The Complete Fairy Tales and Stories

by Hans Christian Andersen

  The Tree of the Sun was magnificent; I have never seen it and neither will you. Its crown was the size of a whole forest and was miles and miles around. Its limbs were so gigantic that their crooked shapes were like dales and hills; they were covered with moss as soft as velvet, in which the most beautiful flowers grew. Every branch and twig that protruded from the main boughs was a tree, and each was different from all the others: one was a palm tree, another a beech tree, a third a plane tree; all the kinds of trees in the whole world were there. The sun was always shining on it, for truly it was the Tree of the Sun. Birds from all corners of the world visited it. They came from the forests of America, the rose gardens of Denmark, and the jungles of Africa, where elephants and lions believe that they are the rulers. Birds from both the poles came; and naturally, the swallows and the storks were there as well. Not only birds lived in the Tree of the Sun; deer, antelope, squirrels, and thousands of other animals made their home there.

  The crown of the tree was like a fragrant garden, and in the very center of it, where the great limbs were high hills, there was a crystal palace; and from its towers you could see all the countries of the world. The towers were shaped like lilies. Their huge stems were hollow and you could climb them because there were staircases inside. Every leaf was a balcony; you could step out on it and admire the view. And in the tallest flower was a round hall that had no other roof than the blue sky with its sun and stars. The lower chambers of the castle were magnificent, too, though in a different manner. On their polished walls the whole world was mirrored, and you could see what was happening everywhere. You did not have to read a newspaper, which was lucky because there wasn’t any. The pictures on the walls were alive and moving; they showed everything that was taking place, no matter where it was happening; all one had to have were the time and the desire to look. But too much is too much, even for the wisest of men; and it was he who lived in that castle: the wisest of all mankind. His name was so difficult to pronounce that you wouldn’t be able to say it, so there’s no point in my mentioning it: it is of no importance.

  He knew everything that a man can hope to know while on earth. He knew about every invention that had already been made and all those that ever would be; but no more than that, for everything has its limits. He was twice as wise as old King Solomon, who was known for his wisdom. He understood the powers of nature and ruled over them; Death himself had to bring him a list of those who were to die. One thought, however, disquieted the mighty ruler of the castle in the Tree of the Sun, and this was that King Solomon had died. In his fate, he saw his own; and although he had raised himself even higher than Solomon had above the rest of humanity, through knowledge and wisdom, he would someday die too; and so would his children. Like leaves on the trees, they would wizen, fall to earth, and become dust. The generations of man were like leaves, he thought: new leaves always unfolded to take the place of the old, but those that withered never lived again; they became fertilizer for other plants.

  What happened to the human being after the angel of death visited him? What did it mean, to die? The body disintegrated, but the soul—yes, what was the soul? What happened to it? Where did it go?

  Religion, man’s solace, said: “To an everlasting life.” But how was the transition possible? Where and how did the soul live? The pious answered: “We are going to heaven above.”

  “Above,” repeated the wisest of men, and looked toward the sun and the stars. But he knew that the world was a globe; and above and below depended upon where you stood on it. He knew, too, that if he climbed the highest mountain on earth, then the “clear blue sky,” which we see, would appear black below him. The sun would be a glowing ball without its rays, and the earth itself seem to be in a shroud of orange mist. Limited is the power of our sight and so much knowledge is denied our souls. How little we know, even the wisest of us. How few of the questions that most concern us can we find answers to.

  In a small chamber of the castle lay the greatest treasure on earth, the Book of Truth. Everyone may read it, but only a short section at a time. For many eyes the letters quiver and move so much on the page that they cannot make out the words. In some places the print is so faded that the pages appear blank. The wiser one is, the more one can read. And the wisest of all men, who lived in the middle of the Tree of the Sun, could read more than anyone else. He knew how to collect the light of the sun, of stars, and of the hidden powers of the spirit and make them illuminate the pages, so that even the most difficult parts became easy to read. But the chapter titled, “Life after Death,” remained a perfect blank, even to him. This made the wisest of men very sad. He speculated and speculated as to how he could find, here on earth, a light strong enough to bring forth the letters, so that he could read what was written in the Book of Truth on that subject.

  Just like the wise King Solomon, he understood the language of the animals, but that did not help in this matter. He found herbs and metals, medicines that could cure sickness, remove death for a while; but in none did he find anything that could destroy death itself. In everything and everywhere did he search for a light that could make it possible for him to read the chapter about “Life after Death.” But he did not find it; the Book of Truth lay open in front of him with its blank page. The Bible of Christianity promises in words of consolation an everlasting life, but he was not satisfied with that. He wanted to read it in his own book and he couldn’t.

  He had five children: four sons, brought up as only the wisest father could do it, and one daughter. She was beautiful, gentle, and clever, but blind. This affliction did not seem to trouble her; her father and her brothers were her eyes and her own pure nature the judge of everything she heard.

  The sons had never been farther away from the castle than the great branches reached. The sister had not even been that far; they were happy being children in the land of childhood, in the fragrant magic world of the Tree of the Sun. Like all other children, they loved to be told stories, and their father told them many tales and strange things, which ordinary children might not have understood; but they were as wise as the most mature people among us are. He helped them to understand the living, moving pictures on the wall of the castle, which showed the ways of men and the events that were happening in the whole world.

  Many times his young sons expressed a wish to take part in the struggles they were seeing on the walls and to perform great deeds of valor. Then their father would sigh and say: “The ways of the world are bitter and filled with grief. What you see is not reality, for you watch it from the safe world of childhood and that makes all the difference.” He spoke to them about beauty, goodness, and truth: the three concepts that kept the world from falling apart; and how the pressure that the world inflicted on goodness, beauty, and truth transformed them into a precious stone that was far more beautiful than any diamond. This gem was, in truth, the philosopher’s stone. Their father explained that, just as you became more certain of God’s existence by studying nature, so by studying man did you become assured that this jewel called the philosopher’s stone, existed too. He could not tell any more about it, for he knew no more. Now this would have been very difficult for other children to understand, but these children could; and we may hope that, later on, others will understand it as well.

  The children asked their father to tell them what beauty, goodness, and truth were and he did. He told them, too, how God had created the first human being out of clay and then had kissed His creation five times: five kisses of fire, five kisses from the heart. These kisses from God gave us our five senses; with them and through them we understand, feel, and protect beauty, goodness, and truth. The five senses are our sensitivity both outward toward the world and inward into our souls; they are the root and the flower of the human plant.

  The children thought and thought about what their father had told them; indeed, it was never out of their minds. One night the oldest brother had a marvelous dream, and the strangest part of it was that his three brothers dreame
d the same dream. Each of them had dreamed that he had journeyed out into the world, found the philosopher’s stone, and returned bearing it as a living flame on his forehead. Each one had come home riding on his horse, over the velvet boughs of the Tree of the Sun to his father’s castle, just as the sun was rising. The light that shone from the jewel had clearly illuminated the pages of the Book of Truth, so that they could read what was written there about life beyond the grave. Their sister had not had the dream; she had no thought of going out into the wide world, her world was her father’s house.

  “I will ride out into the wide world,” declared the wise man’s oldest son. “That is a journey I must make. I want to take part in the affairs of men. Goodness and truth shall I serve, and they will guard beauty. Much will be different once I am part of the world.” Yes, these were courageous words: the kind that are easy to say in front of the fireplace in your father’s house, before you have been in a storm or felt the bramble’s thorns.

  The four brothers had five senses just as everyone else has, and they were excellent in all of them, but each brother had especially developed one of his senses. The oldest brother had a sense of sight that was far stronger than is usual. He could see the past as well as the present. He could see all the countries of the world at once, and under the earth, where its treasures are hidden. He could see into other human beings as if their chests were windows, so he knew more than the rest of us, who have to be satisfied with being able to guess what a blush on the cheek or a tear in the eye means. The deer and the antelope accompanied him as far as the western border; from there he followed the flight of the wild swans toward the northwest; and soon he was far away from his father’s realm that stretched east to the end of the world.

  How wide he opened his eyes! There was a lot to look at. And it is very different to see things with your own eyes than to look at them in pictures, regardless of how marvelous the pictures are, and the ones he had seen in his father’s castle had been excellent. So surprised was he when he saw the trash, the cheap tinsel that mankind considered beautiful, that his eyes almost popped out of his head; but he held onto them, for he needed his eyes for the deeds he wanted to do.

  Wholeheartedly and steadfastly he went to work for the cause of beauty, truth, and goodness. But all too often he saw ugliness receive the praise that should have been given to beauty. The good was hardly noticed, while mediocrity was applauded instead of being criticized. People looked at a man’s name, not at his deeds; his appearance and not his character; his position and not how he fulfilled it. But that is the way of the world and it cannot be different.

  “There is work enough for me,” he said, and began at once. He sought truth; but when he found it, the Devil—the Father of all Lies—was there too. The Devil would have liked to put out the seer’s eyes at once, but he thought that too crude. The Devil prefers to do things in a refined way. He let the young man look at truth and beauty, and goodness as well; but while he was looking at them, the Devil blew motes into his eyes: one into each of them. Then he blew on the motes until they became beams, and his sight was no more. The seer was blind! There he stood in the middle of the wide world, not trusting it and not trusting himself; and once you have given up both the world and yourself, then it is all over.

  “Over,” sang the wild swans that flew across the ocean toward the east.

  “Over,” chirped the swallows on their way toward the Tree of the Sun; and the tidings they brought were not good.

  “The seer did not suceed,” said the second brother. “Maybe he who hears will fare better.” The second brother had developed his sense of hearing so much that he could hear the grass grow.

  He said good-by to his father, his two brothers, and his sister, mounted his horse, and rode away filled with the very best intentions. The swallows followed him, and he followed the swans, and soon he was far from home, out in the wide world.

  But one can get too much of a good thing, and that the second brother found only too true. For he heard not only the grass grow, but every human heartbeat, both in joy and in sorrow. The world was like a watchmaker’s shop and all the watches were going tick-tock and the great clocks were striking ding-dong. It was more than anyone could bear! He kept listening as long as he could, but at last all the noise and din were too much for him. Street urchins screamed and shouted. Some of them were sixty years old, for it is not age but behavior that makes a guttersnipe, though they were really more amusing than annoying. He heard gossip whistling through all the streets and alleys, and lies shouting that they were the masters of the world. The bells on the fool’s cap claimed that they were church bells. Oh, it was all too much for the young man!

  He put his fingers into both his ears but that didn’t help. He could still hear the singer who sang out of tune, the clamor of evil, the voices of slander and pompous chatter, the stubborn shouting of worthless ideas till they were recited in a chorus like thunder. Everywhere there was sound: marching, crying, clattering, screeching, wailing, banging. It was too frightening, too horrible! Deeper and deeper he dug his fingers into his ears; and finally the eardrums burst. Now he could hear nothing at all. Beauty, truth, and goodness were silenced too. His hearing, which was the bridge for his thoughts, was gone. He grew silent and suspicious and trusted no one, not even himself. That was a great misfortune. He would never find the philosopher’s stone and take it back to his father’s castle. He abandoned his search and he abandoned himself; and the second was worse than the first. The birds that flew east to the Tree of the Sun brought the message. He wrote no letter, for there was no mail service.

  “Now it is my turn,” said the third brother. “I have a nose for the work.” That was not the most elegant way to express oneself, but that was the manner in which he usually spoke, and one had to take him as he was. He had a cheerful disposition and he was a poet, a real one who could say in verse what couldn’t be said in prose. He perceived many things long before other people could.

  “I can smell a rat,” he would boast; and in truth, it was sense of smell that he had especially developed. This made him an expert on beauty, he felt. “Some love the smell of apples, others the odor in a stable,” he said. “Each region of smell in beauty’s realm has its adherents. Some feel most at home in the smoke-filled atmosphere of cheap cafes, where tallow candles smoke rather than burn, and the odor of stale beer mixes with the stink from cheap tobacco. Others like the pungent perfume of the jasmine flowers, or they rub their bodies with oil of cloves and that smell is not easy to get rid of. Some seek the clean air of the seashore and others climb the mountains to be able to look down upon the trivial life below!” This he said before he had left his father’s house; one would think he already knew the world of man, but he didn’t. It was the poetical part of him that had spoken: the gift of imagination that God had given him while he lay in his cradle.

  He bade good-by to his father’s house in the Tree of the Sun. He did not ride away on a horse; no, he mounted an ostrich, for that could run faster. But as soon as he saw the wild swans he picked out the strongest among them and rode on that instead, for he liked a change. He flew across the ocean to foreign lands, where great forests surrounded deep lakes, and there were huge mountains and proud cities. Wherever he flew, the sun broke forth from behind dark clouds. Every flower, every bush smelled more fragrant, as if they wanted to do their very best, while such a friend and protector of odors was near them. Yes, even an ill-tended rose hedge, that was half dead, unfolded new leaves and bloomed. Its single flower was particularly lovely, even the black slug saw the beauty of the little rose.

  “I will put my mark on it,” the slug said. “I will spit on it, for more I cannot do for anyone.”

  “That is the fate of beauty in this world,” said the poet. He composed a little song about it, and he sang it himself; but no one listened to it. So he gave the town crier two silver coins and a peacock feather as payment; and he shouted the song, accompanied by his drum, through all the streets an
d squares. Then people listened and said that they understood it—it was so profound. Now the poet composed other songs about beauty, goodness, and truth. They were listened to in the cafés, where the tallow candles smoked; and they were heard in the fragrant meadow, the forest, and on the boundless sea. It seemed he would be more successful than his two other brothers.

  This did not please the Devil. He came at once, bringing with him large portions of incense. There were all kinds: royal and ecclesiastical, and the very strongest that the Devil distills, which is brewed from honor, glory, and fame. It is potent enough to make even an angel dizzy, not to speak of a poet. The Devil knows how to catch everyone; and the youngest brother was caught with incense. He couldn’t get enough of it and soon he had forgotten his quest and his home as well as himself; he went up in smoke, the smoke of incense.

  When the little birds heard it they became ever so sorrowful; they mourned so deeply that they did not sing for three whole days. The slug became even blacker than he was before, but that was because he was envious, not because he mourned.

  “It was I that gave him the idea,” he claimed, “they should have burned incense for me. I inspired his famous song for drums about the ways of the world. It was I who spat on the rose; and I have witnesses to prove it.”

  But back in Indialand, which stretches east to the end of the world, they heard no news. All the little birds had mourned for three days and not sung a note. They had felt their sorrow so intensely that by the time the three days were over they had forgotten what it was they had been mourning over; that happens in this world.

  “Maybe I’d better go out into the world and get lost too,” said the fourth brother. He had a sense of humor, although he wasn’t a poet, which was a good enough reason for his feeling happy. The two younger brothers had brought gaiety and laughter to the castle, and now they both would be gone.