The Little Mermaid

by Hans Christian Andersen

  “You certainly don’t act afraid of the ocean, my silent girl!” said the Prince when they stood upon the stately ship that was bringing him to the neighbouring kingdom. And he explained all about storms and calms, about the curious fish in the deeps and all the things that divers had seen down there. The little mermaid smiled at his explanations. After all, she knew more about the bottom of the sea than anyone.

  In the moon-bright night, while all the others slept except the first mate standing at the wheel, she sat by the ship’s railing and stared down through the clear water. She imagined she could see her father’s palace, and at the top of it her old grandmother, wearing her silver crown and staring up through the swift current towards the ship’s keel. Just then, her sisters swam up to the surface and gazed mournfully at her, twisting their white hands. She waved to them, smiling; she wanted to tell them that everything was going well, that she was happy. But then the cabin boy approached and her sisters dived out of sight, and he thought the white flash he’d seen was just some foam on the sea.

  The next morning, the ship sailed into the harbour of the neighbouring king’s glorious city. All the church bells were ringing, trumpets sounded from high towers and soldiers stood to attention, their banners fluttering and bayonets glinting. Every day there was some new party, a ball or society gathering, one after the other, and yet the Princess did not appear. She lived far from the city, they said, in some holy temple where they were teaching her all the royal virtues. Then finally one day she arrived.

  The little mermaid had been eager to see her beauty, and she had to admit that she’d never seen anyone more striking. The Princess’s skin was so fine and fair, and beneath her long dark eyelashes smiled a pair of devoted black-blue eyes.

  “It’s you!” cried the Prince. “You rescued me when I lay like a corpse on the shore!” And he wrapped his arms around his blushing bride-to-be.

  Then he turned to the little mermaid. “Oh, I am just too happy!” he told her. “The best thing that could happen to me, the one thing I never dared to hope for, has come true! And I’m sure that you share my joy, because you love me more than anyone does.” The little mermaid kissed his hand and felt that her heart would burst. The dawn after his wedding would bring her death and turn her into foam on the sea.

  The church bells were pealing and heralds rode through the streets to proclaim the news. Scented oils burned in silver lamps on every altar. The ministers swung their incense burners, and then bride and groom took each other by the hand and received the bishop’s blessing. The little mermaid stood in silk and gold and held the train of the bride’s dress. But her ears did not hear the festive music, and her eyes did not see the holy ceremony. She was thinking of her dying night, and of everything she’d lost in this world.

  That very same evening, bride and groom went on board the Prince’s ship. The cannons boomed, the flags waved, and in the middle of the ship a royal tent of gold and purple was raised and furnished with the finest cushions. The newlyweds were to sleep there that quiet, cool night. The sails swelled in the breeze and the ship glided effortlessly across the bright ocean.

  When darkness fell, the coloured lanterns were lit and the sailors danced merrily upon the deck. The little mermaid couldn’t help but think about the first time she rose from the sea and saw the same splendour and joy, and she threw herself into the whirling dance, gliding and twirling like a swallow being pursued. And everyone cheered in wonder, for never had she danced so fantastically. The dance cut her fine feet like knives, yet she didn’t feel it; the real pain was in her heart. She knew that this was the last night she would see the young man for whom she’d left her home and family, for whom she’d given her beautiful voice and for whom she’d suffered torment every day. And she knew that he had no notion of what she’d sacrificed. It was the last night she was breathing the same air as he, seeing the same deep sea and starry sky. An eternal night without thought or dream was waiting for her—a mermaid who had no soul and could not earn one. And everything on the ship was joy and merriment until long past midnight. She laughed and danced with the shadow of death in her heart. Then the Prince kissed his darling bride, she played with his black hair, and the two of them walked arm in arm to rest in their magnificent tent.

  It grew hushed and silent on board the ship. Only the first mate remained, standing by the wheel. The little mermaid rested her white arms upon the railing and looked to the east for the dawn. The first sunbeam, she knew, would kill her. Then she saw her sisters rising from the sea. They were as pale as she was, and their long beautiful hair no longer fluttered in the breeze. It had all been cut off.

  “We traded our hair to the Sea Witch for her help, so that you wouldn’t die!” they called out. “She’s given us a knife. Here—see how keen the blade is? Before the sun rises, you must plunge it into the Prince’s heart—and when his hot blood spatters your legs and feet, they’ll grow together into a fishtail and you’ll become a mermaid again! Then you can dive back down into the water and live out your three hundred years before turning into dead salty foam. Hurry! It’s either him or you—one of you must die before the sun rises! Our old grandmother’s grieving, so that her white hair all fell out, just as ours fell beneath the witch’s scissors. Kill the Prince and come home! Quick, can’t you see that red stripe in the sky? In a few minutes the sun will be up, and then you will die!” And with a strange deep sigh they sank back beneath the waves.

  The little mermaid pulled back the purple curtain of the tent. She saw the beautiful bride sleeping with her head on the Prince’s chest. She bowed down and kissed him on his lovely forehead, then glanced at the sky where the redness of dawn was spreading, and at the sharp knife in her hand. Then she fixed her eyes again upon the Prince. Dreaming, he spoke the name of his bride; all his thoughts were on her. The knife trembled as the mermaid held it—and then she flung it far into the waves. The sea flashed red where it fell, as if blood was oozing up from the water. She looked at him one last time, her eyes already glazing over, then plunged into the ocean and felt her body dissolve into foam.

  The sun was rising from the sea. Its rays fell gentle and warm upon the deathly cold sea foam—but the little mermaid didn’t feel dead. She saw the bright sun, and up above her floated a hundred beautiful transparent beings. Through these beings she could see the ship’s white sails and the sky’s red clouds, and their voices shaped a melody so unearthly that no human ear could hear it, just as no human eye could see their forms. They floated on the air without wings, lifted only by their own lightness. And then the little mermaid saw that she had a body just like theirs, rising higher and higher from the foam.

  “Who are you? Who am I joining?” she wondered aloud, and her voice sounded like the others, so unearthly that no music of this world could ever come close to it.

  “We’re sylphs—the daughters of the air!” they replied. “A mermaid has no soul, it’s true, and she’ll never receive one unless she earns the love of a human being. Her eternal life depends on that strange power. The daughters of the air don’t have immortal souls either—but we can create one through good deeds. We fly to hot countries, where the stifling air of disease kills people, and we cool the air with our fans. We spread the scent of flowers, we refresh and we heal. When we’ve done this good work for three hundred years, we’re granted an immortal soul and can take part in humans’ eternal happiness. Poor little mermaid! You’ve tried with all your heart to do the same thing we do, and your suffering and patience has raised you to our realm and made you a sylph. And now, by doing good deeds for three hundred years, you too can earn an immortal soul.”

  And the little mermaid raised her clear arms towards God’s sun, and for the very first time she felt tears.

  On board ship, the sounds of chatter and life returned, and she watched as the Prince and his beautiful bride began to look for her. They gazed wistfully at the sparkling foam, as if they knew she had plunged into the waves. Unseen, the little mermaid kissed the bride’
s forehead and smiled at the Prince, and then she flew up with the other sylphs on a rosy cloud that sailed through the air.

  “In three hundred years, this is how we’ll float into God’s kingdom!”

  “We might get there even before that,” whispered one of the sylphs. “We glide invisibly into the houses of people with children. And every day that we find a good child, who makes her parents glad and deserves their love, God shortens our trial period. The children have no idea that we’re floating through their rooms, but every time one of them makes us smile with joy, a year is subtracted from the three hundred. But if we see a child who’s naughty and mean, it makes us cry with sadness—and each tear adds another day to our trial!”

  NCE UPON A TIME there were twenty-five tin soldiers. They were brothers, because they were all sons of an old tin spoon. Each one held a rifle and looked straight in front of him, and their splendid uniforms were red and blue. The very first thing they ever heard was when the lid was lifted from the box where they lay. “Tin soldiers!” shouted a little boy, and he clapped his hands. They were a present for him because it was his birthday, and now he set them up on the table. Every soldier looked exactly like his brothers—except for one, who was a bit different. This soldier had only one leg, because he was the last to be cast and there hadn’t been quite enough tin. Yet he stood just as steady on his one leg as the others on their two—and it’s this soldier who would become something marvellous.

  There were lots of other toys on the table where they were placed, but what caught the eye was an attractive paper castle. Through the tiny windows you could see right into its rooms. Outside the castle, little trees stood around a small mirror that was supposed to look like a lake, where wax swans swam in their own reflections. It all looked very pretty—but prettiest of all was the young dancer who stood in the middle of the castle’s open doorway. She was also cut out of paper, but she was wearing a skirt of gauzy linen and a little blue sash across her shoulder, like a scarf. In the middle of the sash was a shiny spangle as big as her face. The dancer stretched out both arms, for she was a ballerina, and she raised one of her legs so high in the air that the tin soldier couldn’t see it and thought she had only one leg—just like him.

  That’s the wife for me! he thought. But she looks rather elegant, and lives in a castle, while I only have a box. And there are twenty-five of us living there—not a place for her! Yet I must try to introduce myself. His tall body was hidden behind a snuffbox. Here he could gaze upon the fine little dancer, who kept standing on one leg without losing her balance.

  Late in the evening, all the other tin soldiers were put into their box, and the people of the house went to bed. Now the toys started to play charades, fight battles and hold dances. The tin soldiers rattled in their box, because they wanted to get out but couldn’t get the lid off. The nutcracker turned somersaults, the chalk played tricks on the slate, and they all made such a racket that it woke the canary, who began talking in rhyme. The only toys who didn’t budge were the tin soldier and the ballerina. She stayed upright on tiptoe, with both her arms spread. He was just as steady on his single leg, and his eyes didn’t leave her for a moment.

  Then the clock struck twelve and smack! the lid of the snuffbox popped off. But there was no snuff tobacco inside, no, for up jumped a little black goblin—a jack-in-the-box!

  “Tin soldier,” warned the goblin, “keep your eyes to yourself.”

  But the tin soldier acted as if he hadn’t heard.

  “Well then,” said the goblin, “just you wait till tomorrow!”

  When morning came and the children got up, they placed the tin soldier on the windowsill. And it’s not clear if it was because of the goblin or a gust of wind, but the window flew open—and the soldier tumbled head first from the third floor. He fell terribly fast, his leg in the air, and landed bang on his cap, his bayonet jammed between the cobblestones.

  The young maid and the little boy rushed down to look for him immediately. But though they very nearly stepped on him, they didn’t see him. If the tin soldier had shouted, “I’m here!” they probably would have found him, but he didn’t think it proper to yell because he was in uniform.

  Now it started raining, and each drop came quicker than the one before, until it was coming down in buckets. And when it stopped, two young mischief-makers came by.

  “Ahoy!” the first boy called out. “A tin soldier! Time for him to join the navy.”

  Then they made a boat out of newspaper, put the tin soldier in it and sent him sailing down the gutter. The boys ran alongside, clapping their hands. My goodness! What waves there were in that gutter, and what a current—for remember, it had just rained buckets. The paper boat rocked up and down and spun around so quickly, the tin soldier started to shake. Yet he stayed standing and didn’t blink, just looked straight ahead and held onto his rifle.

  Suddenly the boat rushed into a long tunnel, where planks covered the gutter. It was just as dark in there as inside his box.

  Where am I? he wondered. This is the goblin’s doing! If only the young dancer were sitting here in the boat, then I wouldn’t mind if it were twice as dark!

  Just then there appeared a huge water rat, who lived in the gutter beneath the planks.

  “Passport!” demanded the rat. “Hand it over!”

  But the tin soldier said nothing; he just gripped his rifle even tighter. The boat kept moving with the rat right behind. Ooh, how it gnashed its teeth—and then it shouted to the floating sticks and straws, “Stop him, stop him! He hasn’t paid the toll! He hasn’t shown his passport!”

  But the current started moving faster and faster, and now the tin soldier could see daylight where the planking ended. Yet he could also hear a roaring sound ahead of him that would scare the bravest of men, and soon he could see the gutter dropping away at the end of the tunnel, where the water fell into a large canal. It looked dangerous—as dangerous as the edge of a high waterfall would look to you!

  But now it was so close that he couldn’t stop. The boat shot out of the tunnel and the poor tin soldier held himself as stiff as a board—no one could say he moved a muscle. Then the boat splashed down, spun around three times and began to fill with water, up to the brim. It was sinking! Soon the tin soldier was standing in water up to his neck, and as the boat sank deeper and deeper, the newspaper started to come apart. As the water closed over the soldier’s head, he thought of the delightful ballerina, whom he’d never see again. A children’s song echoed in his ear:

  Danger, danger, man of war—

  You shall suffer death!

  Then the paper split open and the tin soldier fell through the bottom—right into the mouth of an enormous fish!

  Oh, but it was so dark inside! It was even worse than under the planks—and so cramped! But the tin soldier steeled himself, and he lay there in the fish as straight as a ramrod and gripped his rifle tight.

  The fish swam every which way, and its movements squeezed the tin soldier dreadfully. After a long, long time it stopped moving and became quite still…

  Then something flashed through it like a bolt of lightning. Bright light was everywhere, and someone shouted, “A tin soldier!” For the fish had been caught, sold in the market and brought up to a kitchen, where a young woman had sliced it open with a large knife. Now she grabbed the tin soldier by the waist with two fingers and carried him into a room, where everyone wanted to see the amazing man who had travelled in the belly of a fish.

  Yet the tin soldier did not feel proud. They placed him up on a table, and there—oh, what strange things happen in this world! For the tin soldier found himself in the very same room as before. He saw the very same children and the very same toys on the table—including the pretty castle with the beautiful ballerina. She was still standing on one leg, with the other in the air, for she had stayed faithfully upright too. This touched the tin soldier, and he almost wept tin tears—but that would never do. He looked at her and she looked at him, and neither of th
em said a word.

  Suddenly one of the small boys grabbed the tin soldier and threw him into the wood-burning stove. He didn’t say why, but it must have been the goblin’s fault.

  The tin soldier stood inside the stove, all lit up, and he felt a terrible heat—but whether it came from fire or from love, he didn’t know. His bright colours were all gone now, though no one could say if it was because of his long journey or simply because of his sorrow. He gazed at the young dancer and she gazed at him, and he felt that he was melting. Yet still he stood upright with his rifle in his hand. Then a door opened and the wind caught the dancer. She flew through the air like a sylph, straight to the tin soldier in the stove. She flared up in the fire and was gone. Then the tin soldier melted into a metal blob.

  The next day, when the maid came to take out the ashes she found he’d become a small tin heart. But the only thing left of the ballerina was her spangle, and that was burnt black as coal.

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