The Complete Fairy Tales

by Hans Christian Andersen

  “I don’t understand a word you’re saying,” said the man, who looked as confused as he was.

  “Make yourself comfortable. Sit down on the cabinet, but be careful not to fall in and break the bottles; after all, you know what’s inside them. I shall tell you all about the great event. It happened only yesterday. It has happened once or twice before in history, but that doesn’t make it any less important. There are three hundred and sixty-four days left.… You know how many days there are in a year, I suppose.”

  With that as an introduction the bog witch finally began her tale: “Yesterday a great event took place out in the swamp. A will-o’-the-wisp was born; that is, twelve will-o’-the-wisps were born, for that is the number there is in a litter. And it was a very special event, for these will-o’-the-wisps, if they want to, can change themselves into human beings, and live and rule among you as if they had been born of women. It caused great excitement; and all the will-o’-the-wisps—both the male and the female—were dancing in the fields. There are female will-o’-the-wisps, but there is none in that litter.

  “I was sitting on the cabinet, right where you are now, and had all twelve of the little ones in my lap. They were shining like glowworms and had already begun to hop about. They grew by the minute; and within a quarter of an hour they were as big as their father or their uncles. Now it is an old law—a boon granted long ago to the will-o’-the-wisps—that when the moon is in the particular position that it was last night, and the wind is blowing from the particular direction that it did last night; then all of the will-o’-the-wisps born during that hour and that minute can become human beings. For a whole year they have a chance to show what use they can make of their powers. A will-o’-the-wisp can move so quickly that he can travel around the whole world. The only things he needs to be careful of are sea and storm, which could put out his light. They can enter any human being—man or woman—they choose to and imitate his talk and behavior to perfection. If during one year the will-o’-the-wisp can make three hundred and sixty-five people err in a grand, not a small way, leaving the road of truth and decency, then he will be rewarded by being appointed to the greatest position that a will-o’-the-wisp can hope for; namely, to become a runner in front of the Devil’s carriage of state. He will be given a bright orange uniform and taught how to breathe fire.

  “Now that is something to make any will-o’-the-wisp lick his chops. But there are also dangers for such an ambitious will-o’-the-wisp. If a human being sees through his disguise, he can blow out the light and back into the swamp the will-o’-the-wisp must go. If he gets sick with longing for his family and the bog, his light will flicker and finally go out; and that is the end of him, he can never be relighted. And even if he does manage to remain a whole year among men, he still runs a risk; for if he fails to turn three hundred and sixty-five people from searching for truth and beauty, and doing good, then he must lie forever in a rotten tree and just glow, without being able to move about. And no punishment could be worse for a will-o’-the-wisp because they do so like to gallivant about.

  “While they sat in my lap I told them of the honor they could achieve, but also of the risks they would have to run. I warned them that it would be more comfortable and secure to remain in the marsh, instead of running after fame and glory. But they were already imagining themselves dressed in bright orange and breathing fire out of their mouths. Some of the old will-o’-the-wisps said, ‘Stay with us.’ But there were others who encouraged them.

  “ ‘Go and play all the tricks you can on human beings,’ they cried. ‘Man has drained our swamps and dried up the meadows, what will become of our descendants?’

  “ ‘We want to breathe fire! We want to breathe fire!’ shouted the newly born will-o’-the-wisps; and there was nothing more to discuss.

  “To celebrate the decision there was a minute-long dance; it couldn’t have been shorter. The elf maidens joined in the dance, but that was in order not to appear too proud, for in truth they preferred dancing by themselves. Then came the time for the giving of gifts to the twelve will-o’-the-wisps. Down in the swamp we call it playing ducks and drakes because the presents are skimmed across the water like stones.

  “Each of the elf maidens gave a will-o’-the-wisp a piece of her veil. ‘Take it,’ the elf maidens explained, ‘for as soon as you have it in your hands, you’ll know all the difficult dance steps; you’ll be able to do all the swings and turns, exactly when and as you should; and you’ll have a bearing that will make you respected in the proudest company.’

  “The raven taught every will-o’-the-wisp to say, ‘Braaaa … Braaaa … Braaaaa.’ And that is well worth knowing how to say, especially at the right moment.

  “The stork and the owl presented their gifts, but they said that they weren’t worth mentioning, so I won’t tell what they were.

  “While these festivities were going on, King Valdemar and his men came riding by. And when the old king, who has been condemned to hunt until Judgment Day, heard of the event he gave away two of his hounds as a gift. These dogs are as swift as the wind and can carry as many as three will-o’-the-wisps at a time on each of their backs.

  “Two old nightmares, who earn their living by hauling wares for those who live in the swamp, taught the will-o’-the-wisps the art of slipping through keyholes, which means that every door will be open to them.

  “Two witches—but no relations of mine—offered to show the will-o’-the-wisps the way to town. Usually they ride on their own long hair, which they tie into knots to have something hard to sit on; but this time they rode on King Valdemar’s dogs and had on their laps the young will-o’-the-wisps, who were setting out on their travels to bewilder and mislead human beings. Whoosh! And away they went!

  “Now you know everything that happened last night. The will-o’-the-wisps are in town and they’ve already started their work. Exactly how or what they are doing I cannot say. But I have had a pain in the big toe of my left foot most of the day and there’s always a reason for that.”

  “What a fairy tale!” exclaimed the man, who had not said a word while the bog witch was talking, but who had felt like interrupting a couple of times.

  “No, it is only the beginning of the adventure,” the bog witch corrected him. “Do you know what shapes the will-o’-the-wisps have taken or whose bodies they may enter, in order to lead the poor human creatures astray?”

  “It is a whole novel about will-o’-the-wisps, and in twelve volumes: one for each will-o’-the-wisp.… Or better still, a musical comedy,” the man said excitedly.

  “Why don’t you write it?” the bog witch asked. A moment later she added, “But maybe you shouldn’t.”

  “It is a great deal easier and pleasanter not to.” The man sighed. “If I write anything, then I shall be at the mercy of the newspapers, and that is as horrible for an author, as it is for a will-o’-the-wisp to lie in a rotten tree stump and glow, without being able to move or say a word.”

  “That’s for you to decide,” said the bog witch. “Let those write who can; and those who can’t, they can write too. They need only come to me and I’ll let them take anything they want from the cabinet filled with bottled poetry.… But as for you, my good man, it seems to me that you have had enough ink on your fingers already. You have reached an age when you ought to be old enough not to chase fairy tales. Have you understood my tale? Do you realize what is going on?”

  “I know that the will-o’-the-wisps are in town. You have told me so. I have heard it and, what is more, I have understood what it means,” the man replied sadly. “But what do you want me to do? If I start saying that certain honorable men are only will-o’-the-wisps in disguise, I’ll be stoned.”

  “They can wear skirts as well,” said the bog witch, looking at him thoughtfully. “They can enter a woman, too. They don’t mind going to church, but they prefer to creep inside the minister and hold the sermon. On election day they are busy; they are speaking not for their country’s sake but
for their own. They become artists, too. But when they have taken over art, then there is no art.… I talk on and on.… Whatever it was that got stuck in my throat is almost gone now. I have spoken against my own family—for, though distant, the will-o’-the-wisps are cousins of mine—and now I am the savior of humanity! I don’t know why I have done it, it is certainly not to get a medal. It’s the maddest thing I could do: to tell everything to a poet and now the whole town will know about it.”

  “But no one will care,” said the man. “Not one person will pay any attention to anything I say. They will all believe that I am telling a fairy tale when I say: ‘ “Beware! The will-o’-the-wisps are in town!” said the bog witch!’ ”

  115

  The Windmill

  On top of a hill stood a windmill. “It is a proud sight,” people said; and the windmill did feel proud.

  “Absolutely not! I am not proud,” the windmill declared. “I am enlightened: both inside and out. For outside illumination I have the sun and the moon; and inside me there are candles and oil lamps—so, you see, I have every right to call myself enlightened. I am capable of thought and have a beautifully shaped body. Two millstones grind away in my chest, and I have four wings in my head just beneath my hat. Birds have only two wings and they have to carry them on their back. I was born in Holland, and you can see that in my figure. I am a ‘Flying Dutchman,’ but there’s nothing supernatural about me. No, I am modest, normal, and natural.

  “Around my stomach runs a gallery, and in my lower parts there’s an apartment, where my thoughts live. My strangest thought—the one that rules and gives orders to all the others—I call the miller. He knows what he wants, and both the grain and the flour have to obey him. Yet he has his equal—some even call her his ‘better half’—his wife, who is called ‘Mother.’ The good wife has the heart, but she doesn’t flutter about; she, too, knows what she wants and what she is capable of doing. She can be as mild as a summer breeze and as strong as a November storm. She knows how to get her way by coaxing. The wife is the soft part of my soul and the husband the firm. They are two and yet one: that is almost a riddle. They have offspring, little thoughts that can grow. These little ones aren’t so easy to control. Just listen to what happened the other day, when I had wisely decided to let the miller and his helper have a look inside me.

  “Something was wrong, I could feel it, and it does one good, every so often, to find out exactly what is going on inside one. But while the miller was looking at my wheels, the offspring made an awful rumpus. They shouted and ran all over, which was most unbecoming. You must remember that I stand high up on a hill where everyone can see me. Reputation is also a kind of illumination and it reflects on one’s soul. And there were those little ones climbing high up into my hat and singing so loud that it tickled me. Yes, little thoughts can grow, that I am aware of; and outside there are other thoughts that don’t belong to me or even to members of my family. For there are no members of my family in the neighborhood; not as far as I can see and I can see very far. But there are the wingless houses without grindstones in their chests, and they have thoughts too. Sometimes their thoughts come to visit mine. Lately, two of them got engaged—whatever that means.

  “Things are changing inside me. But that is as it should be, though it is strange. It is as if the miller had changed his other half. She has grown softer and sweeter. Time has blown away what was bitter and has left her younger; and yet she is the same, only milder and gentler.

  “Days come and go. We move ever forward to greater happiness and greater understanding. It has been said—and what is even more important, it has been written—that someday I shall be no more and still I shall be. I shall be torn down and resurrected. I shall cease to exist and yet continue to exist. I shall become another windmill and yet remain the same windmill. It is difficult to understand, even for one who is thoroughly enlightened by the sun, the moon, candles, and oil lamps. My old bricks and beams shall be raised from the dust. I only hope that I shall be allowed to keep the same old thoughts: the miller and his wife and the little thoughts. The ‘family’ as I call them, who are one and yet many, the thought-makers; I wouldn’t want to have to get along without them! I’d like myself not to change, too. I’d like to know that I am myself with millstones in my chest, wings on my head, and a gallery around my stomach. Otherwise I wouldn’t recognize myself, nor would anyone else recognize me; and no one would say, ‘We have a windmill high up on top of the hill, and it’s a proud sight, though it isn’t by nature proud.’ ”

  All this the windmill said, and a great deal more, for it was very talkative; but I have only written down what was most important. Days came and went, one after another, until the last day became the last: it was the one on which the windmill burned.

  The windmill was on fire. Flames leaped higher and higher. They shot out and struck in; they licked the beams and the woodwork and ate them up. The windmill toppled down and was soon only a heap of ashes. The smoke rose from the embers and the wind carried it away.

  Nothing happened to the miller and his family, not even the cat was singed; if anything, they profited from the accident. A new windmill was built on the same spot and they moved into it; and the family was as it had been before: one soul with many thoughts and yet only one. The new windmill was a beauty and a great improvement on the old one, though it looked like it and people still called it “a proud sight.” It was inside that the advancements had been made; it had been modernized, for, after all, we do progress. The old beams, rotten and worm-eaten, had been turned to ashes and dust and were never resurrected, as the old windmill had believed they would be. It had taken everything too literally, and that was a mistake.

  116

  The Silver Shilling

  “Hurray! Here I go out into the wide world,” exclaimed the newly minted silver shilling. It clinked and rolled and out into the world it came.

  It passed through the warm, moist hands of children; felt the cold, clammy palm of the miser; and was kept a whole week by a poor old couple before they dared to spend it. Whenever it got into the purse of a young person it was soon out again. As I have said, it was a silver shilling; and it was made of quite pure silver, with only a very little copper in it. Now it happened that after it had traveled about in its native country for a whole year it went for a trip abroad. By chance it was overlooked in the bottom of a purse, and its owner did not even know that he had it along.

  “Why, there is a shilling from home,” he said when he finally noticed it. “Well, since it’s come this far, it might as well do the trip with me as a tourist.” The shilling almost jumped for joy. It was dropped back into the purse, which now was filled with foreign coins, but they came and went, while the silver shilling remained: and this, it felt, was an important distinction.

  Several weeks went by. The coin had traveled far, without knowing exactly where it was. The other coins explained that they were in France or in Italy, and mentioned the names of towns, but how could the little shilling have any idea what the place looked like? One really cannot see the world from the bottom of a purse.

  One morning the shilling noticed that the opening of the purse wasn’t completely closed; and so it moved up there in order to get a glance outside.

  This it never should have done, for now it would have to pay the penalty for being curious. The shilling slid out of the purse and into its owner’s trousers’ pocket. That evening, after the purse was put aside for safekeeping, the traveler’s clothes were brushed; and the coin fell out of the pocket and down onto the floor. No one heard it and no one saw it.

  In the morning the man dressed and traveled on, but without his silver shilling. It was found by someone else, who put it in his purse where there were three other coins, all ready to do service.

  “It is lovely to travel,” said the shilling, “to see different people and learn their customs.”

  But at that very moment someone shouted: “That coin is false! It is counterfeit!” And it
is at this point that the silver shilling’s real adventures began; at least, so the coin itself seemed to think, for it would always start its story here:

  “ ‘False! Counterfeit!’ A shiver went through me. After all, hadn’t I been made at the Royal Mint of almost pure silver? Couldn’t I clink as a silver coin ought to? Wasn’t my stamp genuine? I felt sure that there must be some mistake. The voice couldn’t be talking about me; but it was! I was called false and said to be worth nothing. Then I heard another voice say, ‘I’ll spend it tonight, when it’s dark.’ And that was to be my future. I was to be spent in the dark, and discovered and cursed in the daylight. ‘Counterfeit! Worthless! I must get rid of it,’ were the words that always greeted me.”

  Every time the coin was picked up, it would tremble and quake, for it knew that it was being passed on dishonestly, as a coin of the realm.

  “Oh, poor me!” it lamented. “What good did it do me that I was made of silver, and bore a picture of our king, when he wasn’t respected there? In this world you only have the value that the world gives you. How horrible it must be to really be counterfeit, to sneak through life knowing that one deserves no better fate. It must be monstrous, for even though I was innocent, I had a bad conscience. Every time I was taken out of a purse I dreaded the moment when I would be looked at. I knew what would happen. I would be rejected, thrown across the counter, as if I were the personification of deceit.

  “Once I was given to a poor working woman as payment after a long day of toil. But she didn’t know how to get rid of me. No one would accept me. Oh, I was a disaster for the poor woman.

  “ ‘I will have to fool someone,’ she said, ‘even though it is a sin and a shame, for I am too poor to keep a false coin. I can try to pass it off on the rich baker. It won’t hurt him because he can afford it.’