cards are poor reading,” he said. “And that’s because, when the devil first saw the Bible, he wanted to make one like it, and he invented card playing.”

  The new master took a wife, and who do you think it was? It was the little goose girl, who had always been good-natured, gentle, and kind. And in her new clothes she was so fine and beautiful as if she had been born an aristocratic lady. How did all this happen? Well, it’s too long a story for our busy times, but it happened, and the most important part comes later.

  Now there was happiness and prosperity on the old estate. Mother was in charge of the house, and father the farm. Blessings poured down upon them, and money makes money. The old buildings were renovated and painted. The moats were cleaned out, and fruit trees were planted. Everything looked so pleasant and nice. The living room floor was as shiny as a bread board. In the winter evenings the mistress sat with her maids in the big hall spinning wool and linen. Every Sunday evening the Bible was read aloud, and that by the councilman himself. Yes, the peddler became a councilman—but not until he was quite old. The children grew—there were children—and they were all well educated, but they didn’t have equal brains of course, just as in every family.

  And the willow branch out there had become a fine, large tree that stood free and untrimmed. “That’s our family tree,” the old folks said, and they told their children, even the less bright ones, that the tree was to be respected and honored.

  And a hundred years went by.

  Now it was our own time. The lake had become a bog, and it was as if the old manor house had been erased. There was an oblong puddle of water with some stone circles on the side. Those were the remains of the deep moat, and there was still a grand old tree standing there with stooped branches. It was the family tree. It showed how beautiful a weeping willow can be when it is allowed to get along on its own. True, the trunk had split, right from the root up to the crown. Storms had twisted it a little, but it was standing, and grass and flowers were growing from all the cracks and crevices where wind and weather had deposited humus. It was like an entire little hanging garden with raspberries and chickweed, especially at the top, where the big branches divided. Even a tiny little rowan-berry tree had rooted there and stood so slender and delicate right up in the middle of the old willow tree. The tree was mirrored in the black water when the wind drove the duckweed to the other corner of the pond. A little path over the meadows went right by the tree.

  High on a hill by the forest, with a wonderful view, lay the new manor house, large and splendid, with windows so clear that you would think there was no glass in them. The big stairs by the door looked like they were wearing an arbor of roses and large-leafed plants. The lawn was so perfectly green that it looked as if each blade was tended both morning and night. Expensive paintings hung in the hall inside, and there were silk and velvet chairs and couches that could almost walk on their own legs. There were tables with shiny marble tops and books of fine leather with gilt edges. Rich people lived here, distinguished people—the baron and his family.

  And one matched the other. “Everything in its proper place!” they also said, and because of that all the pictures that had once been the pride and joy of the old manor house were now hanging in the servants’ wing. They were real junk, especially two old portraits, one of a man in a rosy red coat and a wig, and the other of a lady with powdered hair piled high on her head and a red rose in her hand. Both were surrounded by big wreaths of willow branches. There were lots of holes in the old portraits because the baron’s little children always shot their bow and arrows at the two old folks. It was the Councilman and his wife, from whom the family descended.

  “But they aren’t really part of our family,” one of the small barons said. “He was a peddler, and she was a goose girl. They weren’t like Pappa and Mamma!”

  The pictures were just poor rubbish, and when “everything in its proper place” was applied, great grandfather and great grandmother ended up in the servants’ quarters.

  The minister’s son was the live-in tutor on the estate. He was out walking one day with the little boys and their elder sister, who had just been confirmed. They walked on the path down towards the old willow tree, and while they walked she bundled up a bouquet of wild flowers with “everything in its proper place,” and it made a beautiful whole. At the same time she listened carefully to everything that was said, and it pleased her so much to hear the minister’s son talk about the powers of nature and of history’s great men and women. She had a good, healthy disposition, noble in soul and thought, and with a heart that could embrace all of God’s creation.

  They stopped by the old weeping willow. The smallest boy wanted a willow whistle made from the tree. He had had them whittled before from other willows. The minister’s son broke off a branch.

  “Oh, don’t do that!” said the young baroness, but it was too late. “That’s our famous old tree, and I’m so very fond of it! They all laugh at me about it at home, but that doesn’t matter. There’s a legend about that tree—”

  And she told everything that she had heard about the tree, about the old manor, about the goose girl and the peddler who met there, and became the ancestors of the distinguished family and the young baroness herself.

  “They wouldn’t accept a title, the decent old folks,” she said. “They had a saying, ‘Everything in its proper place’ and they didn’t think they would be in the proper place if they were elevated to the nobility because of their money. It was their son, my grandfather, who would become a baron. It’s said that he had great knowledge and was highly regarded and thought of by princes and princesses, always invited to their parties. Everyone else in the family thinks the most of him, but—I I don’t really know why—there’s something about the old couple that draws my heart to them. It must have been so pleasant and patriarchal in those times in the manor, when the mistress sat spinning with all her maids, and the old gentleman read aloud from the Bible.”

  “They were pious, sensible people,” said the minister’s son, and then they started talking about nobility and the middle class, and it was almost as if the minister’s son didn’t belong to the middle class, the way he talked about the nobility.

  “It’s a good thing to belong to a family that has distinguished itself—to have an incentive in your blood, in a way, to continue doing good things! It’s wonderful to bear a family name that opens all doors to you. Nobility means noble. It’s the gold coin that has been stamped with what it’s truly worth. It’s a fashion of our times, and many poets share the view, that everything that is aristocratic is false and foolish, and that the lower in society you go, the more true nobility shines. But that’s not my opinion. I think that’s wrong, completely wrong. You can find many moving noble incidents in the upper classes. My mother told me one, and I could give others. She was visiting at a distinguished family in town. I think my grandmother had nursed the noble mistress. My mother was standing in the living room with the aristocratic old husband when he saw an old woman coming along the courtyard on crutches. She came every Sunday and was given a few shillings. ‘There’s the poor old thing,’ the man said. ‘It’s so hard for her to walk.’ And before my mother knew it, he was out the door and down the steps. The seventy-year-old Excellency went down to the old woman himself to save her the arduous trip up the steps for the money she came for. Of course, that’s just one poor little example, but just like the ‘widow’s mite’ it comes from the heart, from human decency. Poets should be pointing out, especially now in our time, things which inspire good, things that mitigate and reconcile. But when a human being throws his weight around in the
street just because he has noble blood and a family tree like an Arabian horse, or says, ‘It smells like the street in here’ when a common person has been in the room, then nobility has rotted, become a mask as in Thespis,1 and then we laugh at such a person and satirize them.”

  That was what the minister’s son said. It was somewhat long, but in the meantime the whistle had been whittled.

  They were having a big party at the manor. Many guests had come from the surrounding area and from the capital. Some women were dressed tastefully, and others without taste. The big hall was full of people. The local ministers were standing respectfully in a group in a corner. It looked a little like a funeral, but it was entertainment, although it hadn’t really started yet.

  There was going to be a big concert, and that’s why the little baron brought his willow flute along, but he couldn’t get a peep out of it. His pappa couldn’t either, so it wasn’t any good.

  There was music and singing of the kind that is most fun for those who perform it, but lovely, by the way.

  “You’re a virtuoso,” said a young cavalier, who was like his parents, to the young tutor. “You play the flute, even carve it yourself. Genius is certainly ruling here—sitting on the right hand side—God bless us! I keep up with the times, you have to do that. Won’t you please us all by playing your little instrument?” and he handed him the little willow flute that was carved from the willow tree down by the moat. Loudly and clearly he announced that the tutor was going to play a flute solo.

  It was easy to see that he was making fun of the tutor, who didn’t want to play although he certainly could, but they insisted and pressed him, and so he took the flute and set it to his lips.

  It was a strange flute! They heard a tone that was as persevering as what you hear from a steam locomotive, but even louder. It could be heard all over the estate, the garden, and the woods and for miles around the countryside, and with the sound came a stormy wind that roared, “Everything in its proper place.” And then Pappa, the Baron, was carried by the wind out of the manor house and right down into the cottage where the man lived who tended the cows. And the cattleman flew up—not to the great hall, he didn’t belong there—but up to the servants’ quarters among the finest servants who wore silk stockings. And those proud fellows were struck numb to think that such an inferior person dared sit at the table with them.

  But in the great hall the young Baroness flew up to the head of the main table, where her place was, and the minister’s son sat beside her. They sat there together as if they were a bridal couple. An old count who belonged to one of the oldest families in the land remained in his place of honor because the flute played fair, as one should. The witty cavalier who was responsible for the flute playing, and who was like his parents, flew head-first into the henhouse, but he was not alone.

  The flute could be heard for miles, and odd things happened. A rich merchant and his family, driving in a four-horse carriage, were blown completely out of the carriage and couldn’t even find a place on the back. Two rich farmers, who recently had grown too big for their own cornfields, were blown down into a muddy ditch. It was a dangerous flute. Fortunately it cracked with the first tone, and that was a good thing. It went back in the young man’s pocket: “Everything in its proper place!”

  The next day nobody talked about what had happened, and that’s why we have a saying—“Stick a pipe in it.” Everything was once again where it was before except for the two old portraits of the peddler and the goose girl. They had been blown up to the wall in the great hall, and when someone who was an art expert said that they were painted by a master, they were repaired and remained hanging there. No one knew before that they were any good, and how would you know that? Now they hung in a place of honor. “Everything in its proper place” and eventually that’s where everything ends up. Eternity is long—longer than this story.

  NOTES

  1 In Greek tradition, the sixth-century inventor of tragedy; little is known of his life and work.

  Commentaries on the Tales

  The dates given below are those of first publication. Andersen first published several of his tales in periodicals, then collected them in book form, sometimes a year or more after they had originally appeared.

  THE ARTIST AND SOCIETY

  THE NIGHTINGALE (NATTERGALEN, 1844)

  As a young boy, Andersen had a sweet voice and was called “the little nightingale of Fyn,” a reference to the island on which Odense was located. Clearly, in his story Andersen identified with the nightingale, which is depicted as his ideal model of the artist, who must determine his “authentic” role within a system of patronage. Andersen also associated the little bird with Swedish singer Jenny Lind, famous because of her exquisite voice and known as the “Swedish Nightingale.” Andersen first heard Jenny Lind sing in the fall of 1844 and fell in love with her.

  In European folklore and literary tradition the nightingale, a tiny bird, has been related to Philomela, a figure in Greek mythology; after her brother-in-law raped her and then cut out her tongue, the gods turned Philomela into a nightingale. In medieval literature the nightingale is depicted as a fearful creature, afraid of snakes, that presses a thorn against her breast to keep herself awake at night and therefore utters a mournful song. Andersen’s nightingale is a not a female and is not mournful. His bird is more like a bird of spring that rejuvenates the emperor.

  Andersen had been fascinated by China since his childhood and was also interested in mechanical inventions. In the Tivoli Gardens, which opened on August 15, 1843, in Copenhagen, several “Chinese” edifices reflected popular interest in the Orient. Andersen’s visit to Tivoli soon after it was opened may have influenced him to write what he called his “Chinese fairy tale.”

  THE GARDENER AND THE GENTRY (GARTNEREN OG HERSKABET, 1872)

  Written at the end of Andersen’s life, this tale reflects his disappointment about the reception of his works by the Danish aristocracy, despite his fame. The artist as a magnificent gardener is an apt metaphor for Andersen’s conception of himself as an innovative cultivator of Danish folklore. The tale was immediately translated into English as “The Gardener and the Noble Family” and published in Scribner’s Monthly (August 1872) .

  THE FLYING TRUNK (DEN FLYVENDE KUFFERT, 1839)

  The source for this tale is “Malek and Princess Schirina,” in French Orientalist Petis de la Croix’s Mille et un jours (The Thousand and One Days, 1710), a collection of tales allegedly based on a Persian original called Hazar Yek Ruz. Very popular in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, Mille et un jours was translated from French into English and German, and into Danish in 1759. In Andersen’s tale Malek is the son of a rich merchant who buys a mechanical coffer that flies through the air. After he wastes away his inheritance, he flies off to a foreign realm called Gazna, ruled by King Bahaman, and, pretending to be the Prophet Mahomet, marries the Princess Schirina. At one point Malek even protects the realm of Gazna from invasion by a neighboring king. However, his flying coffer catches fire; once it is destroyed, Malek leaves Gazna and becomes a weaver in Cairo, thus fulfilling a prophecy that the princess would one day be betrayed by a man.

  To a certain extent, Andersen’s story is similar to many Oriental tales featuring flying carpets or horses. The traditional tale begins with a son of a rich merchant spending his inheritance foolishly and being abandoned by his friends, then stumbling upon some lucky charm. In Andersen’s tale, the trunk (which in the Arabic tales can be a carpet, lamp, horse, or some other helper) enables him to regain his former social status and enjoy a brief period of pleasure. However, since he does not take care of his lucky object, he fails to attain complete happiness in the end. Andersen introduced the motif of the hero as storyteller who must tell a moral, refined, and amusing tale. Ironically, the tale parallels the fortune of the merchant’s son and exposes his major foible: pride. Embedded in Andersen’s story is a notion that good tales can expose even the storyteller.

  TH
E WILL-O’-THE-WISPS ARE IN TOWN (LYGTEMAENDENE EER I BYEN, SAGDE MOSEKONEN, 1865)

  For this story, written a year after Denmark had fought a bitter war with Prussia and lost the region of Schleswig-Holstein, Andersen had to overcome a writer’s block. The tale reflects his dark mood during this period in his life. The search for the fairy tale parallels his own search for a means to overcome his depression. Ultimately, the story ends on an optimistic note, evidence of the power of the fairy tale to provide hope.

  THE PIXIE AND THE GARDENER’S WIFE (NISSEN OG MADAMEN, 1868)

  This tale, first published in Folkekalender forDanmark, was based on a Danish folk tale about a pixie that teases a chained dog. Andersen transformed this tale into a more significant commentary on the pretentiousness of minor writers, flattery, and the fickleness of audiences.

  THE PUPPETEER (MARIONETSPILLEREN, 1851)

  Andersen published a version of this tale in his travel book In Sweden (1851). The tale reflects his concerns about controlling characters in his plays or stories. What happens to the theater manager when his puppets come to life is a dilemma for the writer or author, who must know how to handle his characters. E. T. A. Hoffmann’s tale “Seltsame Leiden eines Theater-Direktors” (“Strange Sufferings of a Theater Director,” 1819), which deals with the difficulties of a director, may have influenced Andersen in his writing of this tale.

  “SOMETHING” (NOGET, 1858)

  Andersen stated that this legendary tale was based on a real incident in Schleswig, where an old woman burned her house to warn people out on nearby ice that a spring flood was coming. He also employed motifs from the folk tradition in which five brothers are sent out into the world to acquire skills that bring them fortune. A major element of this tale is Andersen’s parody of critics. In particular, Andersen drew a caricature of Danish critic Christian Molbech, who often attacked Andersen’s plays and writings. Molbech died in 1857.