Fairy Tales of Hans Christian Andersen

by Hans Christian Andersen

  Then rumor had it that the prince was to be married to the beautiful daughter of the neighboring king, and because of that he was preparing a splendid ship for a voyage. He was supposedly traveling to see the neighboring king’s country, but people knew that he really was going to see the daughter. A large party was to accompany him, but the little mermaid just shook her head and laughed because she knew the prince’s thoughts much better than anyone else. “I have to go,” he had told her. “I have to go see the lovely princess, my parents insist, but they can’t force me to bring her back here for my wife. I can’t love her! She doesn’t look like the beautiful girl in the temple, like you do. If I ever do choose a bride, it would sooner be you, my silent foundling with the speaking eyes!” He kissed her red mouth, played with her long hair, and laid his head against her heart, so she dreamed of human happiness and an immortal soul.

  “You aren’t afraid of the sea, my silent child?” he asked, when they climbed aboard the magnificent ship that was to take them to the neighboring kingdom. And he told her about storms and calm seas, about strange fish in the depths and what divers had seen, and she smiled at his stories since she knew better than anyone what the ocean floor was like.

  In the moonlit night when everyone was sleeping, the little mermaid sat close to the helmsman, who was at the wheel, and stared down into the clear water, and thought she saw her father’s castle. On the highest tower stood her old grandmother with her silver crown on her head, starring up at the keel of the ship through the currents. Then her sisters came up to the surface, stared sadly at her, and wrung their white hands. She waved to them and smiled, and wanted to tell them that she was well and happy, but then the ship’s boy approached, and the sisters dove down, and he thought that the white that he had seen was foam on the sea.

  The next morning the ship sailed into the magnificent port in the neighboring kingdom. All the church bells rang, and trombones were played from the high towers while soldiers marched with waving banners and dazzling bayonets. There was a party every day. One festivity followed another, but the princess wasn’t there yet. She was being educated far away in a holy temple, they said, where she was learning all the royal virtues. But at last she came.

  The little mermaid waited eagerly to see her beauty, and she could not deny it. She had never seen a more lovely creature. Her skin was so clear and fine, and behind the long dark eyelashes smiled a pair of faithful dark-blue eyes!

  “It’s you!” exclaimed the prince, “you, who saved me, when I lay like a corpse on the beach!” And he gathered his blushing bride in his arms. “Oh, I’m so incredibly happy!” he said to the little mermaid. “The best thing I could wish for has come true. You’ll share my joy since you love me better than any of the others.” And the little mermaid kissed his hand, and thought she felt her heart breaking already, for his wedding night would bring her death and change her to foam upon the sea.

  All the church bells rang, and heralds rode through the streets, proclaiming the engagement. Fragrant oils burned in precious silver lamps on all the altars. The priests waved their censers, and the bride and groom grasped hands and received the blessing of the bishop. The little mermaid was dressed in silk and gold and was holding the bride’s train, but her ears did not hear the festive music; her eyes didn’t see the sacred ceremony. She was thinking about her last night of life and about everything she had lost in this world.

  That same evening the bride and groom went aboard the ship. The cannons boomed, all the flags were waving, and in the center of the ship a precious tent of gold and purple with the loveliest cushions had been raised. The bridal couple were going to sleep there in the cool, quiet night.

  The sails swelled in the wind, and the ship glided smoothly and almost motionlessly across the clear sea.

  When it became dark, colorful lamps were lit, and the sailors danced merrily on the deck. The little mermaid had to think about the first time she peered above the waves and saw the same splendor and joy, and she whirled in the dance, swaying as a swallow when it’s being chased. Everyone cheered her, and never had she danced so well before. It was as if sharp knives cut into her fine little feet, but she didn’t feel it; the pain was sharper in her heart. She knew it was the last evening she would see the man for whom she had left her home and family, and for whom she had given her beautiful voice and suffered unending agony without him having the least idea. It was the last night she would breathe the same air as him, would see the deep sea, and the starry blue sky. An eternal night without thought or dreams awaited her, she who had no soul and could not win one. And there was joy and merriment on the ship until long past midnight; she laughed and danced with the thought of death in her heart. The prince kissed his lovely bride, and she played with his black hair, and arm in arm they went to bed in the magnificent tent.

  It became hushed and still on the ship, only the helmsman was on deck. The little mermaid laid her white arm on the railing and looked to the east towards dawn. She knew that the first sunbeam would kill her. Then she saw her sisters rise up from the sea, and they were as pale as she was, their long beautiful hair no longer streaming in the wind. It had all been cut off.

  “We have given it to the sea witch so she would help you, so that you won’t die tonight! She has given us a knife. Here it is! Do you see how sharp it is? Before the sun rises, you must stab the prince in the heart, and when his warm blood drips on your feet, they will grow together into a fish tail, and you’ll become a mermaid again, and come back into the sea with us and live your three hundred years before you become dead, salty sea foam. Hurry! Either you or he must die before the sun rises. Our old grandmother is grieving so much that all her white hair has fallen out, as ours fell to the witch’s scissors. Kill the prince and come back! Hurry, don’t you see the red streak in the sky? In a few minutes the sun will rise, and then you must die!” and they heaved a strange, deep sigh and sank in the waves.

  The little mermaid drew the purple curtain away from the tent and saw the beautiful bride sleeping with her head on the prince’s chest. Then she bent down and kissed him on his handsome forehead, looked at the sky, where the morning glow was increasing, looked at the sharp knife, and cast her eyes again upon the prince, who in his dreams said his bride’s name. Only she was in his thoughts, and the knife quivered in her hand, but then she threw it far out into the waves that turned red where it fell, like drops of blood trickling up from the water. One last time she looked at the prince with her partly glazed eyes, dove from the ship into the sea, and felt her body dissolving into foam.

  The sun rose from the sea. The rays fell warmly and gently upon the deadly cold sea foam, and the little mermaid did not feel death. She saw the clear sun, and above her swirled hundreds of beautiful, transparent creatures. Through them she could see the ship’s white sails and the red clouds in the sky. Their voices were melodies, but so unearthly that no human ear could hear them, just as no earthly eye could see them. They swayed though the air on their own lightness without wings. The little mermaid saw that she had a shape like them that rose up more and more from the foam.

  “To whom am I going?” she said, and her voice sounded like the others and so heavenly that no earthly music could express it.

  “To the daughters of the air!” the others answered. “The mermaid has no immortal soul and can never win one unless she wins the love of a human. Her eternal existence depends on an outside power. Daughters of the air don’t have an eternal soul either, but they can shape one through their good deeds. We fly to the warm countries, where pestilence kills people, and we bring cool breezes. We spread the scent of flowers through the air and send peaceful rest and healing knowledge. After we have struggled to do all the good we can for three hundred years, we can earn an immortal soul and share in the human’s eternal joy. You, poor little mermaid, have striven with all your heart for the same thing we have. You have suffered and endured and raised yourself to the world of the air spirits. Through good deeds you can earn your
self an immortal soul in three hundred years.”

  The little mermaid lifted her clear arms up towards God’s sun, and for the first time she felt tears. There was noise and life on the ship again, and she saw the prince with his beautiful bride searching for her. They stared mournfully at the bubbling foam, as if they knew she had thrown herself on the waves. Invisibly she kissed the bride’s forehead, smiled at the prince and rose with the other children of the air up into the rosy cloud sailing in the sky.

  “In three hundred years we’ll sail into God’s kingdom like this.”

  “We can get there even faster,” whispered one. “We swirl unseen into a human home, where there are children, and every day we find a good child who brings joy to his parents and deserves their love, God reduces our time of testing. A child doesn’t know when we fly through the room, and if we smile with joy at him, a year is subtracted from the three hundred years, but if we see a naughty child, then we must cry in sorrow, and every tear adds a day to our time of trial.”

  NOTE

  1. Andersen evidently forgot that the grandmother has just explained that mermaids do not have graves.

  THE EMPEROR’S NEW CLOTHES

  MANY YEARS AGO THERE lived an emperor who was so tremendously fond of stylish new clothes that he used all his money for dressing himself. He didn’t care about his soldiers, didn’t care about the theater, or driving in the park, except to show off his new clothes. He had an outfit for each hour of the day, and as they say about a king that he’s “in council,” here they always said, “The emperor’s in the dressing room!”

  There were lots of amusements going on in the big city where he lived. Many strangers came every day, and one day two swindlers arrived. They said they were weavers, and that they could weave the most beautiful material one could imagine. Not only were the colors and patterns unusually lovely, but the clothes sewn from the fabric had a remarkable characteristic: they were invisible to any person who was incompetent in his job, or who was simply grossly stupid.

  “The emperor’s in the dressing room!”

  “Those would be some wonderful clothes,” the emperor thought, “by wearing them I could find out which men in my kingdom aren’t fit for their jobs, and I’d be able to tell the wise from the stupid! That fabric must be woven into some clothing for me at once!” and he gave the two swindlers a big deposit so that they could start their work.

  They set up two looms and pretended to work, but they had absolutely nothing on the loom. Right away they demanded the finest silk and the most splendid gold. And they put these things into their bags, and worked on the empty looms long into the night.

  “I would really like to know how far they’ve come with the material,” thought the emperor, but he was a little uneasy with the thought that those who were dumb, or not at all fit for their jobs, couldn’t see it. Of course, he knew very well that he didn’t have to worry about himself, but he decided to send someone else first to see how it was going. All the people in town knew about the power of the fabric, and everyone was eager to see how incompetent or stupid his neighbor was.

  “I’ll send my honest old envoy over to the weavers,” the emperor thought, “He can best determine how the fabric is turning out because he’s smart, and no one is better suited to his job than he is.”

  So the dependable old envoy went to the hall where the two swindlers were working on the empty looms. “Good God!” thought the old envoy as his eyes flew wide open, “I can’t see anything!” But he didn’t say that.

  Both swindlers asked him to come closer and asked him if it wasn’t a beautiful pattern and lovely colors. They pointed at the empty loom, and the poor old envoy continued to stare, but he couldn’t see anything because nothing was there. “Dear God!” he thought. “Could it be that I’m stupid? I never thought that, and no one must find out! Is it possible I’m not fit for my job? It’s just totally impossible to admit that I can’t see the fabric!”

  “Well now, you’re not saying anything about it,” said one who was pretending to weave.

  “Oh, it’s beautiful! Absolutely too awesome for words!” the old envoy said and peered through his glasses. “What a pattern and what colors! Yes, I’ll tell the emperor that I like it very much!”

  “We’re pleased to hear that,” both weavers said, and then they pointed out the strange pattern and colors by name. The old envoy paid close attention so he could repeat the information when he came back to the emperor, and that’s what he did.

  Then the swindlers demanded more money and more silk and gold, needed for the weaving. They put it all in their own pockets, and not a shred appeared on the loom, but they continued as before to weave on the empty loom.

  Soon the emperor sent another competent official to see how the weaving was progressing, and if the fabric would soon be finished. The same thing happened to him: he peered and stared, but since there wasn’t anything on the empty loom, he couldn’t see a thing.

  “Well, isn’t this a beautiful piece of material?” both swindlers asked him, and pointed out and explained the lovely pattern, which wasn’t there.

  “I’m not stupid!” the man thought. “So then I’m not fit for my excellent job? That’s odd enough, but no one must find out about it.” So he praised the fabric he didn’t see and assured them that he was delighted with the beautiful colors and the lovely pattern. “It’s just marvelous,” he told the emperor.

  Everyone in town was talking about the beautiful fabric.

  So then the emperor wanted to see the fabric while it was still on the loom. With a large group of selected advisers, among them the two who had already been there, he went off to see the clever crooks, who were weaving with every fiber of their being, but without a thread on the loom.

  “Isn’t it magnifique?” asked both of the wise, old officials. “Look at the pattern, your majesty, and the colors!” and they pointed at the empty loom, because they thought the others could see the fabric.

  “What!” thought the emperor. “I don’t see a thing! This is dreadful! Am I stupid? Am I not fit to be emperor? This is the most terrible thing that could happen to me!”

  “Oh, it’s just splendid!” said the emperor. “It has my highest approval,” and he nodded contentedly as he observed the empty loom for he didn’t want to say that he couldn’t see anything. The whole group that accompanied him looked and looked but didn’t get anything more out of it than any of the others. So they echoed the emperor, “Oh, it’s very lovely,” and they advised the emperor to wear the splendid new clothes from the fabric for the first time at the big parade that was soon to occur. “It’s magnificent! Delightful! Excellent!” was on everyone’s lips, and they were all thoroughly pleased with the fabric. The emperor gave each of the swindlers a knight’s cross to hang on his chest, and the title of Knight of the Loom.

  The entire night before the parade the swindlers sat illuminated by a flood of light from more than sixteen candles. People could see that they were busy getting the emperor’s new clothes ready. They pretended to take the fabric from the loom and cut into thin air with huge scissors. They sewed with thread-less needles, and at last they said, “There, now the clothes are finished!”

  The emperor came to them with his most distinguished cavaliers. Both swindlers lifted one arm in the air as if they were holding something and said, “See, here are the pants. Here’s the jacket, and here’s the cape!” They continued on and on. “They are as light as cobwebs. You might think you weren’t wearing anything, but that’s the beauty of this fabric.”

  “Yes!” said all the cavaliers, but they couldn’t see a thing, for there wasn’t anything to see.

  “Now, if your royal majesty would be so kind as to remove your clothes,” said the swindlers, “we’ll put the new ones on, right here in front of this big mirror.”

  The emperor laid aside his clothes, and the swindlers acted as if they gave him each piece of the new outfit they had sewed, and the emperor turned and twisted in front of the m
irror.

  “Lord, how good that looks on you! How beautifully it fits!” they all said. “What a pattern! What lovely colors! What a precious outfit it is!”

  “Lord, how good that looks on you! How beautifully it fits!”

  “They’re waiting outside with the canopy that will be carried over the throne in the parade,” said the Master of Ceremonies.

  “Well, I’m ready,” said the emperor. “Doesn’t it fit beautifully?” and he pirouetted in front of the mirror one more time. He was pretending to admire his splendid outfit.

  The chamberlains who were to carry the train of the cape, fumbled around on the floor, as if they were lifting up the train. They walked carrying their arms in the air and didn’t dare act as if they saw nothing.

  So the emperor paraded under the lovely canopy, and all the people on the streets and in the windows said, “Good God, how awesome the emperor’s new clothes are! What a splendid train he has on his cape! How beautifully it fits!” None of the people would admit that they didn’t see anything because then they wouldn’t be fit for their jobs, or they’d be called terribly stupid. None of the emperor’s clothes had been so admired before.

  “But he isn’t wearing anything at all,” said a little child.

  “Dear God, listen to the voice of innocence,” his father said, and each person whispered to the other what the child had said.

  “But he isn’t wearing anything at all!” everyone shouted at last.