The Complete Fairy Tales and Stories

by Hans Christian Andersen

  “Little golden nightingale, sing!” demanded the emperor. “I have given you gold and precious jewels and with my own hands have I hung my golden slipper around your neck. Sing! Please sing!”

  But the mechanical nightingale stood as still as ever, for there was no one to wind it up; and then, it couldn’t sing.

  Death kept staring at the emperor out of the empty sockets in his skull; and the palace was still, so terrifyingly still.

  All at once the most beautiful song broke the silence. It was the nightingale, who had heard of the emperor’s illness and torment. He sat on a branch outside his window and sang to bring him comfort and hope. As he sang, the faces in the folds of the curtains faded and the blood pulsed with greater force through the emperor’s weak body. Death himself listened and said, “Please, little nightingale, sing on!”

  “Will you give me the golden saber? Will you give me the imperial banner? Will you give me the golden crown?”

  Death gave each of his trophies for a song; and then the nightingale sang about the quiet churchyard, where white roses grow, where fragrant elderberry trees are, and where the grass is green from the tears of those who come to mourn. Death longed so much for his garden that he flew out of the window, like a white cold mist.

  “Thank you, thank you,” whispered the emperor, “you heavenly little bird, I remember you. You have I banished from my empire and yet you came to sing for me; and when you sang the evil phantoms that taunted me disappeared, and Death himself left my heart. How shall I reward you?”

  “You have rewarded me already,” said the nightingale. “I shall never forget that, the first time I sang for you, you gave me the tears from your eyes; and to a poet’s heart, those are jewels. But sleep so you can become well and strong; I shall sing for you.”

  The little gray bird sang; and the emperor slept, so blessedly, so peacefully.

  The sun was shining in through the window when he woke; he did not feel ill any more. None of his servants had come, for they thought that he was already dead; but the nightingale was still there and he was singing.

  “You must come always,” declared the emperor. “I shall only ask you to sing when you want to. And the mechanical bird I shall break in a thousand pieces.”

  “Don’t do that,” replied the nightingale. “The mechanical bird sang as well as it could, keep it. I can’t build my nest in the palace; let me come to visit you when I want to, and I shall sit on the branch outside your window and sing for you. And my song shall make you happy and make you thoughtful. I shall sing not only of those who are happy but also of those who suffer. I shall sing of the good and of the evil that happen around you, and yet are hidden from you. For a little songbird flies far. I visit the poor fishermen’s cottages and the peasant’s hut, far away from your palace and your court. I love your heart more than your crown, and yet I feel that the crown has a fragrance of something holy about it. I will come! I will sing for you! Only one thing must you promise me.”

  “I will promise you anything,” said the emperor, who had dressed himself in his imperial clothes and was holding his golden saber and pressing it against his heart

  “I beg of you never tell anyone that you have a little bird that tells you everything, for then you will fare even better.” And with those words the nightingale flew away.

  The servants entered the room to look at their dead master. There they stood gaping when the emperor said: “Good morning.”

  26

  The Sweethearts

  A top and a ball were lying in a drawer among a lot of other toys. One day the top said to the ball, “Shouldn’t we become engaged? After all, we are lying right next to each other in the drawer.” But the ball, who was made of morocco leather, thought of herself as a very refined young lady and would not even answer a question like that.

  The next day the little boy, whose toys they all were, painted the top red and yellow and hammered a brass nail in the middle of it. It looked marvelous when it spun.

  “Look at me now!” called the top to the ball. “What do you say, wouldn’t we make a fine pair? You can jump and I can dance! How happy we would be together.”

  “That’s what you think,” replied the ball. “Are you aware that my mother and father were a pair of morocco slippers, and that I have a cork inside me?”

  “But I am of mahogany,” boasted the top. “The mayor made me, himself, on a lathe he has in his cellar. It gave him great pleasure.”

  “How do I know that what you’re saying is true?” asked the ball.

  “May I never be whipped into a spin again if I am lying,” answered the top.

  “You speak well for yourself,” admitted the ball. “But I have to refuse because I am almost engaged to a swallow. Every time I jump up into the air, he puts his head out of the nest and asks, ‘Will you? Will you?’ Even though I haven’t said yes, I have thought it; and that’s almost the same as being engaged. But I promise that I shall never forget you.”

  “A lot of difference that will make,” growled the top. And that was the end of their conversation.

  The next day the ball was taken out of the drawer, and the top watched as she was thrown so high up into the sky that she looked like a bird and finally all but disappeared. Every time she hit the ground she bounced up again quite high; and the top could not make up his mind whether she jumped up like that because she wanted to get another glimpse of the swallow, or just because she had cork inside her.

  The ninth time the ball went up into the air, it did not return. The boy searched for it everywhere but it was gone.

  “I know what’s happened to her,” said the top, “she’s up in the swallow’s nest and is getting married to the swallow.”

  The more the top thought about the ball, the more in love with her he was. And because he couldn’t have her, he wanted her all the more. The strangest part of it was that she had preferred another. The top spun and whirled; round and round he went; and all the time he was thinking of the ball. And in his imagination she grew prettier and prettier. Years passed and finally she became an old love.

  The top was not young any more; but then one day he was painted all over with gold paint. Now he was a golden top; and he spun and leaped up into the air.… Oh, that was something! But then it sprang too high and was gone! Everyone looked for it everywhere, even in the cellar, but it was not to be found. Where was it?

  It had jumped into the garbage bin. There all kinds of things were lying: gravel, a cabbage stalk, dirt, dust, and a lot of leaves that had fallen down from the gutter under the roof.

  “This is a fine place to be!” thought the top. “I wonder how long my gilding will last here. What a lot of riffraff!” The top glanced at the cabbage stalk and then at a funny round thing that looked like a rotten apple. But it wasn’t an apple; it was the old ball who had lain for years in the gutter, where the water had oozed through it.

  “Thank God! At last someone of one’s own kind has come, someone I need not be ashamed to talk to,” said the ball, and looked at the golden top. “I was made from morocco leather by the hand of a fine young lady, and have a cork inside me. Although, I admit, it’s hard to see it now. I was just about to marry a swallow when I fell into the gutter under the roof. There I have lain and oozed for five years; that’s a long time for a young girl.”

  The top didn’t say anything. He was thinking of his old sweetheart; and the more he heard, the more certain he was that it was she.

  At that moment a maid came to throw something away. “Hurrah! There’s the golden top!” she cried.

  The golden top was brought back to the living room, where he was honored and respected. There no one ever talked about the ball, and the top never mentioned his old love again. You get over it when your beloved has lain in a gutter and oozed for five years. You never recognize her when you meet her in the garbage bin.

  27

  The Ugly Duckling

  It was so beautiful out in the country. It was summer. The oats wer
e still green, but the wheat was turning yellow. Down in the meadow the grass had been cut and made into haystacks; and there the storks walked on their long red legs talking Egyptian, because that was the language they had been taught by their mothers. The fields were enclosed by woods, and hidden among them were little lakes and pools. Yes, it certainly was lovely out there in the country!

  The old castle, with its deep moat surrounding it, lay bathed in sunshine. Between the heavy walls and the edge of the moat there was a narrow strip of land covered by a whole forest of burdock plants. Their leaves were large and some of the stalks were so tall that a child could stand upright under them and imagine that he was in the middle of the wild and lonesome woods. Here a duck had built her nest. While she sat waiting for the eggs to hatch, she felt a little sorry for herself because it was taking so long and hardly anybody came to visit her. The other ducks preferred swimming in the moat to sitting under a dock leaf and gossiping.

  Finally the eggs began to crack. “Peep … Peep,” they said one after another. The egg yolks had become alive and were sticking out their heads.

  “Quack … Quack …” said their mother. “Look around you.” And the ducklings did; they glanced at the green world about them, and that was what their mother wanted them to do, for green was good for their eyes.

  “How big the world is!” piped the little ones, for they had much more space to move around in now than they had had inside the egg.

  “Do you think that this is the whole world?” quacked their mother. “The world is much larger than this. It stretches as far as the minister’s wheat fields, though I have not been there.… Are you all here?” The duck got up and turned around to look at her nest. “Oh no, the biggest egg hasn’t hatched yet; and I’m so tired of sitting here! I wonder how long it will take?” she wailed, and sat down again.

  “What’s new?” asked an old duck who had come visiting.

  “One of the eggs is taking so long,” complained the mother duck. “It won’t crack. But take a look at the others. They are the sweetest little ducklings you have ever seen; and every one of them looks exactly like their father. That scoundrel hasn’t come to visit me once.”

  “Let me look at the egg that won’t hatch,” demanded the old duck. “I am sure that it’s a turkey egg! I was fooled that way once. You can’t imagine what it’s like. Turkeys are afraid of the water. I couldn’t get them to go into it. I quacked and I nipped them, but nothing helped. Let me see that egg! … Yes, it’s a turkey egg. Just let it lie there. You go and teach your young ones how to swim, that’s my advice.”

  “I have sat on it so long that I guess I can sit a little longer, at least until they get the hay in,” replied the mother duck.

  “Suit yourself,” said the older duck, and went on.

  At last the big egg cracked too. “Peep … Peep,” said the young one, and tumbled out. He was big and very ugly.

  The mother duck looked at him. “He’s awfully big for his age,” she said. “He doesn’t look like any of the others. I wonder if he could be a turkey? Well, we shall soon see. Into the water he will go, even if I have to kick him to make him do it.”

  The next day the weather was gloriously beautiful. The sun shone on the forest of burdock plants. The mother duck took her whole brood to the moat. “Quack … Quack …” she ordered.

  One after another, the little ducklings plunged into the water. For a moment their heads disappeared, but then they popped up again and the little ones floated like so many corks. Their legs knew what to do without being told. All of the new brood swam very nicely, even the ugly one.

  “He is no turkey,” mumbled the mother. “See how beautifully he uses his legs and how straight he holds his neck. He is my own child and, when you look closely at him, he’s quite handsome.… Quack! Quack! Follow me and I’ll take you to the henyard and introduce you to everyone. But stay close to me, so that no one steps on you, and look out for the cat.”

  They heard an awful noise when they arrived at the henyard. Two families of ducks had got into a fight over the head of an eel. Neither of them got it, for it was swiped by the cat.

  “That is the way of the world,” said the mother duck, and licked her bill. She would have liked to have the eel’s head herself. “Walk nicely,” she admonished them. “And remember to bow to the old duck over there. She has Spanish blood in her veins and is the most aristocratic fowl here. That is why she is so fat and has a red rag tied around one of her legs. That is the highest mark of distinction a duck can be given. It means so much that she will never be done away with; and all the other fowl and the human beings know who she is. Quack! Quack! … Don’t walk, waddle like well-brought-up ducklings. Keep your legs far apart, just as your mother and father have always done. Bow your heads and say, ‘Quack!’ ” And that was what the little ducklings did.

  Other ducks gathered about them and said loudly, “What do we want that gang here for? Aren’t there enough of us already? Pooh! Look how ugly one of them is! He’s the last straw!” And one of the ducks flew over and bit the ugly duckling on the neck.

  “Leave him alone!” shouted the mother. “He hasn’t done anyone any harm.”

  “He’s big and he doesn’t look like everybody else!” replied the duck who had bitten him. “And that’s reason enough to beat him.”

  “Very good-looking children you have,” remarked the duck with the red rag around one of her legs. “All of them are beautiful except one. He didn’t turn out very well. I wish you could make him over again.”

  “That’s not possible, Your Grace,” answered the mother duck. “He may not be handsome, but he has a good character and swims as well as the others, if not a little better. Perhaps he will grow handsomer as he grows older and becomes a bit smaller. He was in the egg too long, and that is why he doesn’t have the right shape.” She smoothed his neck for a moment and then added, “Besides, he’s a drake; and it doesn’t matter so much what he looks like. He is strong and I am sure he will be able to take care of himself.”

  “Well, the others are nice,” said the old duck. “Make yourself at home, and if you should find an eel’s head, you may bring it to me.”

  And they were “at home.”

  The poor little duckling, who had been the last to hatch and was so ugly, was bitten and pushed and made fun of both by the hens and by the other ducks. The turkey cock (who had been born with spurs on, and therefore thought he was an emperor) rustled his feathers as if he were a full-rigged ship under sail, and strutted up to the duckling. He gobbled so loudly at him that his own face got all red.

  The poor little duckling did not know where to turn. How he grieved over his own ugliness, and how sad he was! The poor creature was mocked and laughed at by the whole henyard.

  That was the first day; and each day that followed was worse than the one before. The poor duckling was chased and mistreated by everyone, even his own sisters and brothers, who quacked again and again, “If only the cat would get you, you ugly thing!”

  Even his mother said, “I wish you were far away.” The other ducks bit him and the hens pecked at him. The little girl who came to feed the fowls kicked him.

  At last the duckling ran away. It flew over the tops of the bushes, frightening all the little birds so that they flew up into the air. “They, too, think I am ugly,” thought the duckling, and closed his eyes—but he kept on running.

  Finally he came to a great swamp where wild ducks lived; and here he stayed for the night, for he was too tired to go any farther.

  In the morning he was discovered by the wild ducks. They looked at him and one of them asked, “What kind of bird are you?”

  The ugly duckling bowed in all directions, for he was trying to be as polite as he knew how.

  “You are ugly,” said the wild ducks, “but that is no concern of ours, as long as you don’t try to marry into our family.”

  The poor duckling wasn’t thinking of marriage. All he wanted was to be allowed to swim among the r
eeds and drink a little water when he was thirsty.

  He spent two days in the swamp; then two wild geese came—or rather, two wild ganders, for they were males. They had been hatched not long ago; therefore they were both frank and bold.

  “Listen, comrade,” they said. “You are so ugly that we like you. Do you want to migrate with us? Not far from here there is a marsh where some beautiful wild geese live. They are all lovely maidens, and you are so ugly that you may seek your fortune among them. Come along.”

  “Bang! Bang!” Two shots were heard and both the ganders fell down dead among the reeds, and the water turned red from their blood.

  “Bang! Bang!” Again came the sound of shots, and a flock of wild geese flew up.

  The whole swamp was surrounded by hunters; from every direction came the awful noise. Some of the hunters had hidden behind bushes or among the reeds but others, screened from sight by the leaves, sat on the long, low branches of the trees that stretched out over the swamp. The blue smoke from the guns lay like a fog over the water and among the trees. Dogs came splashing through the marsh, and they bent and broke the reeds.

  The poor little duckling was terrified. He was about to tuck his head under his wing, in order to hide, when he saw a big dog peering at him through the reeds. The dog’s tongue hung out of its mouth and its eyes glistened evilly. It bared its teeth. Splash! It turned away without touching the duckling.

  “Oh, thank God!” he sighed. “I am so ugly that even the dog doesn’t want to bite me.”

  The little duckling lay as still as he could while the shots whistled through the reeds. Not until the middle of the afternoon did the shooting stop; but the poor little duckling was still so frightened that he waited several hours longer before taking his head out from under his wing. Then he ran as quickly as he could out of the swamp. Across the fields and the meadows he went, but a wind had come up and he found it hard to make his way against it.