The Complete Fairy Tales

by Hans Christian Andersen

  “Why didn’t you break your neck?” the miller asked, but he smiled at the same time.

  “Because I held on—and I am still holding on—to Babette.”

  Now the miller laughed, and Babette knew that this was a good sign. “You haven’t got her yet,” he said. “But we’d better take the eaglet out of the basket. Look how it stares! Now you must tell me how you captured it.”

  And Rudy told of his adventure so well that the miller’s eyes grew larger and larger. “With your courage and your luck, you can support three wives.”

  “Thank you, thank you!” Rudy said quickly.

  The miller slapped Rudy on the back and again he reminded him, “You haven’t got her yet.”

  “Do you want to hear the latest news from the parlor?” the parlor cat asked the kitchen cat. “Rudy brought the eaglet and exchanged the bird for Babette. They kissed each other while the miller looked on, and that’s as good as announcing your engagement. The old man didn’t kick this time. He drew in his claws. He let the young couple be alone together while he took his afternoon nap. They sat and purred. They seemed to have so much to say to each other that they won’t be finished by Christmas.”

  And they weren’t finished by Christmas. The wind blew and undressed the trees. The snow came to the valleys as well as to the mountains. The Ice Maiden sat in her proud castle which enlarged itself in the winter. The cliffs glistened with ice, and where in summer waterfalls had leaped down the mountainside there now hung elephant-heavy icicles that a man could not encircle with his arms. Snow crystals decorated the branches of the evergreens. The Ice Maiden rode on the wind through the deep valleys. Down at Bex lay a blanket of snow, so she could come there and peek through the windows of the mill and see Rudy, who had never before spent so much time indoors, sitting close to Babette. When summer came, they were to be married; and if their ears were ringing, it was quite understandable because their coming marriage was much discussed among their friends. Finally the sun gained strength, flowers bloomed, but not more beautifully than the happy, laughing Babette, for she was like the spring; and all the birds sang of summer to come and their wedding day.

  “How those two can just sit about, hanging onto each other’s words, is more than I can understand,” said the parlor cat. “I’m bored.… Meow.”

  CHAPTER NINE: THE ICE MAIDEN

  Spring had come. The chestnut and the walnut trees formed garlands of greenness from the bridge at St. Maurice to the Lake of Geneva and all along the Rhone, that river which rushes headlong from its source, deep down underneath the green glacier, where the palace of the Ice Maiden is. From there she rides on the wind up to the fields of everlasting snow, to stretch herself in the sunlight and look down into the valleys where human beings are scurrying about like ants on a sun-brightened boulder.

  “Reasonable beings you are called by the sun’s children; you are nothing but vermin! One rolling ball of snow and that is the end of you, your houses, and your towns. All of them I can crush!” The Ice Maiden lifted her proud head and gazed with eyes as cold as death far and wide. From one of the valleys came the sound of an explosion, the work of men who were blasting to make way for a new railroad line by cutting tunnels through the mountains.

  “They are playing mole, digging passages through the earth, that’s why it sounds like small stones cracking. If I made one of my castles move, then you would hear a din greater than thunder.”

  From one of the valleys smoke appeared, like the feathered plume of a hat, streaming out of the funnel of the engine that drew the train along the newly constructed track: a bending, whistling snake of swiftly moving cars.

  “They are playing that they are masters, those reasonable beings, but the power of nature commands them.” And the Ice Maiden laughed and sang so it echoed throughout the valleys.

  “Avalanche!” exclaimed the people of the valley.

  The children of the sun—its golden rays—sang their song about human achievement even louder. Human thought has spanned the oceans, moved the mountains, and filled in the valleys. “The human mind is master of nature,” they sang.

  At the moment the Ice Maiden was watching a group of travelers make their way across a snow field. They were tied together with a heavy rope so they could help each other if one of them should fall into a crevasse as they walked on the slippery ice.

  “Vermin!” screamed the Ice Maiden. “How can you be masters of nature?” And she looked away from them, down into the valley where the train was passing.

  “Human thought! There they sit, those thinkers, being carried by nature’s power. I can see every one of them. Look at them! One alone sits as proud as a king. The others sit in a clump. Half of them are asleep. When the steam dragon stops they will get off and go their way. These thinkers will go out into the world.” Again the Ice Maiden laughed.

  “Avalanche!” the people exclaimed in the valley.

  “Another avalanche, but it cannot reach us,” said two of the passengers of the steam dragon simultaneously, for they were two minds with the same thought, as the saying goes. It was Rudy and Babette; and the miller was with them.

  “As baggage,” he said. “I had to come along because I am necessary.”

  “I see the two of them,” the Ice Maiden said. “Many chamois have I killed. Millions of rhododendrons have I broken and crushed, not even their roots have I spared. I have obliterated them. Thinkers! The power of reason!” And once more she laughed.

  “Another avalanche!” cried the people of the valley.

  CHAPTER TEN: THE GODMOTHER

  In Montreux—one of the towns that together with Clarens, Vernex, and Crin forms a garland around the northeastern shore of Lake Geneva—Babette’s godmother was staying. She had come from England a few weeks before, accompanied by her daughters and a nephew. The miller had already visited them and told them of Babette’s engagement. When they had heard the whole story of the romance—how it had begun at Interlaken and how Rudy had captured the eaglet—they were so amused and interested that they insisted that the miller must come again soon, bringing both Babette and Rudy with him. And so they had come, for Babette to see her godmother and the English lady to see her godchild.

  At the little town of Villeneuve, at the end of the lake, the travelers embarked on a small steamer that within half an hour would bring them to Vernex, just below Montreux. They sailed along the coast that the great poets had sung about. Here on the shore of the blue-green lake, under the shade of a walnut tree, Byron had composed his melodious verses about the prisoner of the dismal castle of Chillon. At Clarens where weeping willows mirror themselves in the waters of the lake, Rousseau had walked dreaming of Héloïse.

  Where the Rhone River, flowing from beneath the snow-clad mountains of Savoy, runs into the lake, there is a tiny island. From shore it might be mistaken for a small boat, though it is a mass of rocks. About a hundred years ago a lady had had these rocks encircled by a wall, and earth transported from the mainland; then she had planted three acacia trees. Now these trees were full grown and they kept the little island in perpetual shade. Babette thought that the island was lovely, the most beautiful sight she had seen on the whole boat trip, and she wanted to go ashore. “For surely,” she declared, “it must be a delight to be there.” But the steamer sailed on and landed its passengers where it was supposed to, at Vernex.

  Now they had to walk, up the mountain in the direction of Montreux. The mountainside was covered with vineyards, and around each was a white wall. Between the rows of walls, on which the sunshine played, the three of them made their way. The houses stood in the shade of fig trees; and they passed gardens where laurel bushes and cypress trees grew. The pension where Babette’s godmother was staying was halfway between the shores of the lake and Montreux.

  There they were given a most hearty welcome. Babette’s godmother was a tall, pleasant woman with a round smiling face; as a child she must have resembled one of Raphael’s angels, for her white hair now curled about
an old angel’s face. Her daughters were tall and slender and pretty. Their cousin was dressed from top to toe in white. He had gilded sideburns that were so ample that he could have shared them with three other gentlemen and still have had enough for himself. His hair was also golden; and he immediately turned his full attention to Babette.

  Richly bound books, musical scores, and drawings were lying on the large table. The doors to the balcony were open, offering a view of the lake, in whose calm, glossy water the mountains of Savoy with their villages, forests, and snow-covered peaks were perfectly reflected, upside down.

  Rudy, who was usually so cheerful, confident, and filled with life, felt out of place. He moved about gingerly, as if the polished floors had been strewn with dry peas. Time seemed like a solid rock that would never be worn down. He felt as if he were on a treadmill, and now someone was suggesting that they take a “promenade”!

  The others walked so slowly that Rudy had to take one step backward for every two that he took forward, in order not to get ahead of the company. They were going to Chillon, to that crumbling old castle on the rock. There they would look at the whipping post and at the cells of the condemned; at the stone slabs on which the wretched prisoners slept; and at the trap door through which they were flung to meet their deaths on the iron spikes jutting up through the surf. To see all this is called a pleasant amusement. It is a chamber of horrors that was lifted by Byron’s song into the world of poetry.

  Rudy felt the horror as he leaned against the castle’s massive wall. He peered through a narrow window and looked out over the lake. There was the tiny island with its three acacia trees. He wished he were there, away from the chattering people who surrounded him. But Babette was enjoying herself. She had been much amused.

  Later that day, when she was alone with Rudy and the miller, she remarked that she thought her godmother’s nephew was “perfect.”

  “Yes, a perfect ass,” said Rudy; and this was the first time that he had said something that did not please Babette. The Englishman had given her a book as a souvenir. It was Byron’s Prisoner of Chillon in a French translation, so she could read it.

  “Maybe the book is all right,” Rudy said, “but I don’t care much for the fellow who gave it to you.”

  “He looked like a flour sack without any flour in it,” said the miller, laughing at his own joke. Rudy joined in the laughter; he thought that the miller had been both witty and precise.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: THE COUSIN

  When Rudy came to the mill a few days later he found the Englishman there. Babette was serving him broiled brook trout. The plate was decorated with parsley, which Rudy felt certain that the girl had picked herself in order to make the dish look as it did when it was served in the finer hotels. Why all this to-do? What did the Englishman want? Why was Babette running back and forth like that? It wasn’t necessary at all.

  Rudy was jealous and this amused Babette. She wanted to know everything about her lover, his weaknesses as well as his strength. She was so young that love was still a game to her. Yet it must not be forgotten that, though she played with Rudy’s heart, he was her happiness, the center around which her thoughts played, and the source of all her joy. The more furious he looked, the more laughter there was in her eyes. She would gladly have kissed the Englishman with the blond hair and the gilded sideburns, just to see Rudy show how much he loved her by stamping out of the room in a rage. She was being neither fair nor clever, but Babette was only nineteen years old. She did not give too much thought to what she was doing, and none whatsoever to the impression that she might be creating on the Englishman, who might well misunderstand and decide that she was more pleasure-loving and frivolous than a recently engaged miller’s daughter ought to be.

  The mill was situated on the road to Bex, in the shadow of the high snow-covered mountains that the local people call the Diablerets. Nearby is a raging mountain stream whose waters are always foaming and filled with bubbles; but this is not the stream that turns the great wheel of the mill. A smaller one that leaps down the cliff as a waterfall, passes through a stone tunnel under the road and from there across the larger stream in a trough, finally falls upon the paddles of the mill wheel. The wooden trough was almost always filled and often the water overflowed, so anyone deciding to use one of its rims as a short cut to the mill would find that he had chosen a very slippery path. And this was exactly what the Englishman had done.

  Guided by the light in Babette’s window, and dressed all in white as if he were a miller, he attempted to make his way to the garden by balancing himself on the narrow ledge of one of the sides of the trough. But he had never learned how to hold on where there was nothing to hold onto, so he slipped into the trough and almost fell into the larger stream below it.

  Wet to the skin, he climbed the linden tree next to Babette’s window; then he started to hoot like an owl, as this was the only bird he knew how to imitate. Babette lifted the curtain and peeped out. She saw the figure in white and recognized him; then she grew not only frightened but very angry. She put out the candle and in the darkness let her fingers make certain that the windows were securely locked.

  “Let him howl and hoot to his heart’s content,” she thought; then it suddenly struck her how terrible it would be if Rudy were in the vicinity.

  And Rudy was: he was right below her, in the garden. She heard angry words and shouting. They were going to fight! One of them might even be killed. She had to do something!

  Babette opened her window and called out Rudy’s name. In her confusion and alarm, she begged him to go away. “You must go away!” she cried.

  “So I must go away!” he demanded. “Oh, I see, you had another and better appointment! You are shameless, Babette!”

  “You are horrible!” she screamed back. “I hate you! Go away! Go away!”

  “You have no right to say that to me!” he called up to her. His cheeks were burning and his heart was burning. He turned and walked away.

  “When I love you so much, how could you think such things of me!” Babette was very angry, which was fortunate, for if she hadn’t been, she would have been very sad and could not have fallen asleep.

  CHAPTER TWELVE: THE POWER OF EVIL

  When Rudy left Bex on his homeward journey, he set out for the mountains: high up where the air was fresh and cool, where there was snow, and the Ice Maiden reigned. There the tops of the leaf-bearing trees appear no larger than potato plants. Only the evergreen grows and it is stunted. A few rhododendrons bloomed in great patches of snow. A blue gentian was in flower, and with the handle of his rifle Rudy broke its stem.

  Far ahead of him, he spied two chamois. His eyes looked toward them eagerly. For the moment new thoughts banished the old. But the mountain antelope were too far away to attempt a shot. Rudy continued climbing higher to where the only vegetation, even in summer, are a few blades of grass growing among the boulders.

  There were the two chamois walking serenely as if Rudy were not there; they were making their way toward a great field of snow. Rudy hurried after them. Suddenly the clouds rolled down from the mountain peaks and engulfed him. He took a few steps and then stopped. In front of him was a wall of stone.

  It had started to rain. He felt tremendously thirsty, and though his head was burning hot as though he had fever, his body was cold. He reached for his water bottle, only to find that it was empty; he had forgotten to fill it before setting out. Rudy had never been ill before in his life, but now he knew how it felt to be ill. He was tired and his only desire was to lie down and sleep, but everything about him was soaking wet. He tried to pull himself together, but tiny quivering objects danced before his eyes.

  All of a sudden he noticed something that he could remember having seen in this place before. It was a small house, built right up against the side of the cliff. In the doorway stood a young girl. At first he thought it was Annette, the schoolmaster’s daughter, the one he had kissed at the dance. No, it wasn’t Annette; and yet he felt s
ure that he had seen her before. Maybe it was the girl he had met near Grindel, the night he returned from Interlaken.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  The girl smiled. “This is my home. I have a flock to herd.”

  “Where is your flock? There is no grazing here among the rocks and snow.”

  The girl laughed. “You seem to know the mountains well; but not far below here there is a meadow. That’s where my goats are grazing. I tend them well. I have never lost a single creature. What is mine I keep.”

  “You talk boldly,” Rudy said.

  Again the girl laughed. “So do you!”

  “Have you any milk? I am so dreadfully thirsty.”

  “I have something better than milk. Some travelers and their guides passed by here yesterday, and they left a half bottle of wine behind. I am sure they’ll never return for it and I don’t want it. You shall have it. I am sure you have never tasted any better wine,” she added while she poured the wine into a wooden bowl.

  “It is good,” he agreed. “I have never drunk wine that warmed me so quickly. A moment ago I was freezing and now I feel as if I were sitting before a fire.” Rudy’s eyes gleamed with new life. All his sorrow and troubles were forgotten, and his natural human desires were aroused.

  “You are the schoolmaster’s daughter. Come, Annette, give me a kiss,” he demanded.

  “Yes, if you will give me the beautiful ring you are wearing on your finger.”

  “My engagement ring?”

  The girl poured more wine into his bowl. “Yes, that’s the one: that ring and no other.” She lifted the bowl to his lips and Rudy drank.

  A feeling of power and happiness flowed through his veins. The world was his and only now did he understand how to live. All was created for our sake, for us to enjoy. The river of life was a river of pleasure; you need only let the current carry you to know a life of bliss. He glanced at the young girl who was Annette—and yet wasn’t. But neither was she the “phantom” girl, as he called the creature he had met near Grindelwald.