ANDERSEN'S FAIRY TALES

By Hans Christian Andersen

Contents

The Emperor's New Clothes
The Swineherd
The Real Princess
The Shoes of Fortune
The Fir Tree
The Snow Queen
The Leap-Frog
The Elderbush
The Bell
The Old House
The Happy Family
The Story of a Mother
The False Collar
The Shadow
The Little Match Girl
The Dream of Little Tuk
The Naughty Boy
The Red Shoes

THE EMPEROR'S NEW CLOTHES

Many years ago there lived an Emperor who loved new clothes so much that he spent all his money on them. He didn't care about his soldiers, and he had no interest in the theater or in hunting trips—unless they gave him a chance to show off a new outfit. He had a different suit for every hour of the day. Just as people usually say of a king, "He is in his council chamber," people said of this Emperor, "He is in his dressing room."

Life in his capital city was lively, and visitors arrived at court every day. One day two swindlers came to town, calling themselves weavers. They claimed they could weave the most beautiful fabric imaginable—cloth with colors and patterns so fine that it had one astonishing quality: it was invisible to anyone unfit for their job, or hopelessly stupid.

"That must be wonderful cloth," the Emperor thought. "If I had a suit made from it, I could tell which of my officials were unfit for their positions, and I'd be able to sort the wise men from the fools. I must have this fabric woven for me right away." So he gave the two men a great deal of money to get started.

The swindlers set up two looms and pretended to work very hard, though they weren't actually weaving anything at all. They asked for the finest silk and the purest gold thread, then stuffed both into their own bags and kept up their pretend work at the empty looms late into the night.

After a while, the Emperor thought to himself, "I'd like to know how the cloth is coming along." But he felt a little uneasy, remembering that a fool—or someone unfit for his job—wouldn't be able to see the fabric. He believed he himself had nothing to worry about, but he decided to send someone else first to check on the weavers before he went himself. Word of the cloth's strange power had spread through the city, and everyone was eager to find out just how wise—or how foolish—their neighbors really were.

"I'll send my most trusted minister to see the weavers," the Emperor finally decided. "He'll be able to judge the cloth best, since he's a sensible man, and no one is better suited to his position than he is."

So the faithful old minister went to the hall where the two con men sat working furiously at their empty looms. "What in the world?" the old man thought, opening his eyes wide. "I can't see a single thread on those looms!" But he kept this thought to himself.

The swindlers politely invited him closer and asked whether he liked the design, and weren't the colors lovely—all while pointing at the bare frames. The poor minister stared and stared, but of course he saw nothing, since there was nothing there. "Am I a fool?" he thought. "I never believed that of myself, and no one else must find out, either. Could it be that I'm unfit for my job? No—I won't admit that I can't see the fabric."

"Well, Minister," said one of the swindlers, still pretending to weave, "you haven't told us what you think of the cloth."

"Oh, it's wonderful!" the old minister said, peering at the loom through his glasses. "This pattern, these colors—yes, I'll tell the Emperor at once how pleased I am."

"We're so glad," the impostors said, and they went on describing colors and patterns that didn't exist. The old minister listened closely so he could repeat every word to the Emperor. Then the con men asked for more silk and gold thread, claiming they needed it to finish the work. Naturally, they pocketed it all and kept up their busy pretending at the empty looms.

Next the Emperor sent a second official to check on the weavers' progress. This man fared no better than the minister—he examined the looms from every angle but saw nothing except bare frames.

"Doesn't the fabric look just as beautiful to you as it did to the minister?" the swindlers asked, making the same gestures as before and describing details that weren't there.

"I'm certainly no fool," the man thought. "So it must be that I'm not fit for my comfortable, well-paying job. Strange—but no one will hear about this from me." So he praised the fabric he couldn't see and declared he loved both the colors and the pattern. "Your Majesty," he reported back to the Emperor, "the cloth the weavers are making is truly magnificent."

Soon the whole city was talking about the splendid fabric the Emperor had commissioned.

At last the Emperor decided to see the remarkable cloth for himself while it was still on the loom. He went with a group of handpicked officials, including the two men who had already praised the fabric, to visit the cunning swindlers. As soon as the weavers spotted the Emperor approaching, they worked even harder than before—though they still never threaded a single strand through the looms.

"Isn't it magnificent?" said the two officials who'd seen the cloth already. "Just look, Your Majesty—what a design! What glorious colors!" They pointed at the empty frames, fully convinced that everyone else could see this exquisite work, just as they claimed to.

"What is this?" the Emperor thought. "I don't see anything at all! This is a disaster! Am I a fool? Am I unfit to be Emperor? That would be the worst thing imaginable." But aloud he said, "Oh, the cloth is charming! It has my full approval." He smiled warmly and studied the empty looms closely, since he refused to admit he couldn't see what two of his own officials had praised so highly. Everyone in his group strained their eyes to spot something on the looms, but none of them could see any more than the others. Still, they all cried out, "How beautiful!" and urged the Emperor to have a new suit made from this splendid material in time for the upcoming procession. "Magnificent! Charming! Wonderful!" rang out on every side, and everyone seemed delighted. The Emperor, caught up in the excitement, awarded the swindlers a knight's ribbon to wear on their jackets and gave them the title "Imperial Weavers."

The rogues stayed up all night before the day of the procession, burning sixteen candles so everyone could see how hard they were working to finish the Emperor's new suit. They pretended to take the cloth off the looms, cut at the air with scissors, and sewed with needles that held no thread. Finally they announced, "The Emperor's new clothes are ready!"

The Emperor arrived with his most important courtiers, and the swindlers lifted their arms as though holding something up, saying, "Here are Your Majesty's trousers! Here is the scarf! Here is the robe! The whole outfit is as light as a spider's web—you'll hardly feel you're wearing anything at all. That's the beauty of this delicate fabric."

"Yes, indeed!" all the courtiers agreed, though not one of them could actually see this supposedly exquisite creation.

"If Your Imperial Majesty would kindly remove your clothes," the swindlers said, "we will fit you in the new suit here, in front of the mirror."

The Emperor undressed, and the con men pretended to dress him in the new suit while he turned this way and that in front of the mirror.

"How splendid he looks! What a perfect fit!" everyone exclaimed. "What a design! What colors! Truly royal robes!"

"The canopy that will be carried over Your Majesty in the procession is ready," announced the master of ceremonies.

"I am quite ready myself," the Emperor said, turning once more before the mirror as if admiring his fine new suit.

The noblemen assigned to carry his train bent down and pretended to lift the hem of his robe off the ground, since none of them wanted to seem foolish or unfit for their positions.

So the Emperor walked beneath his tall canopy at the head of the procession through the streets of his capital, and all the people watching from the streets and windows cried out, "Look how beautiful the Emperor's new clothes are! What a magnificent train, and how gracefully the scarf hangs!" No one wanted to admit they couldn't see the famous clothes, because that would mean confessing they were either foolish or unfit for their job. In fact, none of the Emperor's outfits had ever impressed people so much as this invisible one.

"But he isn't wearing anything at all!" said a little child.

"Listen to the innocent voice of a child!" said the boy's father, and people began whispering what the child had said to one another.

"He has nothing on at all!" the whole crowd finally shouted. The Emperor felt a chill of embarrassment, because he knew they were right—but he thought, "The procession must go on now!" So he held himself even more proudly, and his attendants kept carrying a train that wasn't there at all.

THE SWINEHERD

Once there was a poor Prince who ruled a small kingdom. It was tiny, but certainly big enough to support a marriage, and the Prince wanted a wife.

It was rather bold of him to ask the Emperor's daughter, "Will you marry me?"—but he did just that, because his name was known far and wide, and a hundred princesses would have said yes gladly. We'll see what this particular princess said.

Listen to what happened.

At the Prince's father's grave grew a rosebush—an extraordinarily beautiful one that bloomed only once every five years, and even then produced just a single rose. But what a rose it was! Its scent was so sweet that anyone who breathed it in forgot all their cares and sorrows.

The Prince also owned a nightingale who could sing so beautifully it seemed as if every lovely melody in the world lived in her small throat.

So the Prince decided to send the rose and the nightingale to the Princess. They were placed in large silver cases and delivered to her.

The Emperor had them brought i—