The Complete Fairy Tales and Stories

by Hans Christian Andersen

THE SHADOW

  LITTLE TUCK was thought out during a visit to Oldenburg; it contains some reminiscences from my childhood.

  THE SHADOW was composed during a visit to Naples but not written down before my return to Copenhagen.

  The year after, a second booklet was published; it contained:

  THE OLD HOUSE

  A DROP OF WATER

  THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL

  THE STORY OF A MOTHER

  THE COLLAR

  In many of my fairy tales are recorded incidents that have happened to me. In The Fairy Tale of My Life, I have mentioned two that are to be found in THE OLD HOUSE. The writer Mosen’s little son gave me, when I left Oldenburg, one of his tin soldiers, so that I should not be so terribly alone. It was the composer Hartmann’s little daughter Maria who as a two-year-old always had to dance whenever she heard music. Once she entered the room while her older sisters and brothers were singing a hymn. She started to dance, and her musicality was such that it did not permit her to change the rhythm, so she danced by standing first on one leg and then on the other as long as the measure of the hymn demanded.

  A DROP OF WATER was written for H. C. Oersted.

  THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL was written during a stay at Graasten Castle, on my way south to foreign lands. There I received a letter from Mr. Flinch, containing three pictures. He wanted me to write a story about one of them for his almanac. I chose the picture of the poor little girl selling matches.

  In the gardens of Glorup Castle on Fyn, where I used to spend several weeks in the summer, there was an area completely overgrown with giant dock weeds. These had been planted in bygone times as food for the white snails, which had been considered a delicacy. The dock plants and the snails were the inspiration for THE HAPPY FAMILY, which I wrote during a visit to London.

  THE STORY OF A MOTHER came to me without any apparent reason while I was walking along the street, complete and ready to be written down. I have been told that this story is very popular with the Hindus.

  THE FLAX was written in 1849 and first printed in the magazine Native Land.

  After a journey in the north in 1851, I published a book entitled In Sweden. From this book were taken for the German edition of my tales, illustrated by Lieutenant Pedersen, the following stories:

  THE BIRD PHOENIX

  GRANDMOTHER

  A STORY

  THE SILENT ALBUM

  Many of my early fairy tales published in Germany had been illustrated, some by Hosemann, others by Count Pocci, Ludvig Richter, and Otto Speckter. The letter’s very brilliantly conceived and splendid pictures had been used in the English edition that was published under the title The Shoes of Fortune and other tales. Now my German publisher, Lorck, in Leipzig, decided to publish my collected fairy tales and asked me to find a Danish artist to illustrate them. I chose the naval officer, V. Pedersen. Later my Danish publisher, Reitzel, bought the rights to his work from Mr. Lorck; and in 1849 a Danish edition with 125 illustrations by Lieutenant Pedersen was published.

  In this beautiful volume all of my fairy tales were collected and it was referred to as the complete edition. But I did not feel that I was finished with this art form. A new title had to be found for the next collection. I decided to call it Stories. It seemed to me that our language has no better name for my tales, it encompasses their nature in its broadest sense. Nursery tales, legends, folk tales, fables, and narratives are all given the same title by children, peasants, and ordinary workingmen: they are called stories.

  The first little booklet printed in 1852 contained:

  THE YEAR’S STORY

  THE WORLD’S MOST BEAUTIFUL ROSE

  FROM THE RAMPARTS OF THE CITADEL

  ON THE LAST DAY

  IT IS PERFECTLY TRUE!

  THE SWANS’ NEST

  A HAPPY DISPOSITION

  In 1853 came the next booklet, containing:

  GRIEF

  EVERYTHING IN ITS RIGHT PLACE

  THE PIXY AND THE GROCER

  THE MILLENNIUM

  UNDER THE WILLOW TREE

  “Write,” said the poet Thiele, “a fairy tale about a whistle that can blow everything into its right place.” In these words lay the plot of the story and from that the fairy tale sprang.

  UNDER THE WILLOW TREE contains some pages from the story of my own life.

  The first edition of my stories was already out of print; and therefore it was decided by my Danish publisher, C. A. Reitzel, and my German publisher, Lorck, in Leipzig, to make an enlarged edition illustrated with drawings by V. Pedersen, as my book of fairy tales had been. This appeared in 1855 and the volume included, besides the stories already mentioned, those that had been published in the The People’s Calendar and a few new ones:

  THERE IS A DIFFERENCE

  FIVE PEAS FROM THE SAME POD

  A LEAF FROM HEAVEN

  THE OLD GRAVESTONE

  CLOD HANS

  FROM A WINDOW IN VARTOV

  IB AND LITTLE CHRISTINA

  THE LAST PEARL

  SHE WAS NO GOOD

  THE UTTERMOST PARTS OF THE SEA

  THE PIGGY BANK

  The fairy tale, THERE IS A DIFFERENCE, was written at Christine-lund, near the town of Praesto. There stood in a ditch a flowering apple tree, a picture of spring itself. The tree kept blooming so fragrantly in my mind that I could not get rid of it until I had planted it in a fairy tale.

  FIVE PEAS FROM THE SAME POD stems from childhood memories of the little wooden box with chives and a single pea growing in it, which was then my garden.

  THE OLD GRAVESTONE is a mosaic of memories. In my mind I place the story in the town of Svendborg, for it was there that I first thought of it. The gravestone itself was one that formed a step in the stone staircase that led up to Collin’s house on Broad Street in Copenhagen; that, too, had a half-destroyed inscription. The picture of old Preben, sitting in the room next to the one in which his dead wife is lying, and becoming so absorbed in telling us about her in her youth, when they first became engaged, that he himself appears young and happy is a portrait of the composer Hartmann’s old father, talking to us about his wife while she lay dead in a room nearby. All these memories of mine I have used in that story. It was first printed in Germany for an almanac in Bavaria, which I had been asked to write something for.

  CLOD HANS is a Danish folk tale, very freely retold. It is quite singular among my later stories, practically all of which are of my own invention.

  The kernel of SHE WAS NO GOOD lay in a couple of words my mother said when I was a little boy. One day, on the street in Odense, I saw another boy on his way to the stream where his mother, who was a washerwoman, stood in the water rinsing linen. A widow, well known for her sharp tongue and severely puritanical beliefs, screamed at the child from the window of her house: “Are you taking schnapps down to your mother again? It is disgusting! For shame! Let me never see you grow up to be like her, for she is no good!”

  When I came home I told about the incident and everybody in the room agreed, “Yes, she drinks too much; she is no good!”

  Only my mother was of a different opinion; she said, “Do not judge so harshly. The poor woman works so hard, she often spends the whole day standing in the cold water; and it is not every day that she gets a hot meal. She has to have something to fortify herself with. What she takes isn’t right, that is true; but she does not know of anything better. She is an honest woman and she keeps her little boy neat and clean.” I had been as willing as the others in the room to judge the washerwoman harshly; and therefore the mild and understanding words of my mother made a deep impression on me. Many years later when another incident made me reflect upon how often man judges harshly and severely, where charity might have seen the case from a different angle, this memory from my childhood came back to me so vividly that I wrote it down as the story, SHE WAS NO GOOD. The German edition was soon out of print and a new one was to be published. This was augmented by the stories which I have already mentioned from A Poet’
s Bazaar and In Sweden. Also included were three stories from The People’s Calendar: THE THORNY PATH, THE SERVANT, which is a retelling of a Hungarian tale, and THE BOTTLE, all illustrated by V. Pedersen. The last story in the volume, THE PHILOSOPHER’S STONE, was also the last one that Lieutenant Pedersen illustrated; shortly afterward he died.

  June 1862 H. C. Andersen

  Notes for My

  Fairy Tales and Stories

  After the death of V. Pedersen we had the difficult problem of finding someone with talent and ability similar to his, to illustrate my future stories and fairy tales. Among the many artists here in Denmark who—for their own amusement—had made sketches for my stories was Mr. Lorenz Frolich. He had already illustrated a couple of French children’s books, which had been read with delight by both young people and grownups, and was justly well known for his accomplishments as an artist. He was now requested to illustrate my stories when they appeared in book form.

  As in the past, the stories and fairy tales in the next three volumes followed the order, more or less, in which they were written and originally printed.

  Each new group of stories was first published without illustrations. The first booklet—or collection, as they have also been called—appeared at Christmastime, 1857, and was reprinted four times. It was dedicated to Mrs. Serre in Maxen and included:

  HOW TO COOK SOUP UPON A SAUSAGE PIN

  THE BOTTLE

  THE PEPPERMAN’S NIGHTCAP

  “SOMETHING”

  THE OLD OAK TREE’S LAST DREAM

  In the proverbs and other phrases that we use to help us to express ourselves often lies hidden the seed of a story, HOW TO COOK SOUP UPON A SAUSAGE PIN was a conscious attempt to write such a fairy tale.

  One day my friend Councilman Thiele said to me in a teasing tone, “You must write for us the history of a bottle; from the moment it was created till the time when only the neck of it remains whole and it is used as a bird bath.” And that’s how THE BOTTLE came into existence.

  THE PEPPERMAN’S NIGHTCAP has two sources: the origin of the word “pepperman”; and the myth about St. Elisabeth.

  In “SOMETHING” I made use of a story that I had heard while visiting the west coast of Schleswig. There I was told about an old woman who had set fire to her house to save the many people who were out on the ice as the spring tide was coming in.

  THE OLD OAK TREE’S LAST DREAM came in a moment’s inspiration.

  The second collection was printed in the spring of 1858 and was dedicated to Mrs. Laessoe, nee Abrahamson, and included:

  THE BOG KING’S DAUGHTER

  THE WINNERS

  THE BELL DEEP

  The first of these is one of those fairy tales on which I have spent the most time and hard work. It may be of interest to some to see how it sprouted, unfolded, and developed, as if they were watching it through a microscope. The basic story—as has been the case with all my fairy tales—occurred to me in a single moment, in the same way as a well-known melody or song can sometimes come into one’s mind. I told the whole story at once to one of my friends and then wrote it down. Afterward I rewrote it; but even after the third version lay before me, I had to admit that there were still whole sections of it that were neither as clear nor as colorful as I thought they could or should be. I read some Icelandic sagas and these transported me backward in time. Inspired by them, I came a little closer to the truth. Then I read some modern travel writers’ descriptions of Africa, until I began to feel the glowing tropical heat, and a strange new world around me; then I was able to write about it more honestly. Some scientific reports about the migrations of birds were also very helpful. They gave me new ideas; and to them I owe the descriptions of the typical traits of the birds, as they move about in my fairy tale. In a short time this story was rewritten six or seven times, until finally I was convinced that I could not improve upon it.

  THE BELL DEEP is based on a story told by the people of Odense concerning the stream that runs through the city and the legend about the church bell from the tower of Albani Church.

  THE EVIL KING is an old legend and is one of the first stories I wrote. It was first printed in Siesbye’s The Salon and was later included in the German and English editions of my collected fairy tales and stories; so I think it should not be excluded in the Danish one.

  The third collection of stories was published in the spring of 1859 and was dedicated to the composer J. P. E. Hartmann; it included:

  WHAT THE WIND TOLD ABOUT VALDEMAR DAAE AND HIS DAUGHTERS

  THE GIRL WHO STEPPED ON BREAD

  THE WATCHMAN OF THE TOWER

  ANNE LISBETH

  CHILDREN’S PRATTLE

  A STRING OF PEARLS

  Among the folk legends of Denmark, as well as among the historical records of Borreby Castle near Skelskor, Valdemar Daae and his daughters are mentioned. It is one of the stories that I have revised most for the sake of style, so that the language would have the tone of the blistering, whistling wind, who tells the story.

  I had long known the story of THE GIRL WHO STEPPED ON BREAD: of how the bread had turned to stone and dragged her down with it into the bog, where she disappeared. I set myself the task of lifting her out of the swamp psychologically, so that she could be redeemed; and from it the story developed.

  In ANNE LISBETH, I wanted to show that all virtues lie in every human breast; and, like seeds, they must sprout, though sometimes it is in a roundabout way. This is the story of mother love and how it is given life and strength by experiencing fear and terror.

  CHILDREN’S PRATTLE is based on personal experience.

  A STRING OF PEARLS tells of the period of transition that I have lived through. In my childhood a trip from Odense to Copenhagen took about five days. Now it takes as many hours.

  The fourth collection came out at Christmas, 1859, and included:

  THE PEN AND THE INKWELL

  THE DEAD CHILD

  THE COCK AND THE WEATHERCOCK

  “LOVELY”

  A STORY FROM THE DUNES

  Everyone who has heard Ernst or Leonard play the violin will be reminded of that wonderful experience while reading THE PEN AND THE INKWELL.

  Of all my stories, I am happiest to have written THE DEAD CHILD and THE STORY OF A MOTHER, for they have given many grief-stricken mothers consolation and courage.

  A STORY FROM THE DUNES came into existence after a trip to the west coast of Jutland and Skagen. Here I found the people and the natural surroundings that could provide a setting for thoughts that I had long wanted to weave into a story; these ideas grew out of a conversation with Oehlenschläger. His words had made a very deep impression upon me. When I first heard them I thought only about the words themselves and did not try—as seems natural to me now—to find out why he had said them.

  We all know that mood in which we are tempted to express as a doubt, a truth which we have long since ceased to doubt, in order to hear our own arguments on someone else’s tongue. Perhaps that was the situation in this case, or was Oehlenschläger testing my faith?

  We were talking about eternal life when he asked: “Are you really convinced that there is a life after death?”

  I insisted that I was and used as my basic argument my belief that God was just; but in my eagerness I spoke without thinking. “Man has a right to an afterlife!” I exclaimed.

  “Isn’t it vanity on your part to think you have a right to an eternal life?” he argued. “Hasn’t God given you more than enough in this world? I know,” he continued, “how very much I have enjoyed this life, so when Death closes my eyes I shall bless him and be grateful; if an eternal life awaits me, then I shall call it something new that God in His infinite mercy has given.”

  “You can talk like that,” I replied. “God has given you so much here on earth—I, too, can say the same. But how many people in this world live quite differently? What about those who have a sick body or a stunted soul; those who are born into poverty and misery? Why have they suffered? Why
are the blessings of life so unequally distributed? There is injustice; and this God would not have allowed, unless He intended to make up for it. He gives His word; and He keeps it as we cannot always do.”

  What I said that day is the material which the little tale, A STORY FROM THE DUNES, is made of. When it was printed a critic said that I had never heard anyone express this doubt nor had I ever had it myself, and that was why the story did not ring true. If I remember correctly, it was the same critic—or another as well versed as he—who claimed that any reader would certainly be disappointed if—after reading my description of Skagen—he took a trip up there, expecting to find the poetic landscape I had written about. Since then I have had the pleasure of a visit from Brink Seidelin, a man who is really qualified to judge in this matter, since it is he who has written that excellent description of Skagen for the official geographical report of the district; and he congratulated me for having described so faithfully the scenery of northern Jutland. I received a letter from the minister of the church at Skagen, in which he complimented me for the description of the landscape because it was so true to life; and he added: “We also believe the other things you have told us; and from now on, when we show the old church to strangers, we shall say: ‘That is where Jurgen is buried.’ ”

  A young man of the district had been so kind as to take me for a drive up to the end of “the branch” and out to Old Skagen. Along the way we caught a glimpse of the church on the distant hill. Only the tower, which was now a seamark, could be seen above the sand. It would be a difficult climb for his horses and my host preferred not to drive up there; so I got out of the carriage and went alone up to the buried church. The impressions that I gathered on the walk can be found in A STORY FROM THE DUNES. Not long after the tale was published, this otherwise honest young man reported that I had never been at the church but only seen it at a distance; this he knew, for it was he who had driven me out there. It amused many to think that I had described something which I had, in fact, never seen; but I was not amused.

  One day I met the young man in Copenhagen and asked him if he remembered our trip. “Oh yes!” he replied. “We drove along the road below the church out to Old Skagen.”