The slave girls performed a graceful, swaying dance to the most sublime music. And the little mermaid raised her beautiful white arms, lifting herself up on the tips of her toes, and floating across the floor, dancing as no one had ever danced before. She looked more and more lovely with every step, and her eyes spoke more deeply to the heart than the songs of the slave girls.
Everyone was enraptured, especially the prince, who called her his little foundling. She kept on dancing, even though it felt like she was treading on sharp knives every time her foot touched the ground. The prince insisted that she must never leave him, and she was allowed to sleep outside his door on a velvet cushion. 46
The prince had a page’s costume made for her47 so that she could ride on horseback with him. They galloped through fragrant woods, where green boughs brushed her shoulders and little birds sang among the fresh, new leaves. She climbed with the prince to the tops of high mountains and, although her delicate feet began to bleed and everyone could see the blood, she just laughed and followed the prince until they could look down and see clouds fluttering in the air like flocks of birds on their way to distant lands.
At night, back in the prince’s palace, when everyone in the household was fast asleep, the little mermaid would go over to the marble steps and cool her burning feet by standing in the icy seawater. And then she would think about those who were living down there in the deep.
One night her sisters rose up and sang mournfully as they floated arm in arm on the water. She beckoned to them, and they recognized her and told her how unhappy she had made them all. From then on, they started visiting her every night, and one night she even saw, far off in the distance, her old grandmother, who had not been up to the surface for many years, and she also saw the old Sea King, wearing his crown on his head. They both stretched their arms out toward her, but they did not dare to venture as close to the shore as her sisters.
With each passing day, the prince grew fonder of the little mermaid. He loved her as one loves a dear, sweet child, and it never even occurred to him to make her his queen. And yet she had to become his wife or else she would never receive an immortal soul. On his wedding morning, she would dissolve into foam on the sea.
“Do you care for me more than anyone else?” the little mermaid’s eyes seemed to ask when he took her in his arms and kissed her lovely brow.
“Yes, you are more precious to me than anyone else,” said the prince, “for you have the kindest heart of anyone I know. And you are more devoted to me than anyone else. You remind me of a young girl I once met, but shall probably never see again. I was in a shipwreck, and the waves cast me ashore near a holy temple, where several young girls were performing their duties. The youngest of them found me on the beach and saved my life. I saw her just twice. She is the only one in the world whom I could ever love.48 But you look so much like her that you have almost driven her image out of my mind. She belongs to the holy temple, and my good fortune has sent you to me. We will never part!”
“Ah, little does he know that it was I who saved his life,” thought the little mermaid. “I carried him across the sea to the temple in the woods, and I waited in the foam for someone to come and help. I saw the beautiful girl that he loves better than he loves me.” And the mermaid sighed deeply, for she did not know how to shed tears. “He says the girl belongs to the holy temple and that she will therefore never return to the world. They will never again meet. I will stay by his side and can see him every day. I will take care of him and love him and devote my life to him.”
Not long after that, there was talk that the prince was going to marry and that his wife would be the beautiful daughter of a neighboring king. And that’s why he was rigging out a splendid ship. They said that he was going to pay a visit to the lands of a neighboring kingdom, but in fact he was going to visit the neighboring king’s daughter. He was taking a large entourage with him. The little mermaid shook her head and laughed. She knew the prince’s thoughts far better than anyone else.
“I shall have to go,” he told her. “I must visit this beautiful princess—my parents insist. But they would never force me to bring her back here as my wife. I could never love her. She’s not at all like the beautiful girl in the temple, whom you resemble. When I have to choose a bride someday, it is much more likely to be you, my quiet little orphan child with your expressive eyes.” And he kissed the mermaid’s red lips, played with her long hair, and laid his head on her heart so that she began to dream of human happiness and an immortal soul.
“You are not at all afraid of the sea, are you, my dear quiet child?” he asked, when they stood on board the splendid ship that was carrying them to the neighboring kingdom. He told her about powerful storms and calm waters, about the strange fish in the deep, and what divers had seen down there. She smiled at his tales, for she knew better than any one else about the wonders at the bottom of the sea.
In the moonlit night when everyone was asleep but the helmsman at his wheel, the little mermaid stood by the railing of the ship and gazed down through the clear water. She thought she could see her father’s palace, and there at the top of it was her old grandmother, a silver crown on her head as she stared up through the turbulent currents at the keel of the vessel. Then her sisters rose up to the surface and looked at her with eyes filled with sorrow, wringing their white hands. She beckoned to them and smiled and would have liked to tell them that she was happy and that all was going well for her. But the cabin boy came up just then, and the sisters dove back down, and the boy thought that the whiteness he had seen was nothing but foam on the water.
The next morning the ship sailed into the harbor of the neighboring king’s magnificent capital. All the church bells were ringing, and trumpeters blew a fanfare from the towers. Soldiers saluted with flying colors and flashing bayonets. Every day brought a new festival. Balls and banquets followed one another, but the princess had not yet appeared. It was reported that she had been raised and educated in a holy temple, where she was learning all the royal virtues. At last she appeared.
The little mermaid was eager for a glimpse of her beauty, and she had to admit that she had never seen a more enchanting person. Her delicate skin glowed with health, and her warm blue eyes shone with deep sincerity from behind her long, dark lashes.
“It’s you,” said the prince. “You’re the one who rescued me when I was lying half dead on the beach.” And he reached out and drew his blushing bride toward him.49 “Oh, I’m really overjoyed,” he said to the little mermaid. “The best thing imaginable—more than I ever dared hope for—has been given to me. My happiness is sure to give you pleasure, for you are fonder of me than anyone else.” The little mermaid kissed his hand, and she could feel her heart breaking. The day of the wedding would mean her death, and she would turn into foam on the ocean waves.
All the church bells were ringing when the heralds rode through the streets to proclaim the betrothal. Perfumed oils were burning in precious silver lamps on every altar. The priests were swinging the censers, while the bride and bridegroom joined hands to receive the blessing of the bishop. Dressed in silk and gold, the little mermaid was holding the bride’s train, but her ears could not take in the festive music, and her eyes never saw the holy rites. All she could think about was her last night on earth and about everything in this world that she had lost.
That same evening, bride and bridegroom went aboard the ship. Cannons roared, flags were waving, and in the center of the ship a sumptuous tent of purple and gold had been raised. It was strewn with luxurious cushions, for the bridal couple was to sleep there during the calm, cool night. The sails swelled in the breeze, and the ship glided lightly and smoothly across the clear seas.
When it grew dark, colored lanterns were lit, and the sailors danced merrily on deck. The little mermaid could not help but think of that first time she had come up from the sea and gazed on just such a scene of splendor and joy. And now she joined in the dance, swerving and swooping as lightly as a s
wallow does to avoid pursuit. Cries of admiration greeted her from all sides. Never before had she danced so elegantly. It was as if sharp knives were cutting into her delicate feet, but she didn’t notice, for the pain in her heart was far keener. She knew that this was the last night she would ever see the prince, the man for whom she had forsaken her family and her home, given up her beautiful voice, and suffered hours of agony without his suspecting a thing. This was the last evening that she would breathe the same air that he did or gaze into the deep sea and up at the starry sky. An eternal night, without thoughts or dreams, awaited her, since she did not have a soul and would never win one. All was joy and merriment on board until long past midnight. She laughed and danced with the others although the thought of death was in her heart. The prince kissed his lovely bride, while she played with his dark hair, and arm in arm they retired to the magnificent tent.
The ship was now hushed and quiet. Only the helmsman was standing there at his wheel. The little mermaid was leaning on the railing with her white arms and looking to the east for a sign of the rosy dawn. She knew that the first ray of sunlight would mean her death. Suddenly she saw her sisters rising up from the sea. They were as pale as she, but their beautiful long hair was no longer blowing in the wind—it had been cut off.
“We gave our hair to the witch,” they said, “so that she would help save you from the death that awaits you tonight. She gave us a knife—take a look! See how sharp it is? Before sunrise you must plunge it into the prince’s heart.50 Then, when his warm blood spatters on your feet, they will grow back together to form a fish tail, and you will be a mermaid again. You can come back down to us in the water and live out your three hundred years before being changed into dead, salty sea foam. Hurry up! One of you will die before the sun rises. Our old grandmother has been so grief-stricken that her white hair started falling out, just the way ours fell to the witch’s scissors. Kill the prince and come back to us! Hurry—look at the red streaks in the sky. In a few minutes the sun will rise, and then you will die.” And with a strange, deep sigh, they sank down beneath the waves.
The little mermaid drew back the purple curtain of the tent, and she saw the lovely bride sleeping with her head on the prince’s chest. She bent down and kissed his handsome brow, then looked at the sky where the rosy dawn was growing brighter and brighter. She gazed at the sharp knife in her hand and fixed her eyes again on the prince, who was whispering the name of his bride in his dreams. She was the only one in his thoughts. The little mermaid’s hand began to tremble as she took the knife—then she flung it far out over the waves. The water turned red where it fell, and it looked as if blood was oozing up, drop by drop, through the water. With one last glance at the prince from eyes half-dimmed, she threw herself from the ship into the sea51 and felt her body dissolve into foam.
And now the sun came rising up from the sea. Its warm and gentle rays fell on the deadly cold sea foam, but the little mermaid did not feel as if she were dying. She saw the bright sun and realized that there were hundreds of lovely transparent creatures hovering over her. Looking right through them, she could see the white sails of the ship and rosy clouds up in the sky. Their voices were melodious, but so ethereal that human ears could not hear them, just as mortal eyes could not behold them. They soared through the air on their own lightness, with no need for wings. The little mermaid realized that she had a body like theirs and that she was rising higher and higher out of the foam.
“Where am I?” she asked, and her voice sounded like that of the other beings, more ethereal than any earthly music.
“Among the daughters of the air,”52 they replied. “Mermaids do not have an immortal soul, and they can never have one without gaining the love of a human being. Eternal life depends on a power outside them. The daughters of the air do not have immortal souls either, but through good deeds they can earn one for themselves. We can fly to the hot countries, where sultry, pestilential air takes people’s lives. We bring cool breezes. We carry the fragrance of flowers through the air and send relief and healing. Once we have struggled to do all the good we can in three hundred years, immortal souls are bestowed on us, and we enjoy the eternal happiness humans find. You, my dear little mermaid, have struggled with all your heart to do what we do. You have suffered and endured and now you have been transported to the world of the spirits of the air. Through good deeds, you too can earn an immortal soul53 in three hundred years.”
The little mermaid lifted her transparent arms toward God’s sun, and for the first time she could feel tears coming to her eyes.
Over by the ship, there were sounds of life, with people bustling about. The mermaid could tell that the prince and his beautiful bride were searching for her. With deep sorrow, they were staring out at the pearl-colored foam, as if they knew that she had thrown herself into the waves. Unseen, the mermaid kissed the bride’s forehead, smiled at the prince, and then, with the other children of the air, rose up into the pink clouds that were sailing across the skies.
EDMUND DULAC
Bearing a distinct resemblance to Ophelia, the little mermaid, now wearing splendid, regal garments, returns to her element and believes that she is about to become foam, while in the distance the sun is rising, warming the foam.
“In three hundred years we will soar like this into the heavenly kingdom.”
“And we may arrive there even sooner,” one of her companions whispered. “Invisible to human eyes, we float into homes where there are children. For every day we find a good child who makes his parents happy and deserves their love, God shortens our time of trial. Children never know when we are going to fly into their rooms, and if we smile with joy when we see the child, then a year is taken away from the three hundred. But a mean or naughty child makes us shed tears of sorrow, and each of those tears adds another day to our time of trial.”55
ARTHUR RACKHAM
1. The Little Mermaid. In constructing his aquatic character, Andersen drew on varied strands of both folkloric and literary traditions about fairy creatures—selkies, nymphs, nixies, undines—who appear on earth, marry mortals, but can remain on land only under certain conditions. Stories about selkies, seals who bask seductively in the sun on outlying rocks and who have the power to turn into beautiful humans, circulate broadly on the Orkney Islands off the coast of Scotland. Nixies are akin to the Greek sirens, who lure mortals to their death, but sirens have a birdlike appearance rather than pisciform features.
It is not clear exactly when sirens evolved into mermaids, losing their ornithomorphic features to acquire fish tails (Dundes, 56). A female siren in the form of a beautiful woman with the tail of a fish famously appears in Heinrich Heine’s “Loreley,” a poem that recounts the death of fishermen who drown when distracted from dangerous reefs by the Loreley’s enchanting song. Melusine, or Melusina, another figure of European legends and folklore, is usually represented as a woman, sometimes with wings, sometimes as a serpent or fish from the waist down.
Andersen was familiar with Friedrich de la Motte Fouqué’s short story “Undine” (1811), a tale about a knight who falls in love with the daughter of the King of the Sea and betrays her. Fouqué’s work inspired a host of ballets and operatic tales about the beautiful femme fatale who cannot speak about her origins: Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake, Dvořák’s Rusalka, and Maeterlinck’s Pelléas et Mélisande. Andersen did not approve of Fouqué’s ending and wrote to a friend on February 11, 1837, shortly after completing his own story: “I have not . . . let the mermaid’s acquisition of an immortal soul depend on an alien creature, upon the love of a human being. I’m sure that would be wrong! It would depend rather a lot on chance, wouldn’t it? I won’t accept that sort of thing in this world. I have permitted my mermaid to follow a more natural, a more divine path.”
Andersen was also familiar with mermaid tales by the Danish writers Ingemann and Oehlenschläger, as well as Bournonville’s ballet La Sylphide, which was performed in Copenhagen in 1836. His “Little Mermaid” in tu
rn inspired a host of nineteenth-century tales and twentieth-century films. Oscar Wilde’s “The Fisherman and His Soul” (1891) and H.G. Wells’s The Sea Lady (1902) were both influenced by Andersen’s tale. In more recent times, the mermaid has become what Susan White describes as “a pervasive cinematic symbol of the girl’s difficult rite of passage to womanhood” (White, 186), with films like I Heard the Mermaids Singing (1987), Mermaids (1990), and La Petite Sirène (1990) taking up painful “growth” experiences. Splash, starring Tom Hanks and Daryl Hannah, adds many modern twists to the tale, with an ending that pays tribute to the attractions of life underwater.
W. HEATH ROBINSON
The mermaid, as Dorothy Dinnerstein points out in her landmark study of human sexual arrangements, Mermaids and Minotaurs (1976), has traditionally been framed as a “seductive and impenetrable female representative of the dark and magic underwater world from which our life comes and in which we cannot live.” Drawing voyagers into an aquatic world linked with the sinister and irrational, she “lures them to their doom” (Dinnerstein, 5). But Andersen’s little mermaid is less siren than innocent child (the prince repeatedly refers to her as a foundling and child) trying to acquire a soul. She is driven more by the desire for a soul than by love for the prince.
The Annotated Hans Christian Andersen Page 19