Hans Christian Andersen's Fairy Tales: Twenty Tales Illustrated by Harry Clarke

by Andersen, Hans Christian

  A year went by and the emperor, the court and all the people of the empire knew every twitter off by heart. They loved it because they could sing along, and even the emperor joined in.

  But one evening, when the artificial bird was singing at its best, and the emperor lay in bed listening to it, something inside it went “Whizz!” and something cracked. “Whir-r-r!” it went as all the wheels spun round and the music stopped.

  The emperor sprang out of bed and called the palace doctor. But he couldn’t do anything. So the emperor sent for the watchmaker and, after a lot of talking and investigation, the bird was almost fixed. The watchmaker warned that the bird must be treated carefully because the barrels inside it had worn and it would be impossible to replace them. It was to sing only once a year and even that was almost too much. The people were upset until the play-write made a little speech, full of heavy words, and convinced them that things were as good as before.

  Five years went by and sorrow fell upon the Empire. The people loved their emperor, but he was very ill and they feared that he would not live much longer. A new emperor had been selected, yet the people in the street still asked the courtier how their emperor was.

  “P!” he said, and he shook his head.

  The emperor lay cold, stiff and pale on his luxurious bed. The courtiers all thought that he had died and they rushed to welcome their new ruler. The maids even had a tea party. Cloth had been laid in all the corridors so that no footstep could be heard, and so the palace had fallen silent. But the emperor was not yet dead; he simply lay there resting, surrounded by his expensive velvet curtains and gold tassels. An open window above the bed allowed the moonlight to shine down on to the emperor and the artificial bird.

  The emperor could hardly breathe. He opened his eyes and saw that Death was lying upon his chest. It had put on his golden crown, and it held his sword in one hand and his beautiful banner in the other. All around, in the folds of the splendid velvet curtains, strange heads appeared; some ugly and some soft and beautiful. They were the emperor’s good and bad deeds.

  “Do you remember this?” whispered one to another. “Do you remember that?” and then they talked and talked until the emperor broke out in a sweat.

  “I did not know that!” shouted the emperor. “Play music! Play the great Chinese drum!” he cried. “Please drown out the voices!”

  But they carried on talking and Death nodded to everything they said.

  “Sing! You precious golden bird, sing!” cried the emperor. “I have given you gold and expensive presents, and even hung my gold slipper around your neck. Sing now!”

  But the bird stood still. No one was there to wind it up and it could not sing without that. Death continued to stare at the emperor with its large, hollow eyes, and the palace was fearfully quiet.

  All of a sudden, there was a beautiful sound and a lovely song could be heard. The nightingale was sitting outside the window. He had heard of the emperor’s plight and had come to sing his hopeful and comforting song. As he sang, the heads faded and the blood in the emperor’s body ran faster through his limbs. Even Death listened and said, “Go on, little nightingale, go on.”

  “Only if you give me the emperor’s golden crown, his sword and his banner.”

  So Death gave up the treasures for the song, and the nightingale sang on and on. He sang all about the churchyard where white roses grow and where the blossom smells sweet and where the grass is wet with mourners’ tears. Death longed to see its churchyard garden and it floated out of the window in a cold, white mist.

  “ ‘MUSIC! MUSIC!’ CRIED THE EMPEROR. ‘YOU LITTLE PRECIOUS GOLDEN BIRD, SING!’ ”

  “Thank you! Thank you!” said the emperor. “You heavenly bird! I banished you from my Empire and yet you still charmed away the evil faces and banished Death from my heart. How can I reward you?”

  “You have rewarded me!” replied the nightingale. “I received my reward when I drew tears from your eyes the first time I sang for you. I shall never forget that. That is the best reward a singer can receive. Now sleep and grow strong again. I will sing for you.” The bird sang and the emperor fell into a sweet slumber. The sun shone in upon him through the windows, and he awoke refreshed and restored. None of his servants had returned; only the nightingale still sat beside him.

  “You must always stay with me,” said the emperor. “Sing as you wish to and I’ll break the artificial bird into a thousand pieces.”

  “No,” said the nightingale, “it did as well as it could, so you should continue to look after it. I can’t build my nest in the palace but I shall come and sing for you when I want to. I’ll sing for those who are happy and those who are sad, and of the good and evil that surrounds you. Singing birds must fly all around and sing to the poor fisherman and to the peasant’s roof, and to all those who live far away from you and your palace. I love your kind heart more than I love your crown. I will sing for you, but you must promise me one thing.”

  “Anything! Everything!” cried the emperor.

  “Promise me that you will not tell anyone that you have a bird who sings you everything. That will make things much easier.” And the nightingale flew away.

  The servants returned to look at their dead emperor and found him standing in front of them in good health. “Good morning!” he said.

  THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL

  It was New Year’s Eve. A little girl was wandering barefoot and alone through the freezing, snowy streets. When she left home, she had been wearing slippers, but they were too big for her small feet and had fallen off as she stumbled over the frozen ruts. A boy had pounced on one and run off with it, and the other had been lost in the snow. The little girl carried a small bundle of matches. She had been trying to sell them all day long, but nobody wanted them and she had not earned one single penny. Shivering and hungry, she crept along on her blue, frozen feet. Light streamed from all the windows and the smell of roast goose filled the air, but she hardly noticed.

  At last, she sat down against a wall, tucking her feet beneath her to try and warm them. If she went home, her father would beat her for not selling anything and besides, it was cold there too. The wind howled into their tiny attic through holes in the roof, even though they were stuffed with rags.

  The little girl fumbled for a match from the bunch in her frozen fingers. At last, she pulled one out and struck it against the wall. It sparked and burned and its warm, bright flame was like a little candle. The little girl felt safe and cosy, as if she was sitting by a big iron stove with a fire blazing in its grate. But when she stretched out her feet to warm them the flame vanished, and she was left holding a half-burned match.

  The little girl struck another match and, as it flared, it lit the wall and seemed to make it transparent so that she could see into the room behind. She saw a large table spread with a snow-white cloth and smelled a delicious dish of roast goose stuffed with apples. Suddenly, the roast goose jumped down from the dish and came waddling over to the poor little girl. Then the match went out and she saw nothing but the cold, damp wall. She lit another match and found herself sitting under a tall Christmas tree, the finest she had ever seen. A thousand candles lit up the gold and silver baubles that hung from the green branches. Then the match went out.

  The little girl looked up at the twinkling stars and saw one fall and leave a fiery trail. She knew that a falling star is the sign of a soul going up to heaven.

  “Somebody is dying,” she thought, and remembered her grandmother, the only person who had ever loved her and who was now dead.

  She struck another match on the wall and in the brightness of the flame she saw her grandmother’s loving face appear before her.

  “Grandmother,” she cried, “take me with you! I’m afraid you will vanish when the match goes out!”

  “IN THE BRIGHTNESS THE OLD GRANDMOTHER STOOD”

  She wanted to cuddle her grandmother so much that she picked up a whole handful of matches and struck them hard against the wall. T
he light seemed to blaze brighter than the sun itself and the grandmother took the little girl into her arms and flew upwards with her to heaven, where she would never be cold or hungry or unloved again.

  Next morning, when people found the body of the little girl, still holding the burned matches, they said, “See how she tried to warm herself.”

  But nobody could ever know the magic wonders she had seen or imagine the happiness she had felt when she was cradled in her grandmother’s arms at last.

  THE ELF HILL

  Three large lizards raced nimbly around an old tree, chatting to each other.

  “The elf hill is so noisy!” said one lizard. “I haven’t been able to sleep for two nights because it’s so loud!”

  “Something’s going on in there,” said the second lizard. “They are airing the hill every few days and the elf girls have all learned new dances.”

  “Yes, I spoke to an earthworm yesterday – one of my good friends,” said the third lizard. “He had just left the hill, where he had been all day and night, and he had heard everything. He can’t see anything, the poor thing, but he can hear very well. The elves are expecting a visit from some very wealthy strangers, but the earthworm wouldn’t tell me who they are. All the jack-o-lanterns have been told to hold a torch dance, and all the silver and gold in the elf hill is being polished and put out in the moonlight.”

  “I wonder who these strangers are,” said the lizards. “What can be going on in the elf hill? It hums and murmurs all day long.”

  At that moment, the elf hill opened and an old elf lady came out. She was the elf king’s housekeeper and she tripped up every few steps. She was a distant relative of the royal family and she wore an amber heart on her head. She moved quickly, tripping as she went, and made her way down to the sea to where the night raven lived.

  “You are invited to the elf hill this evening,” said the old elf lady to the night raven, “but you are to send the rest of the invitations. We are going to have some very special guests and the king wants to make a good impression.”

  “Who should I invite?” asked the night raven.

  “The whole world can come – even men – as long as they are like us in some way. Before the party there will be a feast but only the most important guests should be invited to it. Not even the ghosts can come. The first people to invite are the merman and his daughters – they don’t like dry land, but we’ll give them a wet stone to sit on and some gifts so that they can’t refuse. Invite all the oldest and wealthiest demons – the ones with tails – as well as the wood demon and his gnomes. I don’t think we can forget the clergy – the grave pig, the death horse, and the church twig. They may not be like us, but they always make the effort to visit and so they are part of our community.

  “Croak!” said the night raven, and it flew off to deliver the invitations.

  The elf girls were dressed in pretty shawls woven from mist and moonlight, and they were dancing on the elf hill. Below the hill, the great hall had been beautifully decorated; the floor had been washed with moonlight, and the walls had been rubbed with witches’ balm so they glowed like tulips in the light. In the kitchen, frogs were being roasted; snails and children’s fingers were being baked; and salads of mushroom, mouse and hemlock were being prepared. The witch had brewed some beer, and there were bowls of sweets mixed with rusty nails and church window glass. The elf king’s crown had been polished using the finest powdered slate, and the curtains were fastened open with snail slime. Everything looked splendid.

  “We have to burn some horsehair and pig bristle incense,” said the elf king, “and then we’ll have finished.”

  “Father,” said his youngest daughter, “now will you tell me who our special guests are?”

  “Well,” said the elf king, “I suppose I can tell you now. My dear daughters, two of you must get married. The old gnome from the Dovre Mountains in Norway is coming with two of his sons and each will choose one of you to be his wife. The gnome owns a large gold mine and many fine castles. He’s an honest and merry gnome – I met him many years ago when he came here to find himself a wife. We were young and enjoyed drinking together. In the end he married a daughter of the King of Chalk-rocks of Moen, and they were happily married until she died. I can’t wait to see him again. I hear that his sons are rather rude, but I’m sure they’ll mature and maybe you will be able to teach them some manners.”

  “When are they coming?” asked the daughters.

  “That depends on the weather,” said the elf king. “They are travelling by boat. I advised them to travel by land, but the old gnome is very traditional, stubborn even, and he refused.”

  Two jack-o-lanterns came hopping over.

  “They’re coming! They’re coming!” they cried.

  “THEY DANCED WITH SHAWLS WHICH WERE WOVEN OF MIST AND MOONSHINE”

  “Pass me my crown, and let me stand in the moonlight,” said the elf king.

  The daughters lifted their shawls and bowed to their special guests.

  There stood the old gnome of Dovre, wearing a crown of ice and polished fir cones, a bearskin and furry boots. His sons looked very strong. They had bare necks and wore trousers.

  “You call that a hill?” asked the youngest son, and he pointed at the elf hill. “At home in Norway we’d call that a hole!”

  “Boys! Don’t be rude!” said the old gnome. “Holes go down, mounds go up. Don’t you have eyes?”

  “Don’t worry father,” said one of the sons, “I’d be surprised if these elves can even understand what we’re saying. They look pretty daft.”

  “Don’t be bigheaded,” said the old gnome. “You’re no better than they are.”

  They all went into the elf hill, where the most respected guests had gathered. The sea-people sat in large baths and said it was just like being at home. Everyone was polite at dinner, except the young gnomes. They put their feet up on the table – just because they felt like it.

  “Get your feet off the table cloth!” cried the old gnome.

  The sons reluctantly did as they were told. But then they tickled the ladies with pine cones, and took off their boots and made the ladies hold them. The old Dovre gnome was very different; he told charming stories about the proud Norwegian rocks and of the waterfalls that rushed over them, with their bright white foam. He told how the water sounded like thunder and church organs, and how the salmon would leap upstream against the current. He told of shining winter nights when the sleigh bells would jingle, and how the boys would run around on the ice, which was so transparent that they could see the fish dart around underneath. He told the stories so well that his listeners could see the rocks and the waterfall before them. The servants and the maids were singing and dancing, and all at once, in the excitement of the evening, the gnome gave the old elf lady a kiss.

  “ ‘DON’T GIVE YOURSELF AIRS,’ SAID THE OLD MAN”

  The elf ladies started to dance, with wonderful movements and graceful steps. They danced so fast that it was hard to tell where they started and where they ended, or which were their arms and which were their legs. They whirled around and around until the grave pig and the death horse felt so dizzy that they had to go home.

  “Prur!” said the old gnome, “that’s unusual dancing! But what else can they do?”

  “You shall soon see!” said the elf king.

  Then he called his youngest daughter forward. She was as light and as graceful as moonlight, and she was the most delicate of all the sisters. She put a white shaving in her mouth, and suddenly she disappeared. That was her trick.

  But the old gnome said that he would not want a wife who could disappear, and he did not think his sons would, either.

  The second youngest daughter could walk under herself, as if she had a shadow, which none of the gnomes had. The third daughter had worked in the witch’s brewery and knew how to stuff tree knots with glow-worms.

  “She’d be a good housewife,” said the old gnome.

  Next was the fo
urth daughter. She brought out a huge harp. When she played her first chord all the gnomes lifted up their left leg, and by the time she struck her second chord all the gnomes were under her spell and would do exactly as she wished.

  “That’s a dangerous woman!” cried the old gnome.

  Both the sons had grown bored and had wandered outside.

  “What can the next daughter do?” asked the old gnome.

  “I love everything that is Norwegian,” she said, “and I won’t marry unless I can go to Norway.”

  But the youngest daughter whispered to the old gnome, “That’s only because she’s heard in an old song that when the world sinks only the cliffs of Norway will remain standing. She only wants to go because she’s scared of sinking!”

  “Oh, I see!” said the old gnome. “What can the seventh daughter do?”

  “You forgot number six!” said the elf king. The old gnome was not good at counting.

  But the sixth daughter would not come out.

  “All I can do is tell the truth!” she said. “Nobody wants me and I am very busy sewing.”

  Finally, out came the seventh daughter. She could tell as many wonderful stories as people wanted to hear.

  “Here are all my fingers,” said the old gnome, “tell me a story for each.”

  So she took him by the wrist and told stories until the old gnome was in fits of laughter. When she came to the ring finger, which already had a ring around it – almost as if by magic, the old gnome said, “Enough! My hand is yours; I would like you to be my own wife!”

  “But I haven’t told a story for the ring finger or the fifth finger,” she said.

  “We’ll hear those in winter,” said the old gnome, “and we’ll hear about the pine tree, and the birch tree, and about the spirits’ gifts and about the biting frost. You’re the best storyteller in the world! We’ll sit in a stone house, with a warm fire and drink sweet mead. We’ll be so happy and the salmon will leap in the stream.”