The Complete Fairy Tales

by Hans Christian Andersen

  “You are right,” he confessed. “You must have been up there, and I must have forgotten it”

  I reminded him of the ridge of sand where I caught up with the carriage.

  “I remembered that I had not been up to look at the tower, so I assumed that you hadn’t either,” the young man said.

  I have recorded this incident for the sake of truth; otherwise, someone who has heard it from my guide’s “own mouth” may, after my death, again tell how I described something that I had not seen with my own eyes.

  The peasants and fishermen told me about many things that characterize life in that district, and some of their explanations I quoted in my story. Oddly enough, one critic gave me the “friendly advice” that when I talked about local customs I ought to ask the local people about them, which was exactly what I had done.

  A STORY FROM THE DUNES brought me into contact with the poet Paludan-Müller. His appreciation of my tale has meant so much to me that I record it here.

  THE TWO BROTHERS is an imaginary vignette about the life of the Oersted brothers.

  THE OLD CHURCH BELL I was asked to write as a contribution to the Schiller Album. I wanted it to have something Danish in it; and how I managed that you will see when you read the story.

  In the spring of 1861 the second volume of New Fairy Tales and Stories appeared. It contained:

  THE TWELVE PASSENGERS

  THE DUNG BEETLE

  WHAT FATHER DOES IS ALWAYS RIGHT

  THE PHILOSOPHER’S STONE

  THE SNOWMAN

  IN THE DUCKYARD

  THE MUSE OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY

  It was dedicated to D. G. Murad, who was at the time Minister of Culture.

  For the first number of Household Words, Charles Dickens had collected some Arabian proverbs; among them he found one particularly interesting: “When the emperor’s horse was given golden shoes, the dung beetle stuck forth his legs.”

  “We suggest,” Dickens commented, “that Hans Christian Andersen write a fairy tale about this.” I wanted to very much, but no fairy tale came. Nine years later, when I was visiting the Danish castle Basnaes, where by chance I read Dickens’ remark again, the fairy tale THE DUNG BEETLE suddenly stood before me.

  WHAT FATHER DOES is ALWAYS RIGHT is a Danish folk tale that I heard as a child and have retold in my own way.

  Through the years I have tried to walk every radius, so to speak, in the circle of the fairy tale; therefore, quite often, if an idea or a subject has occurred to me that would bring me back to a form I have already tried, I have either let it go or attempted to give it a different form; that is why THE PHILOSOPHER’S STONE has an oriental style and is reminiscent of an allegory.

  I have been reproached for having written, during my later years, philosophical stories, which, according to my critics, lie beyond my scope. These remarks were especially meant for THE MUSE OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY. But this story is a natural outgrowth of the fairy tale.

  It has been both said and written that this collection was the poorest I have yet produced, and yet among its pages are to be found two of my best fairy tales: WHAT FATHER DOES IS ALWAYS RIGHT and THE SNOWMAN. The latter was written at Christmastime at beautiful Basnaes Castle; and it is read aloud very often in preference to many other stories. Mantzius, the actor from the Royal Theater, includes it in his repertoire and his audiences seem to appreciate it greatly.

  In later years a few people have said that only my very early fairy tales are of any importance, and all these that followed were inferior to them. This is hardly the case, but I believe that I can explain why the claim is made. Those people who read my stories when they were children have grown older and lost the fresh spirit with which they once approached and absorbed literature. There is also the possibility that some people feel that, since the fairy tales have been so widely known and acclaimed throughout the world, their author has been made happier than any living man ought to be. My earlier fairy tales have stood the test of time, so they must be left in peace, while the newer ones are attacked—for one must find fault with something.

  Sometimes people comment without explaining exactly what they mean. How many times have I heard someone say, “I like your real fairy tales best, the first stories you wrote.” And if I am so bold as to ask which fairy tale he or she may prefer, I am very often told: IT IS PERFECTLY TRUE!, THE BUTTERFLY, or THE SNOWMAN: all of which are of recent date.

  If my previous booklet was my weakest collection—which I do not believe—the one that followed was one of the best. It came out at Christmas, 1861, and included:

  THE ICE MAIDEN

  THE BUTTERFLY

  PSYCHE

  THE SNAIL AND THE ROSEBUSH

  It was dedicated to Björnstjerne Björnson: “You who are the tree of Norway: its budding, its flowering, and its fruit. From you have I learned of your native land. In Rome, which is filled with monuments to greatness, I glanced into your poetic heart. I care for you, therefore I bring you what maturity has placed in my lyre.”

  THE ICE MAIDEN was written during a longer stay in Switzerland, which I have visited so often. This time I was on my way home from Italy. The story about the eagle’s nest was an experience of the Bavarian poet Koppel; and he told me about it.

  THE BUTTERFLY was also written in Switzerland, during a trip from Montreux to Chillon.

  PSYCHE had been written a few months before while I was still in Rome. Something that had happened during my first stay in the city, in 1833, came into my mind and became the seed of a story: while digging a grave for a young nun who had just died, a beautiful statue of Bacchus had been unearthed.

  THE SNAIL AND THE ROSEBUSH belongs to that group of stories that I experienced myself.

  After that booklet was published began the bitter, long years: the years of war. Denmark lost Als and Schleswig. Who could think of anything else? Days and years passed without any stories being written. Finally, at Christmas, 1865, a booklet dedicated to the ballet master August Bournonville was published. It included:

  “THE WILL-O’-THE-WISPS ARE IN TOWN,” SAID THE BOG WITCH

  THE WINDMILL

  THE SILVER SHILLING

  THE BISHOP OF BOERGLUM CLOISTER AND HIS KINSMEN

  IN THE CHILDREN’S ROOM

  THE GOLDEN TREASURE

  HOW THE STORM CHANGED THE SIGNS

  The story about the will-o’-the-wisps leaped out of those long, sad years of the war.

  Along the road between Sorø and Holsteinborg is a windmill. I passed it often; it always seemed on the verge of telling me a story, and finally it did, enclosed in a confession of faith. That’s all I have to say about THE WINDMILL.

  THE SILVER SHILLING was written in Leghorn. I arrived there from Civitavecchia on a steamboat. While on board I had exchanged a scudo for some smaller coins, and among them was a false two-franc piece. No one would accept it, and it irritated me that I had been fooled. But then came the idea for a story, and I got my money back.

  THE BISHOP OF BOERGLUM CLOISTER was written after a visit to Boerglum Cloister. A well-known historical legend from the cruel Dark Ages, which so many people still talk of as having been lovely and desirable to live in, is told in contrast to our own lighter, happier age.

  THE GOLDEN TREASURE was written at Frijsensborg. The lonely, lovely forest, the beautiful flower gardens, and the cozy rooms of the castle are, in my memory, inseparable from the story, which bloomed there like a flower on a lovely day.

  HOW THE STORM CHANGED THE SIGNS and THE SONGBIRD OF THE PEOPLE were written in Copenhagen just before Christmas. The wonderful parade is a description of one that I saw in Odense when I was a child.

  THE TEAPOT was written in Toledo.

  THE LITTLE GREEN ONES and PEITER, PETER, AND PEER were written at Rolighed, near the limekiln, and were inspired by the contentment and good humor of a happy home.

  THE PIXY AND THE GARDENER’S WIFE has its roots in an old folk tale about a pixy who teased a chained dog.

  The
next booklet with new stories and fairy tales appeared at Christmas, 1866, and was dedicated to the painter Carl Bloch. It contained:

  HIDDEN BUT NOT FORGOTTEN

  THE JANITOR’S SON

  MOVING DAY

  THE SNOWDROP

  AUNTIE

  THE TOAD

  In HIDDEN BUT NOT FORGOTTEN there are three pictures. The first was from Thiele’s folk tale that tells of a young noblewoman whom thieves chained before the doghouse, at the entrance to her own castle. How and why she was freed I added to the original story. The second story takes place in modern times and I saw it happen at Holsteinborg. The third, about the poor sorrowful young girl, also belongs to personal experiences. I heard the story from the girl’s own lips and wrote it down in her own words.

  Many of the incidents from THE JANITOR’S SON were taken from life.

  AUNTIE I have known as several people, all of whom are now dead.

  THE SNOWDROP was written on request. My friend Councilman Drewsen, who cares so much for Danish customs and language, complained to me about how many good Danish names are being changed. In the newspapers one reads about the winter fool that we, in our childhood, much more reasonably called a summer fool, since it fools us into thinking that summer is near. He asked me to write a fairy tale in which I referred to the flower by its original name, summer fool; and so I did.

  THE TOAD was written during my stay in Setúbal in the summer of 1866. There water is drawn out of the deep well by means of ceramic pots, which are attached to a great black wheel and tip their contents into a ditch that has branches throughout the whole garden. In one of these pots I saw a large ugly toad being brought to the surface. As I looked at it closely, I noticed how intelligent the expression in its eyes was, and soon a whole fairy tale was mine. Later, when I returned to Denmark, I rewrote it, making it more homely by placing it in a Danish setting.

  GODFATHER’S PICTURE BOOK has its own little story. One day on the street I met our eminent archaeologist Thomsen. He had just returned from Paris and told me that there he had seen, in a little theater, a light comedy about the history of Paris. It had been very prosaic and poorly plotted; nonetheless, it had been of interest to him to see the series of tableaus depicting the different periods in Parisian history. He thought that I might make use of the idea to write a more inspired comedy for the Casino Theater, about the history of Copenhagen. I thought it over; and on the evening when Copenhagen’s first gas street lights were lighted, while the oil lamps—for that one night only—burned at the same time, I found I had a frame in which to place my historical pictures. As the element of beauty—the spiritual thread that would run through the whole story—I decided to have a great rock that in prehistoric times had been carried here on an ice floe and been stranded on a sandbank, where Absalon’s castle, which was the first building in Copenhagen, later stood; and where, in modern times, Thorvaldsen’s Museum stands. I worked for a very long time on the play; it grew and grew until it would have been impossible to perform on the small stage at the Casino, with the actors available there—that is, if I ever finished it. Finally, it had become too big for me and I gave it up; but later I used the idea for a picture book. On bound white pages I pasted pictures, which I had collected here and there, and wrote under each a few words, to relate them to each other; and the result was a story: COPENHAGEN’S LIFE AND CAREER SEEN BY GASLIGHT AND OIL LAMPS. Much later—naturally, without pictures—the story was shortened and printed in the Danish Illustrated Times. It was published among Travel Sketches and Pen Drawings. But critics complained that it belonged to Stories and Fairy Tales, where I have now included it; and Frolich has supplied it with illustrations.

  THE RAGS was written long before GODFATHER’S PICTURE BOOK. Then Norwegian literature had not yet shown that freshness and vitality in so many fields that it now has. Munch had only just begun to write. Björnson, Ibsen, Jonas Lie, Magdalene Thoresen, etc., were unknown; but there was the habitual nagging of the Danish authors, even Oehlenschläger. This annoyed me and I wanted to say a word or two about it: to hit back in some clever, short tale. One summer, while I was in Silkeborg, at the home of Michael Drewsen, who owned a paper mill, I noticed the huge piles of rags that appeared every day in front of the building. They had been collected from everywhere, so I was told; and this gave me the idea for THE RAGS. People said it was amusing; but personally, I found in it more of the bee’s sting than the flower’s honey and therefore put it aside. Many years later, when the satire—if there ever had been any—no longer fitted the situation, the tale was brought out again. The opposing rags were treated with equal good nature and seen in a humorous light. Both Norwegian and Danish friends encouraged me to publish it, and it was printed in The Danish Calendar of 1869.

  THE TWO ISLANDS was improvised for a dinner party at Holsteinborg because the engineer who was to build the dike that would connect Glaeno with Zealand was a dinner guest.

  In 1868 a little booklet with only one tale, THE WOOD NYMPH was printed. In 1867 I had been in Paris to see the Paris Universal Exposition; never before or since have I been so delighted or so overwhelmed as I was on that occasion. The exhibition had already been officially opened when I came, although the marvelous and amazing wonders were not yet all completely built. In France and throughout the world, newspapers wrote of this splendor. One Danish report claimed that no author except Charles Dickens had the ability to describe it. It occurred to me that I, too, might have the necessary talent; and how pleased I would be if I were able to do it so well that both my countrymen and others would have to acknowledge it. I was filled with these thoughts as I stood on the balcony of my hotel room one day. Down in the square I noticed a tree that had died and been uprooted. Nearby in a cart was a fresh, young tree which had been brought that morning from the country to take its place. The idea for a story about the Paris Exposition was hidden in the young tree. The wood nymph waved to me. Every day during my stay in Paris, and long after, when I had returned to Denmark, there grew and sang through my mind the life story of the dryad and it was interwoven with the Paris Exposition. But I had not seen the entire exhibition, and if my story were to be a true and complete picture of the exhibition I would have to return to Paris, which I did in September. In Copenhagen, after I came home again, the tale was finally finished and dedicated to the poet J. M. Thiele.

  In 1870 a little booklet of the same size as THE WOOD NYMPH was published. It contained three new fairy tales and stories:

  THE FAMILY OF HEN-GRETHE

  THE ADVENTURES OF A THISTLE

  A QUESTION OF IMAGINATION

  It was dedicated to my good friend, E. Collin, who has been loyal to me through happy days and bitter ones.

  One day in the Students’ Union, I happened to read a newspaper from Laaland-Falster which had an article in it about a young noblewoman, Marie Grubbe. She had been married three times: first, to the half brother of Christian V, Ulrich Frederik Gyldenløve; then to a nobleman from Jutland; and finally to a poor seaman. While her third husband was in prison, she herself had rowed the ferry. This report referred to the letters of Holberg. In these, Holberg, who was then a young student fleeing from the plague that raged in Copenhagen, tells of his stay on Falster where he lived with the poverty-stricken ferrywoman, Mother Sorensen Miller, the once noble Marie Grubbe.

  Here was material for a poet. From the Danish Atlas and Thiele’s Folk Legends I learned more details, and I wrote THE FAMILY OF HEN-GRETHE.THE ADVENTURES OF A THISTLE came to me as I was walking on a field near Basnaes and saw a most beautiful thistle. I felt that I must describe it in words.

  A QUESTION OF IMAGINATION comes from my own experiences.

  At Christmas, 1871, New Fairy Tales and Stories appeared. It was dedicated to my publishers, Theodor and Carl Reitzel. In that booklet, in the usual format, with the traditional picture on the cover, there were twelve stories:

  LUCK CAN BE FOUND IN A STICK THE COMET

  THE DAYS OF THE WEEK

  THE SUN
SHINE’S STORY

  GREAT-GRANDFATHER

  WHO WAS THE HAPPIEST?

  THE CANDLES

  THE MOST INCREDIBLE

  WHAT THE WHOLE FAMILY SAID

  “DANCE, DANCE, DOLLY MINE!”

  THE GREAT SEA SERPENT

  THE GARDENER AND HIS MASTER

  All had been written during that year, and eleven of them had already been printed.

  LUCK CAN BE FOUND IN A STICK was written in the Jura Mountains. Here I was told about a very poor carpenter who had made a little wooden pear to hold his umbrella together. This proved to be more effective than the button that ordinarily was used; it really did keep the umbrella from springing open all the time. For his neighbors he made a few pears as well; and soon people in both the city and the country began to order from him small pears for their umbrellas; and within a few years he was a wealthy man. This was the source of LUCK CAN BE FOUND IN A STICK.

  As an older man, I saw once more the comet that I had seen as a child. It seemed as if I had seen it first only the night before, yet years and so many memories separated the two events; and I wrote THE COMET.

  THE DAYS OF THE WEEK was written at someone’s request and had to be done in haste. Later it was published in Thorkildsen’s Calendar. In the distribution of the gifts in THE SUNSHINE’S STORY, I had in mind a particular important countryman of mine.

  GREAT-GRANDFATHER was based on my memory of a conversation with H. C. Oersted about olden and modern times, concerning which he had written an article in The Almanac of Copenhagen.THE CANDLES is a little story taken from real life. THE MOST INCREDIBLE and WHAT THE WHOLE FAMILY SAID also belong, at least in part, to the stories that come from personal experience.

  THE GREAT SEA SERPENT, like THE WOOD NYMPH, is a modern tale. Modern science, and the changes it brings about, offer rich material for poetry; for opening my eyes to this fact, I am indebted to H. C. Oersted.