The Complete Fairy Tales and Stories

by Hans Christian Andersen

  The telegraph didn’t answer, though it was filled with words. Thoughts traveled through it so fast that they took only seconds to move from one end to the other: hundreds of miles away.

  “Will you answer or be bitten in two?” asked the ill-mannered shark.

  All the other fishes repeated the question: “Answer or be bitten in two?”

  The telegraph cable didn’t move; it had its own ideas, which isn’t surprising for someone so full of thoughts. “Let them bite me in two,” it thought. “Then I will be pulled up and repaired. It has happened to lots of my relations, that are not half as long as I am.” But it didn’t speak, it telegraphed; besides, it found the question impertinent; after all, it was lying there on official business.

  Dusk had come. The sun was setting, as men say. It was a fiery red, and the clouds were as brilliant as fire—one more beautiful than the other.

  “Now comes the red illumination,” said the polyp. “Maybe the thing will be easier to see in that light, though I hardly think it worth looking at.”

  “Attack it! Attack it!” screamed the catfish, and showed all his teeth.

  “Attack it! Attack it!” shouted the whale, the shark, the swordfish, and the conger eel.

  They pushed forward. The catfish was first; but just as it was going to bite the cable the swordfish, who was a little too eager, stuck its sword into the behind of the catfish. It was a mistake, but it kept the catfish from using the full strength of its jaw muscles.

  There was a great muddle in the mud. The sea cucumbers, the big fishes, and the small ones swam around in circles; they pushed and shoved and squashed and ate each other up. The crabs and the lobsters fought, and the snails pulled their heads into their houses. The telegraph cable just minded its own business, which is the proper thing for a telegraph cable to do.

  Night came to the sky above, but down in the ocean millions and millions of little animals illuminated the water. Crayfish no larger than the head of a pin gave off light. It is incredible and wonderful; and quite true.

  All the animals of the sea looked at the telegraph cable. “If only we knew what it was—or at least what it wasn’t,” said one of the fishes. And that was a very important question.

  An old sea cow—human beings call them mermen and mermaids—came gliding by. This one was a mermaid. She had a tail and short arms for splashing, hanging breasts, and seaweed and parasites on her head—and of these she was very proud. “If you want learning and knowledge,” she said, “then I think I am the best equipped to give it to you. But I want free passage on the bottom of the sea for myself and my family. I am a fish like you, and a reptile by training. I am the most intelligent citizen of the ocean. I know about everything under the water and everything above it. The thing that you are worrying about comes from up there; and everything from above is dead and powerless, once it comes down here. So let it lie, it is only a human invention and of no importance.”

  “I think it may be more than that,” said the tiny fish.

  “Shut up, mackerel!” said the sea cow.

  “Shrimp!” shouted the others, and they meant it as an insult.

  The sea cow explained to them that the sea serpent who had frightened them—the cable itself, by the way, didn’t make a sound—was not dangerous. It was only an invention of those animals up on dry land called human beings. When she finished talking about the sea serpent, she gave a little lesson in the craftiness and wickedness of men: “They are always trying to catch us. That is the only reason for their existence. They throw down nets, traps, and long fishing lines that have hooks, with bait attached to them, to try and fool us. This is probably another—bigger—fishing line. They are so stupid that they expect us to bite on it. But we aren’t as dumb as that. Don’t touch that piece of junk. It will unravel, fall apart, and become mud and mire—the whole thing. Let it lie there and rot. Anything that comes from above is worthless; it breaks or creaks; it is no good!”

  “No good!” said all the creatures of the sea, accepting the mermaid’s opinion in order to have one.

  The little tiny fish didn’t agree, but it had learned to keep its thoughts to itself. “That enormously long snake may be the most marvelous fish in the sea. I have a feeling that it is.”

  “Marvelous!” we human beings agree; and we can prove that it is true.

  The great sea serpent of the fable has become a fact. It was constructed by human skill, conceived by human intelligence. It stretches from the Eastern Hemisphere to the Western, carrying messages from country to country faster than light travels from the sun down to the earth. Each year the great serpent grows. Soon it will stretch across all the great oceans, under the storm-whipped waves and the glasslike water, through which the skipper can look down as if he were sailing through the air and see the multitude of fish and the fireworks of color.

  At the very depths is a Midgards-worm, biting its own tail as it circumscribes the world. Fish and reptiles hit their heads against it: it is impossible to understand what it is by looking at it. Human thoughts expressed in all the languages of the world, and yet silent: the snake of knowledge of good and evil. The most wonderful of the wonders of the sea: our time’s great sea serpent!

  151

  The Gardener and His Master

  A few miles from Copenhagen stood an old castle with thick walls, towers, and corbie gables. Here lived, in the summertime, a noble family. This castle was the handsomest of all the castles and farms they owned. It was in such good repair that it looked as if it had been newly built. Inside it was both cozy and comfortable. Over the entrance portal had been cut in stone the coat of arms of the family. Rose vines grew up the wall and made a frame around the shield and the windows. A big lawn that was smooth as a carpet stretched in front of the castle; hawthorn bushes, both red and white, grew in the garden, besides beautiful and rare flowers seldom seen outside the hothouse.

  The noble family had an excellent gardener. It was a pleasure to look not only at the flower garden but at the vegetable garden and the fruit orchard as well. Near the orchard a small part of the original garden was still to be seen. It was filled with bushes cut in the shapes of pyramids and crowns. Among these stood two big ancient trees. They had but few leaves on them, even in summer; and if one did not know better, one could have believed that all the branches that had been cut off the bushes had been carried by the wind into the trees. But all the little bunches of twigs had been flown up there: they were birds’ nests.

  From ancient times, rooks and crows had nested there. The two old trees were a city of birds, and the birds were the proprietors. They were the oldest family in the castle, and they felt that they were the masters. They tolerated the two-legged ones that could not fly but had to stay forever on the ground. But human beings did not interest them, even when they came with their guns and frightened them, so they flew out of their trees, screaming with hoarse voices: “Caw! Caw!”

  The gardener had often asked his master for permission to have the old trees cut down; they were half dead as it was, and ugly. If they were gone, the birds would be gone too, and one would be spared listening to their screaming. But the master wanted to get rid of neither trees nor birds. He said they had been there from ancient times, and they belonged to the castle.

  “Those trees are the birds’ inheritance; let them keep it, my good Larsen,” he would say. The gardener’s name was Larsen—but that is neither here nor there, as far as my story is concerned. “Haven’t you enough land, little Larsen? Why do you need to take the birds’? If the park isn’t big enough, you have a kitchen garden, the orchard, and the hothouse.”

  And what the master said was true, the gardener had a large domain that he took great pains to keep. His master and mistress acknowledged it, but at times they could not help informing him that they had seen flowers or eaten fruits at the table of friends that were superior to what he could produce. This made the gardener quite sad, for he always did his very best. He had a simple, loving heart and took
great pride in his work.

  One day his master called him to the castle and told him, in a most courteous but patronizing way, that while dining with some noble friends the day before they had been served some pears and apples so succulent that they and all the other guests had never before tasted their like. The fruits were not native, of that he felt sure, but they ought to be imported; that is, if they could be made to grow here. They had been bought in the biggest greengrocery in the city, and the master wanted the gardener to ride in immediately and inquire what the names of the fruit were and if shoots for grafting could be sent for.

  The gardener knew the greengrocer well, for it was to him that he sold, with his master’s permission, the surplus fruit and vegetables from the gardens. He saddled a horse and rode to town and asked the greengrocer where the much-praised apples and pears had come from.

  “They are from your own orchard,” said the greengrocer, and showed the gardener some of the fruit, which he recognized at once. He hurried back and told his master the good news that the apples and pears he had found so delicious had come from his own garden.

  Both the master and mistress refused to believe it. “I don’t think it possible, Larsen,” said the master. “You will have to get it in writing from the greengrocer before I will believe it.”

  The gardener rode to town once more, and this time he returned with a testimonial from the greengrocer.

  “It is strange, but I guess it must be true,” said the master. From then on great bowls filled with pears and apples from their garden stood on the table, and they were proud of them. Crates were sent to all their friends in town, in the country, and even to some in foreign lands. It really was quite exciting, quite an honor; but it had to be remembered that that particular year had been a good year for fruit everywhere.

  Some months later the master and the mistress were invited to the king’s table. The day after, the gardener was called into the drawing room again. For dessert His Majesty had served some melons, from the royal hothouses, that had been most succulent and tasty.

  “You must go to the royal gardener, Larsen, and get some melon seeds so we can grow them ourselves.”

  “But the royal gardener got his seeds from us,” answered the gardener, very pleased.

  “In that case, the royal gardener has understood how to grow them. Every one of them was superb,” said the master, looking more annoyed than pleased.

  “I guess I can be proud of them,” said the gardener, “for it will please you to know that the royal gardener had no luck with his melons this year; when he saw ours he asked for three of them for the royal table.”

  “Larsen! Don’t tell me that it was our own melons we ate.”

  “I am sure they were,” said the gardener. “But I will go and ask.”

  And he did and it was their own melons they had eaten and he got it in writing from the royal gardener.

  His master and mistress were both pleased and surprised, and told everyone the story and even showed the testimonial from the royal gardener. Melon seeds were dispatched to their friends, as apples and pears and shoots for grafting had been sent before.

  Seeds from the new type of melon were exported. They were named after the castle, so now its name could be read in French, German, and English. It was all quite unexpected.

  “I hope the gardener won’t begin thinking too much of himself,” said the master to the mistress.

  He didn’t; but the fame was a spur, he wanted to be one of the best gardeners in the country. Every year he tried to improve some of the vegetables and fruits, and often he was successful. It was not always appreciated. He would be told that the pears and apples were good but not as good as the ones last year. The melons were excellent but not quite up to the standard of the first ones he had grown.

  As for the strawberries, they were fine, but berries as big and juicy were served at other tables. The year the worms ate the radishes, no one seemed to be interested in talking about anything else, even though so many other things had grown well that year. It was as if his master felt relieved at being able to point to a failure.

  “The radishes didn’t work out this year, little Larsen,” they would say, and repeat it. “The radishes didn’t work out.”

  Twice a week the gardener took fresh flowers up to the castle. He arranged them marvelously so each color complemented the others; his bouquets were a delight.

  “You have taste, Larsen,” his mistress would say. “But remember, taste is a gift from God, not of your own making.”

  One day he arranged in a crystal bowl a water-lily leaf and a strange blue flower as big as a sunflower.

  “It is the lotus flower from Hindustan!” exclaimed the mistress. She had never seen anything so beautiful before. The bowl was put where the sun could shine on it in the daytime, and at night it was illuminated with candles. Everyone who saw it found it lovely and rare, and said they had never seen a flower like it before. The young princess, who was both good and kind, was so delighted with it that she was given the flower to take home with her to her castle.

  The next day the master and mistress went down into the garden. They wanted to pick one of the marvelous flowers themselves. They looked everywhere, but they couldn’t find it. At last they called the gardener and asked him where the blue lotus flower grew.

  “We have looked everywhere,” they said, “both in the flower garden and in the hothouse.”

  “You won’t find it either place,” answered the gardener. “It is only a humble flower from the kitchen garden. But beautiful it is, like a blue cactus, though it is only an artichoke.”

  “I wish you had told us that.” The master sounded annoyed. “We thought it was a rare foreign flower. How could we have thought anything else? It is most embarrassing. The young princess was so enamored of it that we gave it to her. Although she is very well versed in botany, she did not recognize it; but then I am sure botany has little to do with vegetables. My good Larsen, how could you bring such a flower up into the rooms of the castle? You have made us appear ridiculous.”

  The beautiful blue flower from the kitchen garden was banished from the elegant rooms of the old castle. It didn’t belong there! The master and mistress excused themselves to the princess and explained that the beautiful blue lotus flower was only a common vegetable. Their gardener was the culprit who had been so impertinent; they had reprimanded him severely.

  “Oh, what a pity! How unjust!” exclaimed the princess. “He has opened our eyes, showed us a beautiful flower, where we would never have thought of looking for it. I will order the royal gardener to bring me an artichoke flower every day as long as they are in bloom.”

  And the royal gardener did; and the master and the mistress told Larsen that he, too, could bring a freshly cut artichoke flower to their rooms every day.

  “It is really quite a fascinating flower,” they said, and complimented the gardener. “Larsen loves praise, he is like a spoiled child,” the mistress said, and the master nodded in agreement.

  That autumn there was a terrible storm. During the night it grew worse and on the outskirts of the forest great trees fell; their roots were pulled right out of the earth. The two great old trees that housed the colony of birds did not fare better. Down they came, nests and all. Inside the castle one could hear the angry screams of the birds, and some of the servants said that the birds knocked on the windowpanes with their wings. The master said it was an affliction. The gardener said nothing; he was happy to see the old trees gone.

  “Now you are contented, Larsen.” The master looked at the fallen trees. “The storm has cut them down for you; the birds have departed for the forest, a part of the old times has gone. Soon there will be nothing left to remind us of it. You, this has delighted; me, it has grieved.”

  The gardener had a plan—it was an old one he had thought of long ago—as to what he would do with the area where the trees had stood. It was a sunny spot and he meant to make it the most beautiful part of the park.r />
  The trees had smashed the bushes in their fall, and they could not be saved. In the cleared plot of land he now planted all the typical common plants of Denmark, gathered from forests and fields. Bushes, trees, and flowers that no other gardener had ever dreamed of introducing into the park of a castle he planted there. Each got the soil, the sun or shade it desired; he nursed them with devotion and the plants grew and flourished.

  The juniper from the heath of Jutland thrived. It rose like a miniature Italian cypress. Near it grew the holly, green in winter and summer. And in front of them were ferns of all different types, like dwarf palm trees. The great thistle, the most despised of all weeds, bloomed with flowers so beautiful that they would have enhanced any bouquet. Not far from them, where the soil was a little more moist, the common dock was allowed to flourish, with its big picturesque leaves. From the fields had been brought great mulleins that looked like giant candelabra. Woodruff, primrose, lily of the valley, the calla, and the three-leafed wood sorrel: all were there; none had been forgotten. It was a marvel to look at.

  In the direction of the fields the garden was fenced by a row of dwarf pear trees. They had been imported from France but, having been given plenty of sun and careful nursing, they soon bore fruits as big and succulent as in their own country.

  Where the two old trees had stood a flagpole was erected and from its top the white and red flag of Denmark flew. Near the flagpole another smaller pole stood, around which the vines of the hops twisted themselves; in the late summer the sweet scent of their flowers could be smelled far away. In the winter a sheaf of oats hung from the pole; it is an old custom to provide a meal in this way for the birds at Christmas.

  “Larsen is getting sentimental in his old age,” said the master.

  “But he is loyal and true,” added the mistress.

  At New Year’s, one of the illustrated papers from Copenhagen carried a picture of the old castle. One could see the flagpole and the sheaf of oats for the birds. It was particularly mentioned how pleasing it was to see that such an old tradition was kept alive.