The Complete Fairy Tales

by Hans Christian Andersen

  Blessed be the new age! Let its sunshine blanch the dark shadows of the past, the sinister stories of those hard, cruel times.

  118

  In the Children’s Room

  Father and Mother and all the other children had gone to the theater. Only Anna and her grandfather were at home.

  “We want to go to the theater too,” announced Grandfather, “and the performance might as well begin at once.”

  “But we have no theater,” sighed little Anna. “And no actors, for my old doll can’t act because she is too dirty; and my new doll may not, because I don’t want her clothes to get wrinkled.”

  “You can always find actors as long as you aren’t too choosy. Now let’s build the theater,” Grandfather said, and took down some books from the bookcase. “We stand them up: three on one side and three on the other, in slanting rows; and here, we’ll put this old box in the middle as a backdrop. The scene is a living room, as anyone can plainly see. And now for the actors. Let’s take a look in this chest here.… As soon as we have the characters and know their personalities, the play will write itself. Here is a pipe; it has a bowl but no stem; and here is a glove that has lost its mate. They could be father and daughter.”

  “But two characters are not enough,” complained little Anna. “What about my brother’s vest—he has grown too big to wear it—couldn’t that be in the play too?”

  “It is big enough for a part,” agreed Grandfather, examining the vest. “It can be a suitor. Its pockets are empty, how interesting. Empty pockets are often the cause of an unhappy love affair.… Look what we have here: a high-heeled boot with spurs. He can dance the waltz and the mazurka, for he can both swagger and stamp. He is made for the part of the troublesome suitor whom the heroine doesn’t care for. Now tell me what kind of play you would like: a tragedy or the kind of comedy that the whole family can attend?”

  “A family play!” cried the little girl. “Both Mother and Father say that those are the best.”

  “I know at least a hundred of them. Those that are translated from French are the most popular, but that wouldn’t quite do for a little girl. We can take the nicest of them, though the stories are almost all alike. Here, I’ll put all the plots in a bag and shake it well, and then you pick one.… That’s right. Here it is: age-old and brand-new. Now for the playbill.” Grandfather held up the newspaper and pretended that he was reading it:

  “The Pipe Bowl

  or

  Love’s Labors Are Never Lost

  A family play in one act.

  List of Characters: Mr. Pipe Bowl ......................... Father

  Miss Glove .............................. Daughter

  Mr. Vest .................................. Sweetheart

  Mr. Boot .................................. A Suitor.

  “Now the play can begin. The curtain slowly goes up.… True, we have no curtain, but only very narrow-minded people make a fuss about trifles. All the characters are on stage. The first one to speak is the pipe bowl. He is very angry. If there had been any tobacco in him, he would have fumed.

  “ ‘No back talk here. I am master in my own house. I am father of my own daughter. Is no one going to listen to what I say? Von Boot has a shining personality. He is so well polished that you can mirror yourself in him. He is made of morocco and wears spurs. No more talk! He shall have my daughter!’

  “Now listen carefully, little Anna,” Grandfather warned. “Now the vest is going to speak. He has a silk lining but that hasn’t made him smug. He is modest and yet he knows his own value. He has a right to say what he is going to say:

  “ ‘I am spotless and of quality, so I should be taken into consideration. I am lined with genuine silk and have braiding.’

  “ ‘Your spotlessness won’t last till the day after the wedding; then you’ll have to be washed and your colors aren’t fast.’ That was the pipe bowl who was speaking; and he goes on, ‘Now Von Boot is waterproof and his skin is strong, yet he is finely made. He can creak and his spurs can jingle. He is of the latest fashion.’ ”

  Suddenly little Anna interrupted. “Why don’t they speak in verse? Mother says that it’s so charming.”

  “What the public demands the actors must do,” replied her grandfather with a smile. “Now watch little Miss Glove and how she stretches her fingers toward Mr. Vest and sings!

  “ ‘To be without a mate

  That fate I should hate.

  But all the owls can hoot,

  I’ll not marry Von Boot.

  I would rather die,

  Or forever in a drawer lie.’

  “ ‘Nonsense!’ says the pipe bowl. Now Mr. Vest speaks to Miss Glove:

  “ ‘Beloved glove, beloved dove,

  My heart beats all for love.

  You shall be mine

  And I’ll be thine.

  Love!

  Glove!’

  “In the meantime Von Boot begins to stamp on the floor. He is terribly angry. His spurs are jingling.”

  “Oh, what a wonderful play!” Anna applauded with both her little hands.

  “Quiet, please,” said her grandfather. “During a play the best applause is silence. You must show that you are well brought up and deserve to sit in the orchestra. Now Miss Glove is going to sing her aria:

  “ ‘I cannot speak,

  I am so weak.

  Yet I must sing

  Of love’s broken wing.’

  “Now we come to the intrigue. That is the most important part of the plot and the whole originality of the play depends on it. Mr. Vest steps upstage. Watch him! He is approaching old Mr. Pipe Bowl. There! He took old Pipe Bowl and put him in his pocket. Don’t applaud him, that is so plebeian; though he would probably like you to do it. Actors can’t get enough applause. Now Mr. Vest speaks directly to the audience.

  “ ‘You are in my pocket, my deepest pocket, and you shall never get out again until you have agreed to our marriage. I hold out my right hand to the left-hand glove.’ ”

  “It’s awfully exciting!” exclaimed little Anna.

  “From inside the pocket of Mr. Vest we hear the voice of Mr. Pipe Bowl:

  “ ‘I am so sick.

  What a terrible trick!

  Here I am in the dark,

  There’s no light, not a spark.

  I cannot move about.

  Let me out! Let me out!

  If you set me free,

  I promise to agree

  To your future marriage

  If you let me out of this carriage!’ ”

  “Is that the end already?” asked little Anna, a bit disappointed.

  “Oh no,” answered Grandfather. “Only for Von Boot; the others have a long play ahead of them still. Now the lovers kneel before Mr. Pipe Bowl, and Miss Glove sings:

  “ ‘Father!’

  “And Mr. Vest sings:

  “ ‘Bless your son and daughter!’

  “Then Mr. Pipe Bowl gives his blessings and there is a wedding. Everyone joins in the chorus:

  “ ‘The play is over

  The moral taught,

  Please applaud

  As you ought.’

  “Now we clap and call everyone out to take a bow; even the furniture, for though they only sang in the chorus, they are made of mahogany.”

  “Tell me,” said little Anna, “was our play just as good as the one the others are seeing in the real theater?”

  “Oh, our comedy was much better,” replied Grandfather. “It was shorter and inspired. And now I am sure the water for tea must be boiling.”

  119

  The Golden Treasure

  Every town that wants to be called a town, and not a village, has a town crier; and every town crier has two drums. One he plays when he makes ordinary announcements, such as, “There’s fresh fish for sale in the harbor!” The other is larger and has a deeper tone; and it is only used to call the people together when a fire has broken out or some other calamity has taken place; it is called the fire dr
um.

  The town crier’s wife had gone to church to look at the new altarpiece. It was full of angels, some were painted and others were carved. They were all beautiful, both the ones on the canvas, with their painted halos, and those that had been carved out of wood and had gilded halos. Their hair shone as brightly as gold or sunshine. Oh, it was a marvel to see! But as the woman stepped outside she decided that God’s sunshine was even more beautiful. It was so red and shone so clearly through the dark trees as it set. It was a blessing to be able thus to see God’s face! And as she looked at the sun, the town crier’s wife thought of the child that the stork would soon bring her. She was so happy and, staring at the disappearing sun, she wished that her child would be given some of its brightness, or at least come to look like the angels on the new altarpiece.

  When the child was born, she held him in her arms and lifted him up toward the town crier, so that he, too, could admire his son. The baby did look like one of the angels on the altarpiece and his hair had the color of the setting sun.

  “My golden treasure, my wealth, my sunshine!” said the mother, and kissed the baby on the top of his head. Her words sounded like music, like a song; and the town crier played on his little drum the roll that accompanies glad tidings.

  The big drum—the fire drum—had a different opinion. “Believe me and not his mother,” said he. “The brat has red hair.… Boom! Boom! Booom!” And most of the people in the town agreed with the fire drum.

  The baby was taken to church and baptized. There was nothing unusual about his name; he was called Peter. The whole town, including the big drum, called him “the town crier’s redheaded son Peter.” But his mother kissed him and said, “My golden treasure.”

  On the clay banks of the sunken road, many children—and grownups, too—had scratched their names, in the hope that they would be remembered. “Fame is worth having,” said the town crier, and he inscribed his and his son’s names among all the others.

  The swallows came in the spring. They are great travelers. They have been in Hindustan, where they have seen inscriptions, carved in stone on the cliffs and on the walls of the temples, that tell of the deeds of mighty kings: immortal names written in letters that no one today can read or even pronounce. Such is fame!

  The swallows built their nests in the clay banks, which made holes in them. When the rains came and ran down the surface of the banks, they crumbled. And the names were no more.

  “But Peter’s name stayed for a whole year and a half,” the town crier boasted.

  “Fool!” thought the fire drum, but he only said, “Boom! Boom! Boom!”

  “The town crier’s redheaded son Peter” was full of life. He had a beautiful voice, and since he knew how to sing, he sang. His songs were like the songs of the birds of the forest: they had melodies and yet they didn’t.

  “He is going to sing in the church choir as soon as he is old enough,” said his mother. “He will stand right under the gilded angels whom he looks like.”

  “Carrot top!” the witty citizens of the town called him; and the big drum heard it from the neighbor’s wife.

  “Don’t go home, Peter!” the street urchins called after him. “If you sleep in the attic you will set the house on fire and your father’ll have to play the fire drum!”

  “Beware of the drumsticks,” replied Peter, and he hit one of the boys so hard that he fell, and the others ran away.

  The town musician, who directed the local orchestra, was a distinguished man whose father had played for the king. He liked Peter and would talk to him for hour after hour. One day he gave him a violin and began to teach him how to play. The boy’s little fingers held the instrument as if they already knew what to do. He would learn to do more than beat on a drum, he would become a real musician.

  “But I want to be a soldier,” said Peter, for he was still so young that he could think of nothing more marvelous than to wear a uniform, have a sword and a rifle, and march along: “Left … right! Left … right!”

  “Then you will learn to obey the drums. Boom! Boom!” said both of the drums at once.

  “He will march up to the top of the ranks and come home a general,” said his father. “That is, if there is a war.”

  “God save us from that,” sighed his mother.

  “We have nothing worth losing,” said the town crier.

  “Yes, we have my son,” replied his wife.

  “Oh, but he will come home a general.” The town crier laughed, for his son was still a boy, and he didn’t take the conversation seriously.

  “He could come home without a leg or an arm.” Peter’s mother looked at the boy. “No, I want my golden treasure all well and whole.”

  “Boom! Boom! Boom!” The fire drum spoke. All the fire drums in the whole country rolled. The soldiers marched away and the town crier’s son followed them.

  “Good-by, carrot top!” the townspeople called.

  “My golden treasure,” his mother whispered, while his father dreamed that his son would win fame and honor. The town musician thought that the boy ought not to have gone to war, but stayed at home and studied his music: one of the arts of peace.

  “Red” was what the soldiers called Peter and he laughed. But when someone called him “Fox” he pressed his lips together, looked straight ahead and pretended that he had not heard the insult.

  He was a good boy, usually cheerful and good-natured; “like a water bottle filled with wine,” his older companions said.

  Many a night it was damp; they slept out in the open. Sometimes it rained and he was wet to the skin, but his spirit was not daunted. He beat the drum: “Rat-a-tat-tat! Form ranks!” Oh yes, he was a born drummer boy.

  It was the day of the battle. The sun hadn’t risen, but it was morning. The air was damp and cold. A fog covered the landscape: a fog made by the smoke of exploding powder. Shells and bullets flew above their heads, and they saw the patches of deep red blood and the white, white faces of those who fell all around them; and still they marched forward. The little drummer was as yet unhurt, and he smiled at the regimental dog that pranced around him, as if they were playing and the bullets were only toys.

  “Forward march” had been the command; and the drummers beat it on their drumheads. That order is not easily reversed—though it can be done and often there are wisdom and good sense in doing it.

  “Run!” someone screamed. But the drummer boy kept beating the proper message: “Forward march!” The other soldiers obeyed the roll of the drums. It was a good drumbeat; at a decisive moment it prevented the retreat of an army which later that day was victorious.

  Life and limbs were lost in that battle. Shells tore the flesh into bloody pieces. Shells set fire to a haystack where the wounded had dragged themselves to lie unattended for many hours—perhaps for the rest of their lives. Oh, there is no point in thinking about such things; and yet people do, even when they are in a peaceful town, far away from the scene of the battle. The town crier and his wife were thinking about it because their son Peter was a drummer boy.

  “All this whimpering sickens me,” said the fire drum.

  It was the day of the battle. The sun had not risen, but it was morning. The town crier and his wife were sleeping, but they hadn’t slept all night. They had been awake talking about their son who was “out there,” with only God to protect him. Now the boy’s father was dreaming that the war was over and the soldiers were returning. His son came home with a medal on his chest: a silver cross.

  The mother was dreaming too. She was in the church looking at the altarpiece; and there among the angels she saw her son. He sang so beautifully, as only an angel can sing. He saw his mother and nodded kindly to her.

  “My golden treasure!” she cried out, and woke up. “Now God has taken him,” she muttered, and folded her hands. She hid her head in the cotton curtains that hung around the bed and wept. “Where is he resting now? Is his body already in the mass grave that they dig after a battle? Maybe it is in the deep wa
ters of a swamp! No one will ever know where he is buried. No one will ever say a prayer over his grave!” Silently, her lips said the Lord’s Prayer; then her head fell back on the pillow and she slept again, for she was very tired.

  In dreams and in reality, days fly.

  It was evening. A rainbow stretched its arch across the battlefield. It touched the forest and the swamp with its deep, still, dark waters. In folklore it is said that, where a rainbow ends, there is a golden treasure; and one had also been buried here. No one had thought about the little drummer boy but his mother, and that was why she had had this dream.

  And days fly, both in dreams and in reality.

  Nothing had happened to him, not a strand of his golden hair had been hurt. “Rat-a-tat-tat. He’s alive! He’s alive!” The drum could have told his mother, and then she could have sung about it, had she seen it or dreamed it.

  With cheering and singing and parades, they returned. They had been victorious. The war was over, peace had come. The regimental dog ran ahead of them, making great circles, as if he wanted the distance to be thrice as long as it was.

  Weeks went by and took the days with them.

  Peter came home! Sunburned as a savage, with clear eyes, and his face shining like the sun, he stepped into his parents’ house. His mother threw her arms around him and kissed him on his mouth and his eyes and his red hair. Her boy was back; and though he hadn’t any silver cross on his chest as his father had dreamed, he was alive and in good health as his mother hadn’t dreamed. Everyone was so happy that they all laughed and cried.

  “Are you still here, you old rascal?” Peter said to the old fire drum, and embraced it.

  His father played a roll on the big drum. “Boom! Boom! This is as exciting as it is when there’s a fire,” said the drum. “Fire in the attic! Fire in the heart! The golden treasure! Tummalumalum!”