Waltey

Prevod

Far out at sea, the water is as blue as the petals of the loveliest cornflower and as clear as the purest glass, but it is very deep, deeper than any anchor rope can reach. Many church towers would have to be stacked one upon another to reach from the bottom to above the water. Down there live the sea folk.

Now, you must not imagine that there is nothing there but a bare bed of white sand. No, the most wonderful trees and plants grow there, with stems and leaves so supple that they stir at the slightest movement of the water, just as though they were alive. All the fish, large and small, dart among the branches, just as birds fly through the air up here. At the very deepest spot stands the sea king's palace. Its walls are coral, and its tall, pointed windows are of the clearest amber, but its roof is made of mussel shells that open and close as the water moves. It is a lovely sight, for in each shell lie gleaming pearls, any one of which would make a splendid ornament in a queen's crown.

The sea king down there had been a widower for many years, but his old mother kept house for him. She was a wise woman, but proud of her noble birth, and so she wore twelve oysters on her tail, while the other highborn folk were allowed only six. Otherwise she deserved much praise, especially because she was so fond of the little sea princesses, her granddaughters. There were six lovely children, but the youngest was the most beautiful of them all. Her skin was as clear and delicate as a rose petal, her eyes as blue as the deepest lake, but like all the others she had no feet: her body ended in a fish's tail.

All day long they could play down in the palace, in the great halls where living flowers grew out of the walls. The great amber windows would be opened, and the fish would swim in to them, just as swallows fly in to us when we open our windows. But the fish swam straight up to the little princesses, ate from their hands, and let themselves be stroked.

Outside the palace was a great garden with fiery-red and dark-blue trees. The fruit shone like gold and the flowers like blazing fire, their stems and leaves forever swaying. The ground itself was the finest sand, but blue as a sulphur flame. A wondrous blue glow lay over everything down there; you might sooner have thought you were high in the air, with nothing but sky above and below you, than at the bottom of the sea. In a dead calm you could make out the sun, which looked like a purple flower, with all its light streaming from its cup.

Each little princess had her own small plot in the garden, where she could dig and plant just as she pleased. One made her flower bed in the shape of a whale; another preferred hers to look like a little mermaid. But the youngest made hers quite round, like the sun, and planted only flowers that shone as red as it did. She was a strange child, quiet and thoughtful, and while her sisters decorated their gardens with the most wonderful things they had found in wrecked ships, she wanted nothing, besides the rosy-red flowers that resembled the sun high above, but a beautiful marble statue. It was a handsome boy, carved from the clear white stone, which had sunk to the seabed in a shipwreck. Beside the statue she planted a rosy-red weeping willow. It flourished splendidly, hanging its fresh branches over him and down towards the blue sand, where their shadow looked violet and swayed just as the branches did. It seemed as though the crown and the roots were playing at kissing one another.

Nothing delighted her more than to hear about the human world above. Her old grandmother had to tell her everything she knew about ships and towns, people and animals. She thought it especially wonderful that up on land the flowers had a fragrance, for those at the bottom of the sea had none, and that the woods were green, and the fish seen among their branches could sing so loudly and sweetly that it was a joy to hear them. These were the little birds, which her grandmother called fish, for otherwise the children could not have understood her, since they had never seen a bird.

"When you turn fifteen," said their grandmother, "you shall be allowed to rise out of the sea, sit on the rocks in the moonlight, and watch the great ships sailing past. You shall see forests and towns!" In the coming year one of the sisters would turn fifteen, but each of the others was a year younger than the one before, so the youngest still had five whole years to wait before she would be allowed to come up from the bottom of the sea and see what our world was like. But each promised the others to tell them what she had seen and what she had thought most beautiful on that first day, for their grandmother did not tell them enough: there was so much they wanted to know.

No one longed for it as much as the youngest, the very one who had longest to wait and who was so quiet and thoughtful. Many a night she stood at the open window, gazing up through the dark-blue water where the fish beat their fins and tails. She could see the moon and stars; their light was very pale, to be sure, but through the water they looked much larger than they do to our eyes. And if something like a black cloud passed beneath them, she knew it was either a whale swimming above her or a ship carrying many people. Surely they never imagined that a lovely little mermaid was standing below, reaching her white hands up towards the keel.

At last the eldest princess was fifteen and was allowed to rise above the surface of the sea. When she returned, she had a hundred things to tell, but the loveliest of all, she said, was to lie in the moonlight on a sandbank in the calm sea and look at the great city close to the shore, where the lights twinkled like a hundred stars; to hear the music and the noise and bustle of carriages and people; to see the many church towers and spires, and hear the bells ringing. It was precisely because she could not go up there that she longed for all this most of all.

Oh, how eagerly the youngest sister listened! And when she stood at the open window later that evening, looking up through the dark-blue water, she thought of the great city with all its noise and bustle, and fancied she could hear the church bells ringing down to her.

The following year the second sister was allowed to rise through the water and swim wherever she pleased. She surfaced just as the sun was setting, and she thought that sight the loveliest of all. The whole sky had looked like gold, she said, and as for the clouds, she could never describe their beauty well enough! Red and violet, they had sailed above her, but far more swiftly than they, a flock of wild swans had flown like a long white veil across the water towards the sun. She swam towards it, but it sank, and the rosy glow faded from the surface of the sea and from the clouds.

The year after that, the third sister went up. She was the boldest of them all, so she swam up a broad river that flowed into the sea. She saw lovely green hills covered in vines, and castles and farmhouses peeping out among splendid woods. She heard all the birds singing, and the sun shone so warmly that she often had to dive beneath the water to cool her burning face. In a little bay she came upon a whole crowd of small human children, running naked and splashing in the water. She wanted to play with them, but they ran away in fright, and a little black animal came up. It was a dog, but she had never seen a dog before, and it barked at her so fiercely that she grew frightened and made for the open sea. But she could never forget the splendid woods, the green hills, and the pretty children who could swim on the water, although they had no fish tails.

The fourth sister was not so bold. She stayed far out in the wild sea and said that this was the most beautiful place of all. You could see for miles around you, and the sky overhead was like a great glass bell. She had seen ships, but far away, where they looked like seagulls. The amusing dolphins had turned somersaults, and the great whales had spouted water from their nostrils, so that it looked as though there were a hundred fountains all around.

Now it was the fifth sister's turn. Her birthday fell in winter, so she saw things the others had not seen on their first visit. The sea looked quite green, and great icebergs floated all around. Each looked like a pearl, she said, and yet was far larger than the church towers people built. They took the most wonderful shapes and glittered like diamonds. She had sat on one of the largest, and all the sailors had steered wide of it in fear as she sat there with the wind blowing her long hair. But towards evening the sky had clouded over, and there was thunder and lightning, while the black sea lifted the great blocks of ice high into the air and made them shine in the red flashes. Aboard every ship the sails were taken in; there was fear and dread everywhere. But she sat calmly on her floating iceberg and watched the blue lightning strike in zigzags down into the shining sea.

The first time each sister rose above the water, she was always enchanted by the new and beautiful things she saw. But now that they were grown girls and could go up whenever they pleased, they grew indifferent to it. They longed for home again, and after a month had passed, they said that down where they lived was the loveliest place of all, and that it was so pleasant to be at home.

Many an evening the five sisters would link arms and rise in a row above the water. They had lovely voices, more beautiful than any human being's, and when a storm was brewing and they thought ships might be wrecked, they would swim before the ships and sing sweetly of how beautiful it was at the bottom of the sea, telling the sailors not to be afraid to come down there. But the sailors could not understand the words; they thought it was the storm. Nor did they ever see the beauty down below, for when their ship sank, they drowned, and reached the sea king's palace only as dead men.

When the sisters rose arm in arm through the sea in the evening, their little sister was left standing all alone, watching them go. She felt as though she must weep, but a mermaid has no tears, and so she suffers all the more.

"Oh, if only I were fifteen!" she said. "I know I shall truly love the world up there, and the people who build their homes and live in it!"

At last she was fifteen. "Well, now we have you off our hands," said her grandmother, the old queen dowager. "Come, let me dress you up like your sisters!" And she placed a wreath of white lilies on her hair, but each petal of each flower was half a pearl. Then the old lady had eight large oysters fasten themselves to the princess's tail to show her high rank.

"It hurts so much!" said the little mermaid. "Well, one must suffer a little for finery!" said the old lady. Oh, how gladly she would have shaken off all this splendour and laid aside the heavy wreath! The red flowers in her garden suited her far better, but she did not dare change anything now. "Goodbye," she said, and rose through the water, as light and clear as a bubble.

The sun had just set as she lifted her head above the sea, but all the clouds still shone like roses and gold, and in the pale-red sky the evening star gleamed bright and beautiful. The air was mild and fresh, and the sea perfectly still. A great three-masted ship lay there with only one sail raised, for not a breath of wind was stirring, and sailors sat all about in the rigging and on the spars. There was music and singing, and as the evening grew darker, a hundred coloured lanterns were lit. They looked as though the flags of every nation were fluttering in the air. The little mermaid swam straight up to the cabin window, and whenever the water lifted her, she could look through the glass, clear as a mirror, and see the many finely dressed people within. But the handsomest of all was the young prince with his large black eyes. He could not have been much more than sixteen; it was his birthday, and that was the reason for all the splendour. The sailors were dancing on deck, and when the young prince came out, more than a hundred rockets shot into the air. They shone as bright as day, so that the little mermaid was quite frightened and dived beneath the water. But she soon raised her head again, and then it seemed as though all the stars in heaven were falling down to her. Never had she seen such fireworks. Great suns spun round, splendid fiery fish darted through the blue air, and everything was reflected in the clear, still sea. The ship itself was so brightly lit that every little rope could be seen, let alone the people. Oh, how handsome the young prince was! He shook hands with everyone, laughing and smiling, while the music rang out into the lovely night.

It grew late, but the little mermaid could not take her eyes off the ship and the handsome prince. The coloured lanterns were put out, no more rockets rose into the air, and the cannon shots had ceased. But deep down in the sea there was a humming and rumbling. Meanwhile she sat on the water, bobbing up and down so that she could see into the cabin. But the ship began to gather speed; one sail after another spread out, the waves grew stronger, great clouds gathered, and lightning flashed far away. Oh, a terrible storm was coming! The sailors took in the sails. The great ship pitched at a furious speed upon the wild sea. The water rose like great black mountains, threatening to topple over the mast, but the ship dived like a swan between the high waves and let itself be lifted once more upon the towering waters. The little mermaid thought it a very merry voyage, but the sailors did not. The ship creaked and groaned, the thick planks buckled beneath the heavy blows of the sea, the mast snapped in two as though it were a reed, and the ship lurched onto its side as water poured into the hold. Now the little mermaid saw that they were in danger. She herself had to beware of the beams and broken pieces of the ship drifting on the water. One moment it was so pitch-dark that she could not see a thing, but when the lightning flashed it grew so bright again that she could make out everyone on the ship. Each was struggling as best he could. She looked especially for the young prince, and when the ship broke apart she saw him sink into the deep sea. For an instant she was quite glad, for now he would come down to her. But then she remembered that human beings cannot live in water, and that he could only reach her father's palace as a dead man. No, he must not die! So she swam among the beams and planks drifting on the sea, quite forgetting that they might crush her. She dived deep beneath the water and rose high again among the waves, and at last reached the young prince, who could scarcely swim any longer in the stormy sea. His arms and legs were beginning to fail him, his beautiful eyes were closing; he would have died had the little mermaid not come. She held his head above the water and let the waves carry them both wherever they pleased.

By morning the storm had passed. Not a splinter of the ship was to be seen. The sun rose red and shining from the water, and it seemed to bring life back to the prince's cheeks, but his eyes remained closed. The mermaid kissed his high, handsome forehead and stroked back his wet hair. She thought he looked like the marble statue in her little garden. She kissed him again and wished that he might live.

Now she saw dry land before her: high blue mountains with white snow gleaming on their peaks, as though swans were lying there. Down by the coast were lovely green woods, and in front of them stood a church or a convent—she was not quite sure which, but a building it was. Lemon and orange trees grew in its garden, and tall palm trees stood before the gate. Here the sea formed a little bay, perfectly still but very deep, right up to the rocks where fine white sand had washed ashore. She swam there with the handsome prince and laid him on the sand, taking particular care that his head rested high in the warm sunshine.

Now the bells rang in the great white building, and many young girls came through the garden. The little mermaid swam farther out, behind some high rocks jutting from the water, and spread sea foam over her hair and breast so that no one could see her little face. Then she watched to see who would come to the poor prince.

Before long a young girl came that way. She seemed quite frightened, but only for a moment; then she fetched more people, and the mermaid saw the prince revive and smile at everyone around him. But he did not smile out at her, for of course he did not know that she had saved him. She felt so sorrowful, and when he was carried into the great building, she dived sadly into the water and made her way home to her father's palace.

She had always been quiet and thoughtful, but now she became far more so. Her sisters asked what she had seen on her first visit above, but she told them nothing.

Many an evening and morning she rose to the place where she had left the prince. She saw the fruit in the garden ripen and be picked; she saw the snow melt on the high mountains, but the prince she never saw, and so she always returned home sadder than before. There her only comfort was to sit in her little garden and twine her arms around the beautiful marble statue that looked like the prince. But she did not tend her flowers. They grew in a wilderness across the paths, weaving their long stems and leaves into the branches of the trees until it was quite dark there.

At last she could bear it no longer and told one of her sisters. At once all the others knew, but no one else except a couple of other mermaids, who told only their closest friends. One of these knew who the prince was. She too had seen the festivities aboard the ship, and knew where he came from and where his kingdom lay.

"Come, little sister!" said the other princesses, and with their arms around one another's shoulders they rose in a long line out of the sea before the place where they knew the prince's palace stood.

It was built of a pale-yellow, gleaming stone, with great marble stairways, one of which led straight down into the sea. Splendid gilded domes rose above the roof, and between the columns that encircled the whole building stood marble statues that looked alive. Through the clear glass of the tall windows you could see into magnificent halls, hung with costly silk curtains and tapestries, their walls adorned with great paintings that were a true pleasure to behold. In the middle of the largest hall a great fountain splashed, its jets rising high towards the glass dome in the ceiling, through which the sun shone upon the water and the lovely plants growing in the great basin.

Now she knew where he lived, and many an evening and night she came there over the water. She swam much closer to land than any of the others had dared, even venturing right into the narrow channel beneath the splendid marble balcony, which cast a long shadow across the water. Here she sat watching the young prince, who thought himself quite alone in the clear moonlight.

Many an evening she saw him sailing to music in his splendid boat, with flags flying. She would peep out among the green reeds, and if the wind caught her long silvery-white veil and anyone saw it, they thought it was a swan lifting its wings.

Many a night, when the fishermen were out on the sea with their flares, she heard them speak so well of the young prince, and it made her glad that she had saved his life when he was drifting half dead among the waves. She thought of how closely his head had rested against her breast and how tenderly she had kissed him then. He knew nothing at all of it; he could not even dream of her.

More and more she grew to love human beings, and more and more she wished she could rise up among them. Their world seemed to her far larger than her own. In their ships they could fly across the sea, climb the high mountains far above the clouds, and the lands they possessed stretched with woods and fields farther than her eyes could see. There was so much she longed to know, but her sisters could not answer all her questions, so she asked her old grandmother, who knew a great deal about the higher world, as she very properly called the lands above the sea.

"If human beings do not drown," asked the little mermaid, "can they live forever? Do they not die, as we do down here in the sea?" "Yes," said the old lady, "they too must die, and their lives are even shorter than ours. We may live for three hundred years, but when our existence here comes to an end, we become nothing but foam upon the water, without even a grave down here among those we love. We have no immortal soul; we shall never live again. We are like the green reeds: once cut down, they can never grow green again! Human beings, on the other hand, have a soul that lives forever, lives on after the body has turned to earth. It rises through the clear air, up to all the shining stars! Just as we rise out of the sea and see the lands of human beings, so they rise to lovely, unknown places that we shall never see."

"Why were we not given an immortal soul?" said the little mermaid sadly. "I would give all the three hundred years I have to live to be a human being for just one day, and afterwards to share in the heavenly world!"

"You must not dwell on such things!" said the old lady. "We are much happier and better off than the people up there!" "Then I must die and float as foam upon the sea, never hear the music of the waves or see the lovely flowers and the red sun! Is there nothing at all I can do to win an everlasting soul?" "No," said the old lady, "unless a human being were to love you so dearly that you meant more to him than his father and mother; if all his thoughts and love were bound up in you, and he let the priest place his right hand in yours with a promise of faithfulness here and for all eternity, then his soul would flow into your body, and you too would share in human happiness. He would give you a soul and yet keep his own. But that can never happen! The very thing that is beautiful here in the sea, your fish's tail, they think hideous up there on land. They know no better: there one must have two clumsy supports, which they call legs, to be beautiful!"

Then the little mermaid sighed and looked sadly at her fish's tail. "Let us be happy," said the old lady. "Let us leap and dance through the three hundred years we have to live. That is a good long time, after all, and afterwards we can rest all the more contentedly in our graves. Tonight we shall have a court ball!"

And indeed it was a splendour such as is never seen on land. The walls and ceiling of the great ballroom were made of thick but clear glass. Several hundred enormous mussel shells, rosy-red and grass-green, stood in rows on either side, each holding a blue flame that lit the whole hall and shone out through the walls, so that the sea outside was bright with light. You could see all the countless fish, large and small, swimming towards the glass walls; on some the scales shone crimson, while on others they looked like silver and gold. A broad current flowed through the middle of the hall, and on it mermen and mermaids danced to their own lovely singing. Human beings on land have no voices so beautiful. The little mermaid sang more sweetly than them all, and they clapped their hands for her. For a moment she felt joy in her heart, for she knew she had the loveliest voice of anyone on land or in the sea! But soon her thoughts returned to the world above her. She could not forget the handsome prince or her sorrow at not possessing, as he did, an immortal soul. So she slipped out of her father's palace, and while all within was song and merriment, she sat sadly in her little garden. Then she heard the sound of horns floating down through the water, and thought, "Now he must be sailing up there, the one I love more than father and mother, the one to whom all my thoughts cling, and in whose hands I would place my life's happiness. I will risk everything to win him and an immortal soul! While my sisters dance in my father's palace, I will go to the sea witch. I have always been so afraid of her, but perhaps she can advise and help me!"

Now the little mermaid left her garden and went towards the roaring whirlpools beyond which the witch lived. She had never been that way before. No flowers grew there, no seaweed; only the bare grey sandy bottom stretched towards the whirlpools, where the water spun like thundering millwheels, dragging everything it caught down into the depths. She had to pass between these crushing vortices to enter the sea witch’s domain, and for a long stretch the only way led over hot, bubbling mud, which the witch called her peat bog. Beyond it stood her house, in the midst of a strange forest. All the trees and bushes were polyps, half animal and half plant, looking like hundred-headed snakes growing out of the ground. All their branches were long, slimy arms, with fingers like supple worms, and they moved joint by joint from the root to the very tip. Whatever they could seize in the sea they wound themselves around and never let go again. The little mermaid stood outside, quite terrified. Her heart beat with fear, and she had almost turned back; but then she thought of the prince and of a human soul, and her courage returned. She bound her long, flowing hair tightly round her head so that the polyps could not seize her by it, folded her hands across her breast, and darted away as a fish darts through the water, in among the hideous polyps stretching their supple arms and fingers after her. She saw that each held something it had caught, clasped in a hundred little arms like strong iron bands. People who had perished at sea and sunk deep down there peered out as white skeletons from the polyps’ arms. They clutched ships’ rudders and chests, the skeletons of land animals, and a little mermaid they had caught and strangled; that was almost the most dreadful sight of all.

Now she came to a great slimy clearing in the forest, where huge, fat water snakes tumbled about, showing their ugly yellowish-white bellies. In the middle of the clearing stood a house built of the white bones of shipwrecked people. There sat the sea witch, feeding a toad from her mouth just as people let a little canary eat sugar. She called the hideous fat water snakes her little chicks and let them roll about on her great, spongy bosom.

“I know very well what you want!” said the sea witch. “It is foolish of you! Still, you shall have your way, for it will bring you to misfortune, my lovely princess. You want to be rid of your fish’s tail and have two stumps to walk on instead, like human beings, so that the young prince may fall in love with you, and you may win him and an immortal soul!” At this the witch laughed so loudly and horribly that the toad and the snakes fell to the ground and tumbled about there. “You have come just in time,” said the witch. “After sunrise tomorrow, I could not help you again until another year had passed. I shall make you a potion, and before the sun rises you must swim to land with it, sit down on the shore, and drink it. Then your tail will split and shrink into what human beings call pretty legs. But it will hurt; it will be as though a sharp sword were passing through you. Everyone who sees you will say you are the loveliest human child they have ever seen! You will keep your floating grace; no dancer will glide as you do. But every step you take will be as though you were treading on a sharp knife, making your blood flow. If you are willing to suffer all this, I will help you.”

“Yes!” said the little mermaid in a trembling voice, thinking of the prince and of winning an immortal soul. “But remember,” said the witch, “once you have taken human form, you can never become a mermaid again! You can never descend through the water to your sisters and your father’s palace. And unless you win the prince’s love, so that for your sake he forgets his father and mother, clings to you with all his heart and mind, and lets the priest join your hands so that you become husband and wife, you will gain no immortal soul! On the first morning after he marries someone else, your heart must break, and you will become foam upon the water.”

“I will do it!” said the little mermaid, pale as death. “But you must pay me too!” said the witch. “And what I ask is no small thing. You have the loveliest voice of anyone down here at the bottom of the sea, and with it you no doubt think you will enchant him. But that voice you must give to me. I want the best thing you possess in return for my precious potion! After all, I must give you my own blood in it, to make it as sharp as a two-edged sword!”

“But if you take my voice,” said the little mermaid, “what will I have left?” “Your lovely figure,” said the witch, “your floating walk, and your speaking eyes. With those you can surely captivate a human heart. Well, have you lost your courage? Put out your little tongue, and I shall cut it off as my payment, and you shall have the potent draught!”

“So be it!” said the little mermaid, and the witch put her cauldron on the fire to brew the magic potion. “Cleanliness is a good thing!” she said, scouring the cauldron with the snakes, which she tied into a knot. Then she scratched her breast and let her black blood drip into it. The steam took the strangest shapes, enough to fill anyone with dread. Every moment the witch put something new into the cauldron, and when it was boiling hard, it made a sound like a crocodile weeping. At last the potion was ready. It looked like the clearest water!

“There you are!” said the witch, and she cut out the little mermaid’s tongue, so that now she was mute and could neither sing nor speak. “If the polyps should seize you as you go back through my forest,” said the witch, “just throw a single drop of this potion on them, and their arms and fingers will burst into a thousand pieces!” But the little mermaid had no need to do so. The polyps shrank back in terror when they saw the shining potion, which glowed in her hand like a sparkling star. So she soon passed through the forest, the bog, and the roaring whirlpools.

She could see her father’s palace. The lights in the great ballroom had been put out; surely everyone inside was asleep. Yet she dared not go to them, now that she was mute and about to leave them for ever. It seemed as though her heart would break with sorrow. She stole into the garden, took one flower from each of her sisters’ flowerbeds, blew a thousand kisses towards the palace, and rose through the dark-blue sea.

The sun had not yet risen when she saw the prince’s palace and climbed the splendid marble steps. The moon shone beautifully clear. The little mermaid drank the burning, piercing potion, and it was as though a two-edged sword passed through her delicate body. She fainted and lay as if dead. When the sun shone across the sea, she awoke and felt a searing pain; but before her stood the handsome young prince, fixing his coal-black eyes upon her. She lowered her own and saw that her fish’s tail was gone, and that she had the prettiest little white legs any young girl could have. But she was quite naked, so she wrapped herself in her long, abundant hair. The prince asked who she was and how she had come there, and she gazed at him gently yet so sadly with her dark-blue eyes, for she could not speak. Then he took her by the hand and led her into the palace. Every step she took was, as the witch had foretold, like treading on pointed awls and sharp knives, but she gladly endured it. Holding the prince’s hand, she moved as lightly as a bubble, and he and everyone else marvelled at her graceful, floating walk.

She was dressed in costly clothes of silk and muslin, and was the loveliest of all in the palace; but she was mute and could neither sing nor speak. Beautiful slave girls, dressed in silk and gold, came forward and sang for the prince and his royal parents. One sang more sweetly than all the others, and the prince clapped his hands and smiled at her. Then the little mermaid grew sad, for she knew that she herself had sung far more sweetly! “Oh, if only he knew,” she thought, “that to be with him I have given away my voice for all eternity!”

Now the slave girls danced graceful, floating dances to the most glorious music. Then the little mermaid raised her beautiful white arms, rose on tiptoe, and glided across the floor, dancing as no one had ever danced before. Every movement revealed her beauty still more, and her eyes spoke more deeply to the heart than the slave girls’ songs.

Everyone was enchanted, especially the prince, who called her his little foundling, and she danced on and on, though every time her foot touched the ground it was as if she were treading on sharp knives. The prince said she must always stay with him, and she was allowed to sleep outside his door on a velvet cushion.

He had a man’s riding clothes made for her, so that she could accompany him on horseback. They rode through fragrant woods, where green branches brushed her shoulders and little birds sang among the fresh leaves. She climbed the high mountains with the prince, and though her delicate feet bled for all to see, she only laughed and followed him until they saw the clouds sailing beneath them like a flock of birds journeying to foreign lands.

At home in the prince’s palace, when everyone else was asleep at night, she went out onto the broad marble steps. Standing in the cold seawater cooled her burning feet, and then she thought of those down in the depths.

One night her sisters came arm in arm, singing so mournfully as they swam over the water. She beckoned to them, and they recognised her and told her how unhappy she had made them all. After that they visited her every night, and one night she saw, far out, her old grandmother, who had not risen above the sea for many years, and the sea king with his crown upon his head. They stretched out their hands towards her, but did not venture as close to land as her sisters.

Day by day she grew dearer to the prince. He loved her as one might love a good, dear child, but it never entered his mind to make her his queen. Yet his wife she must become, or she would gain no immortal soul, but would turn to foam upon the sea on the morning after his wedding.

“Do you not love me best of them all?” the little mermaid’s eyes seemed to say when he took her in his arms and kissed her beautiful forehead.

“Yes, you are dearest to me,” said the prince, “for you have the kindest heart of them all, and you are the most devoted to me. You are like a young girl I once saw, but shall probably never find again. I was aboard a ship that was wrecked, and the waves washed me ashore beside a holy temple where several young girls served. The youngest found me on the beach and saved my life. I saw her only twice. She was the only one in this world I could ever love, but you resemble her; you almost drive her image from my soul. She belongs to the holy temple, and so my good fortune has sent me you. We shall never part!” “Alas, he does not know that I saved his life!” thought the little mermaid. “I carried him over the sea to the wood where the temple stands. I sat behind the foam and watched to see whether anyone would come. I saw the beautiful girl whom he loves more than me!” And the mermaid sighed deeply, for she could not weep. “The girl belongs to the holy temple, he said. She will never go out into the world; they will never meet again. I am with him and see him every day. I will tend him, love him, give my life for him!”

But now the prince was to marry the neighbouring king’s beautiful daughter! So people said; that was why he was fitting out such a splendid ship. The prince was going to see the neighbouring king’s lands, or so they were told, but it was really to see the neighbouring king’s daughter, and he was to take a great retinue with him. But the little mermaid shook her head and laughed; she knew the prince’s thoughts far better than anyone else. “I must go!” he had told her. “I must see the beautiful princess; my parents insist upon it. But they will not force me to bring her home as my bride! I cannot love her! She does not resemble the beautiful girl in the temple as you do. If ever I were to choose a bride, it would sooner be you, my mute little foundling with the speaking eyes!” And he kissed her red mouth, played with her long hair, and laid his head against her heart, so that it dreamed of human happiness and an immortal soul.

“You are not afraid of the sea, are you, my mute child?” he said as they stood on the splendid ship that was to carry him to the neighbouring king’s lands. And he told her of storms and calm seas, of strange fish in the depths and what divers had seen there. She smiled at his stories, for she knew more about the bottom of the sea than anyone else.

In the moonlit night, when everyone was asleep except the helmsman standing at the wheel, she sat by the ship’s rail and gazed down through the clear water. She thought she could see her father’s palace, and at its very top her old grandmother stood with her silver crown upon her head, gazing up through the rushing currents towards the ship’s keel. Then her sisters rose above the water, looking sorrowfully at her and wringing their white hands. She beckoned to them, smiled, and wanted to tell them that all was going well and happily for her. But the cabin boy came towards her, and her sisters dived beneath the water, leaving him to believe that the whiteness he had seen was foam upon the sea.

The next morning the ship sailed into the harbour of the neighbouring king’s splendid city. All the church bells rang, and trumpets sounded from the high towers, while soldiers stood with waving banners and gleaming bayonets. Every day brought a celebration. Balls and parties followed one another, but the princess was not yet there. She was being brought up far away in a holy temple, they said, where she was learning all the royal virtues. At last she arrived.

The little mermaid was eager to see her beauty, and she had to acknowledge it: never had she seen a lovelier figure. Her skin was so delicate and clear, and beneath her long dark lashes smiled a pair of faithful, dark-blue eyes!

“It is you!” said the prince. “You who saved me when I lay like a corpse upon the shore!” And he clasped his blushing bride in his arms. “Oh, I am too happy!” he said to the little mermaid. “The best thing of all, what I never dared to hope for, has come true. You will rejoice in my happiness, for you love me best of them all!” And the little mermaid kissed his hand, and already she seemed to feel her heart breaking. The morning after his wedding would bring her death and turn her to foam upon the sea.

All the church bells rang, and heralds rode through the streets proclaiming the betrothal. On every altar, fragrant oil burned in costly silver lamps. The priests swung their censers, and the bride and bridegroom joined hands and received the bishop’s blessing. The little mermaid stood dressed in silk and gold, holding the bride’s train, but her ears heard none of the festive music, and her eyes saw nothing of the sacred ceremony. She thought of the night of her death, of all she had lost in this world.

That very evening the bride and bridegroom went aboard the ship. Cannons boomed, all the flags fluttered, and in the middle of the ship a sumptuous tent of gold and purple had been raised, furnished with the loveliest cushions. There the bridal pair were to sleep in the cool, still night.

The sails swelled in the wind, and the ship glided lightly and smoothly over the clear sea. As darkness fell, coloured lamps were lit, and the sailors danced merry dances on deck. The little mermaid could not help thinking of the first time she had risen from the sea and seen the same splendour and rejoicing. She whirled into the dance, gliding as a swallow glides when pursued, and everyone cheered her in admiration. Never had she danced so beautifully. It cut like sharp knives into her delicate feet, but she did not feel it; the pain cutting into her heart was greater. She knew this was the last evening she would see him for whom she had left her family and her home, given up her lovely voice, and suffered endless torment every day, all without his knowing. This was the last night she would breathe the same air as he, see the deep sea and the starry blue sky. An eternal night without thought or dream awaited her, who had no soul and could never win one. And all was joy and merriment aboard the ship until long after midnight. She laughed and danced with the thought of death in her heart. The prince kissed his beautiful bride, and she played with his black hair, and arm in arm they went to rest in the splendid tent.

The ship grew quiet and still; only the helmsman stood at the wheel. The little mermaid laid her white arms on the rail and looked east for the dawn. The first sunbeam, she knew, would kill her. Then she saw her sisters rising from the sea, pale as she was. Their long, beautiful hair no longer streamed in the wind; it had been cut off.

“We have given it to the witch so that she would help you, so that you need not die tonight! She has given us a knife. Here it is! Do you see how sharp it is? Before the sun rises, you must plunge it into the prince’s heart, and when his warm blood splashes on your feet, they will grow together into a fish’s tail. You will become a mermaid again and can come down into the water to us and live out your three hundred years before you turn into dead, salt sea-foam. Hurry! Either he or you must die before the sun rises! Our old grandmother is grieving so much that her white hair has fallen out, as ours fell beneath the witch’s scissors. Kill the prince and come back! Hurry! Do you see the red streak in the sky? In a few minutes the sun will rise, and then you must die!” And they gave a strange, deep sigh and sank into the waves.

The little mermaid drew aside the purple curtain of the tent and saw the beautiful bride sleeping with her head on the prince’s breast. She bent down and kissed his handsome forehead, looked at the sky where the dawn was growing ever brighter, looked at the sharp knife, and fixed her eyes once more on the prince, who spoke his bride’s name in his dreams. She alone was in his thoughts, and the knife trembled in the mermaid’s hand. But then she flung it far out into the waves. They shone red where it fell, as though drops of blood were welling up from the water. Once more she gazed at the prince with eyes already dimming in death, then threw herself from the ship into the sea, and felt her body dissolving into foam.

Now the sun rose from the sea. Its rays fell so gently and warmly upon the death-cold foam, and the little mermaid felt nothing of death. She saw the bright sun, and above her floated hundreds of beautiful, transparent creatures. Through them she could see the ship’s white sails and the red clouds in the sky. Their voices were music, but so ethereal that no human ear could hear them, just as no earthly eye could see them. Without wings they floated through the air by their own lightness. The little mermaid saw that she had a body like theirs, rising higher and higher out of the foam.

“To whom have I come?” she said, and her voice sounded like those of the other beings, so ethereal that no earthly music could convey it. “To the daughters of the air!” the others answered. “A mermaid has no immortal soul and can never gain one unless she wins a human being’s love. Her eternal existence depends upon another’s power. The daughters of the air have no eternal soul either, but through good deeds they can create one for themselves. We fly to hot countries where the stifling, plague-laden air kills human beings, and there we fan them with cool breezes. We spread the fragrance of flowers through the air and bring refreshment and healing. When for three hundred years we have striven to do all the good we can, we receive an immortal soul and share in the eternal happiness of human beings. You, poor little mermaid, have striven with all your heart for the same thing as we. You have suffered and endured, and raised yourself into the world of the spirits of the air. Now, through good deeds, you too can create an immortal soul for yourself in three hundred years.”

And the little mermaid lifted her transparent arms towards God’s sun, and for the first time she felt tears. Aboard the ship there was noise and life again. She saw the prince and his beautiful bride searching for her, gazing sadly at the bubbling foam as though they knew she had thrown herself into the waves. Unseen, she kissed the bride’s forehead, smiled at him, and rose with the other children of the air onto the rosy cloud sailing through the sky.

“In three hundred years we shall float like this into the kingdom of God!” “We may reach it even sooner!” whispered one. “Unseen, we float into human homes where there are children, and for every day we find a good child who brings its parents joy and deserves their love, God shortens our time of trial. The child does not know when we fly through the room, and when we smile at it with joy, a year is taken from the three hundred. But if we see a naughty, wicked child, we must weep tears of sorrow, and every tear adds a day to our time of trial!”

Izvirnik

Eventyr af Hans Christian Andersen

Langt ude i havet er vandet så blåt, som bladene på den dejligste kornblomst og så klart, som det reneste glas, men det er meget dybt, dybere end noget ankertov når, mange kirketårne måtte stilles oven på hinanden, for at række fra bunden op over vandet. Dernede bor havfolkene.

Nu må man slet ikke tro, at der kun er den nøgne hvide sandbund; nej, der vokser de forunderligste træer og planter, som er så smidige i stilk og blade, at de ved den mindste bevægelse af vandet rører sig, ligesom om de var levende. Alle fiskene, små og store, smutter imellem grenene, ligesom heroppe fuglene i luften. På det allerdybeste sted ligger havkongens slot, murene er af koraller og de lange spidse vinduer af det allerklareste rav, men taget er muslingeskaller, der åbner og lukker sig, eftersom vandet går; det ser dejligt ud; thi i hver ligger strålende perler, én eneste ville være stor stads i en dronnings krone.

Havkongen dernede havde i mange år været enkemand, men hans gamle moder holdt hus for ham, hun var en klog kone, men stolt af sin adel, derfor gik hun med tolv østers på halen, de andre fornemme måtte kun bære seks. Ellers fortjente hun megen ros, især fordi hun holdt så meget af de små havprinsesser, hendes sønnedøtre. De var 6 dejlige børn, men den yngste var den smukkeste af dem alle sammen, hendes hud var så klar og skær som et rosenblad, hendes øjne så blå, som den dybeste sø, men ligesom alle de andre havde hun ingen fødder, kroppen endte i en fiskehale.

Hele den lange dag kunne de lege nede i slottet, i de store sale, hvor levende blomster voksede ud af væggene. De store ravvinduer blev lukket op, og så svømmede fiskene ind til dem, ligesom hos os svalerne flyver ind, når vi lukker op, men fiskene svømmede lige hen til de små prinsesser, spiste af deres hånd og lod sig klappe.

Uden for slottet var en stor have med ildrøde og mørkeblå træer, frugterne strålede som guld, og blomsterne som en brændende ild, i det de altid bevægede stilk og blade. Jorden selv var det fineste sand, men blåt, som svovllue. Over det hele dernede lå et forunderligt blåt skær, man skulle snarere tro, at man stod højt oppe i luften og kun så himmel over og under sig, end at man var på havets bund. I blikstille kunne man øjne solen, den syntes en purpurblomst, fra hvis bæger det hele lys udstrømmede.

Hver af de små prinsesser havde sin lille plet i haven, hvor hun kunne grave og plante, som hun selv ville; én gav sin blomsterplet skikkelse af en hvalfisk, en anden syntes bedre om, at hendes lignede en lille havfrue, men den yngste gjorde sin ganske rund ligesom solen, og havde kun blomster, der skinnede røde som den. Hun var et underligt barn, stille og eftertænksom, og når de andre søstre pyntede op med de forunderligste ting de havde fået fra strandede skibe, ville hun kun, foruden de rosenrøde blomster, som lignede solen der højt oppe, have en smuk marmorstøtte, en dejlig dreng var det, hugget ud af den hvide, klare sten og ved stranding kommet ned på havbunden. Hun plantede ved støtten en rosenrød grædepil, den voksede herligt, og hang med sine friske grene ud over den, ned mod den blå sandbund, hvor skyggen viste sig violet og var i bevægelse, ligesom grenene; det så ud, som om top og rødder legede at kysse hinanden.

Ingen glæde var hende større, end at høre om menneskeverdenen der ovenfor; den gamle bedstemoder måtte fortælle alt det hun vidste om skibe og byer, mennesker og dyr, især syntes det hende forunderligt dejligt, at oppe på jorden duftede blomsterne, det gjorde ikke de på havets bund, og at skovene var grønne og de fisk, som der sås mellem grenene, kunne synge så højt og dejligt, så det var en lyst; det var de små fugle, som bedstemoderen kaldte fisk, for ellers kunne de ikke forstå hende, da de ikke havde set en fugl.

"Når I fylder eders 15 år," sagde bedstemoderen, "så skal I få lov til at dykke op af havet, sidde i måneskin på klipperne og se de store skibe, som sejler forbi, skove og byer skal I se!" I året, som kom, var den ene af søstrene 15 år, men de andre, ja den ene var et år yngre end den anden, den yngste af dem havde altså endnu hele fem år før hun turde komme op fra havets bund og se, hvorledes det så ud hos os. Men den ene lovede den anden at fortælle, hvad hun havde set og fundet dejligst den første dag; thi deres bedstemoder fortalte dem ikke nok, der var så meget de måtte have besked om.

Ingen var så længselsfuld, som den yngste, just hun, som havde længst tid at vente og som var så stille og tankefuld. Mangen nat stod hun ved det åbne vindue og så op igennem det mørkeblå vand, hvor fiskene slog med deres finner og hale. Måne og stjerner kunne hun se, rigtignok skinnede de ganske blege, men gennem vandet så de meget større ud end for vore øjne; gled der da ligesom en sort sky hen under dem, da vidste hun, at det enten var en hvalfisk, som svømmede over hende, eller også et skib med mange mennesker; de tænkte vist ikke på, at en dejlig lille havfrue stod nedenfor og rakte sine hvide hænder op imod kølen.

Nu var da den ældste prinsesse 15 år og turde stige op over havfladen.

Da hun kom tilbage, havde hun hundrede ting at fortælle, men det dejligste, sagde hun, var at ligge i måneskin på en sandbanke i den rolige sø, og se tæt ved kysten den store stad, hvor lysene blinkede, ligesom hundrede stjerner, høre musikken og den larm og støj af vogne og mennesker, se de mange kirketårne og spir, og høre hvor klokkerne ringede; just fordi hun ikke kunne komme derop, længtes hun allermest efter alt dette.

Oh! hvor hørte ikke den yngste søster efter, og når hun siden om aftnen stod ved det åbne vindue og så op igennem det mørkeblå vand, tænkte hun på den store stad med al den larm og støj, og da syntes hun at kunne høre kirkeklokkerne ringe ned til sig.

Året efter fik den anden søster lov til at stige op gennem vandet og svømme hvorhen hun ville. Hun dykkede op, just i det solen gik ned, og det syn fandt hun var det dejligste. Hele himlen havde set ud som guld, sagde hun, og skyerne, ja, deres dejlighed kunne hun ikke nok beskrive! røde og violette havde de sejlet hen over hende, men langt hurtigere, end de, fløj, som et langt hvidt slør, en flok af vilde svaner hen over vandet hvor solen stod; hun svømmede hen imod den, men den sank og rosenskæret slukkedes på havfladen og skyerne.

Året efter kom den tredje søster derop, hun var den dristigste af dem alle, derfor svømmede hun op ad en bred flod, der løb ud i havet. Dejlige grønne høje med vinranker så hun, slotte og gårde tittede frem mellem prægtige skove; hun hørte, hvor alle fuglene sang og solen skinnede så varmt, at hun tit måtte dykke under vandet, for at køle sit brændende ansigt. I en lille bugt traf hun en hel flok små menneskebørn; ganske nøgne løb de og plaskede i vandet, hun ville lege med dem, men de løb forskrækkede deres vej, og der kom et lille sort dyr, det var en hund, men hun havde aldrig før set en hund, den gøede så forskrækkeligt af hende, at hun blev angst og søgte ud i den åbne sø, men aldrig kunne hun glemme de prægtige skove, de grønne høje og de nydelige børn, som kunne svømme på vandet, skønt de ingen fiskehale havde.

Den fjerde søster var ikke så dristig, hun blev midt ude på det vilde hav, og fortalte, at der var just det dejligste; man så mange mile bort rundt omkring sig, og himlen ovenover stod ligesom en stor glasklokke. Skibe havde hun set, men langt borte, de så ud som strandmåger, de morsomme delfiner havde slået kolbøtter, og de store hvalfisk havde sprøjtet vand op af deres næsebor, så at det havde set ud, som hundrede vandspring rundt om.

Nu kom turen til den femte søster; hendes fødselsdag var just om vinteren og derfor så hun, hvad de andre ikke havde set første gang. Søen tog sig ganske grøn ud og rundt om svømmede der store isbjerge, hvert så ud som en perle, sagde hun, og var dog langt større end de kirketårne, menneskene byggede. I de forunderligste skikkelser viste de sig og glimrede som diamanter. Hun havde sat sig på et af de største og alle sejlere krydsede forskrækkede uden om, hvor hun sad og lod blæsten flyve med sit lange hår; men ud på aftnen blev himlen overtrukket med skyer, det lynede og tordnede, medens den sorte sø løftede de store isblokke højt op og lod dem skinne ved de røde lyn. På alle skibe tog man sejlene ind, der var en angst og gru, men hun sad rolig på sit svømmende isbjerg og så den blå lynstråle slå i siksak ned i den skinnende sø.

Den første gang en af søstrene kom over vandet, var enhver altid henrykt over det nye og smukke hun så, men da de nu, som voksne piger, havde lov at stige derop når de ville, blev det dem ligegyldigt, de længtes igen efter hjemmet, og efter en måneds forløb sagde de, at nede hos dem var dog allersmukkest, og der var man så rart hjemme.

Mangen aftenstund tog de fem søstre hinanden i armene og steg i række op over vandet; dejlige stemmer havde de, smukkere, end noget menneske, og når det da trak op til en storm, så de kunne tro, at skibe måtte forlise, svømmede de foran skibene og sang så dejligt, om hvor smukt der var på havets bund, og bad søfolkene, ikke være bange for at komme derned; men disse kunne ikke forstå ordene, de troede, at det var stormen, og de fik heller ikke dejligheden dernede at se, thi når skibet sank, druknede menneskene, og kom kun som døde til havkongens slot.

Når søstrene således om aftnen, arm i arm, steg højt op gennem havet, da stod den lille søster ganske alene tilbage og så efter dem, og det var som om hun skulle græde, men havfruen har ingen tårer, og så lider hun meget mere.

"Ak, var jeg dog 15 år!" sagde hun, "jeg ved, at jeg ret vil komme til at holde af den verden der ovenfor og af menneskene, som bygger og bor deroppe!"

Endelig var hun da de 15 år.

"Se nu har vi dig fra hånden," sagde hendes bedstemoder, den gamle enkedronning. "Kom nu, lad mig pynte dig, ligesom dine andre søstre!" og hun satte hende en krans af hvide liljer på håret, men hvert blad i blomsten var det halve af en perle; og den gamle lod 8 store østers klemme sig fast ved prinsessens hale, for at vise hendes høje stand.

"Det gør så ondt!" sagde den lille havfrue.

"Ja man må lide noget for stadsen!" sagde den gamle.

Oh! hun ville så gerne have rystet hele denne pragt af sig og lagt den tunge krans; hendes røde blomster i haven klædte hende meget bedre, men hun turde nu ikke gøre det om. "Farvel" sagde hun og steg så let og klar, som en boble, op gennem vandet.

Solen var lige gået ned, idet hun løftede sit hoved op over havet, men alle skyerne skinnede endnu som roser og guld, og midt i den blegrøde luft strålede aftenstjernen så klart og dejligt, luften var mild og frisk og havet blikstille. Der lå et stort skib med tre master, et eneste sejl var kun oppe, thi ikke en vind rørte sig og rundt om i tovværket og på stængerne sad matroser. Der var musik og sang, og alt som aftnen blev mørkere, tændtes hundrede brogede lygter; de så ud, som om alle nationers flag vajede i luften. Den lille havfrue svømmede lige hen til kahytsvinduet, og hver gang vandet løftede hende i vejret, kunne hun se ind af de spejlklare ruder, hvor så mange pyntede mennesker stod, men den smukkeste var dog den unge prins med de store sorte øjne, han var vist ikke meget over 16 år, det var hans fødselsdag, og derfor skete al denne stads. Matroserne dansede på dækket, og da den unge prins trådte derud, steg over hundrede raketter op i luften, de lyste, som den klare dag, så den lille havfrue blev ganske forskrækket og dukkede ned under vandet, men hun stak snart hovedet igen op, og da var det ligesom om alle himlens stjerner faldt ned til hende. Aldrig havde hun set sådanne ildkunster. Store sole snurrede rundt, prægtige ildfisk svingede sig i den blå luft, og alting skinnede tilbage fra den klare, stille sø. På skibet selv var så lyst, at man kunne se hvert lille tov, sagtens menneskene. Oh hvor dog den unge prins var smuk, og han trykkede folkene i hånden, lo og smilede, mens musikken klang i den dejlige nat.

Det blev silde, men den lille havfrue kunne ikke vende sine øjne bort fra skibet og fra den dejlige prins. De brogede lygter blev slukket, Raketterne steg ikke mere i vejret, der lød heller ingen flere kanonskud, men dybt nede i havet summede og brummede det, hun sad i medens på vandet og gyngede op og ned, så at hun kunne se ind i kahytten; men skibet tog stærkere fart, det ene sejl bredte sig ud efter det andet, nu gik bølgerne stærkere, store skyer trak op, det lynede langt borte. Oh, det ville blive et skrækkeligt vejr! derfor tog matroserne sejlene ind. Det store skib gyngede i flyvende fart på den vilde sø, vandet rejste sig, ligesom store sorte bjerge, der ville vælte over masten, men skibet dykkede, som en svane, ned imellem de høje bølger og lod sig igen løfte op på de tårnende vande. Det syntes den lille havfrue just var en morsom fart, men det syntes søfolkene ikke, skibet knagede og bragede, de tykke planker bugnede ved de stærke stød, søen gjorde ind mod skibet, Masten knækkede midt over, ligesom den var et rør, og skibet slingrede på siden, mens vandet trængte ind i rummet. Nu så den lille havfrue, at de var i fare, hun måtte selv tage sig i agt for bjælker og stumper af skibet, der drev på vandet. Ét øjeblik var det så kullende mørkt, at hun ikke kunne øjne det mindste, men når det så lynede, blev det igen så klart, at hun kendte dem alle på skibet; hver tumlede sig det bedste han kunne; den unge prins søgte hun især efter, og hun så ham, da skibet skiltes ad, synke ned i den dybe sø. Lige straks blev hun ganske fornøjet, for nu kom han ned til hende, men så huskede hun, at menneskene ikke kan leve i vandet, og at han ikke, uden som død, kunne komme ned til hendes faders slot. Nej dø, det måtte han ikke; derfor svømmede hun hen mellem bjælker og planker, der drev på søen, glemte rent, at de kunne have knust hende, hun dykkede dybt under vandet og steg igen højt op imellem bølgerne, og kom så til sidst hen til den unge prins, som næsten ikke kunne svømme længere i den stormende sø, hans arme og ben begyndte at blive matte, de smukke øjne lukkede sig, han havde måttet dø, var ikke den lille havfrue kommet til. Hun holdt hans hoved op over vandet, og lod så bølgerne drive hende med ham, hvorhen de ville.

I morgenstunden var det onde vejr forbi; af skibet var ikke en spån at se, solen steg så rød og skinnende op af vandet, det var ligesom om prinsens kinder fik liv derved, men øjnene forblev lukkede; havfruen kyssede hans høje smukke pande og strøg hans våde hår tilbage; hun syntes, han lignede marmorstøtten nede i hendes lille have, hun kyssede ham igen, og ønskede, at han dog måtte leve.

Nu så hun foran sig det faste land, høje blå bjerge, på hvis top den hvide sne skinnede, som var det svaner, der lå; nede ved kysten var dejlige grønne skove, og foran lå en kirke eller et kloster, det vidste hun ikke ret, men en bygning var det. Citron- og appelsintræer voksede der i haven, og foran porten stod høje palmetræer. Søen gjorde her en lille bugt, der var blikstille, men meget dybt, lige hen til klippen, hvor det hvide fine sand var skyllet op, her svømmede hun hen med den smukke prins, lagde ham i sandet, men sørgede især for, at hovedet lå højt i det varme solskin.

Nu ringede klokkerne i den store hvide bygning, og der kom mange unge piger gennem haven. Da svømmede den lille havfrue længere ud bag nogle høje stene, som ragede op af vandet, lagde søskum på sit hår og sit bryst, så at ingen kunne se hendes lille ansigt, og da passede hun på, hvem der kom til den stakkels prins.

Det varede ikke længe, før en ung pige kom derhen, hun syntes at blive ganske forskrækket, men kun et øjeblik, så hentede hun flere mennesker, og havfruen så, at prinsen fik liv, og at han smilede til dem alle rundt omkring, men ud til hende smilede han ikke, han vidste jo ikke heller, at hun havde reddet ham, hun følte sig så bedrøvet, og da han blev ført ind i den store bygning, dykkede hun sorrigfuld ned i vandet og søgte hjem til sin faders slot.

Altid havde hun været stille og tankefuld, men nu blev hun det meget mere. Søstrene spurgte hende, hvad hun havde set den første gang deroppe, men hun fortalte ikke noget.

Mangen aften og morgen steg hun op der, hvor hun havde forladt prinsen. Hun så, hvor havens frugter modnedes og blev afplukket, hun så, hvor sneen smeltede på de høje bjerge, men prinsen så hun ikke, og derfor vendte hun altid endnu mere bedrøvet hjem. Der var det hendes eneste trøst, at sidde i sin lille have og slynge sine arme om den smukke marmorstøtte, som lignede prinsen, men sine blomster passede hun ikke, de voksede, som i et vildnis, ud over gangene og flettede deres lange stilke og blade ind i træernes grene, så der var ganske dunkelt.

Til sidst kunne hun ikke længere holde det ud, men sagde det til en af sine søstre, og så fik straks alle de andre det at vide, men heller ingen flere, end de og et par andre havfruer, som ikke sagde det uden til deres nærmeste veninder. En af dem vidste besked, hvem prinsen var, hun havde også set stadsen på skibet, vidste, hvorfra han var, og hvor hans kongerige lå.

"Kom lille søster!" sagde de andre prinsesser, og med armene om hinandens skuldre steg de i en lang række op af havet foran, hvor de vidste prinsens slot lå.

Dette var opført af en lysegul glinsende stenart, med store marmortrapper, én gik lige ned i havet. Prægtige forgyldte kupler hævede sig over taget, og mellem søjlerne, som gik rundt om hele bygningen, stod marmorbilleder, der så ud, som levende. Gennem det klare glas i de høje vinduer så man ind i de prægtigste sale, hvor kostelige silkegardiner og tæpper var ophængte, og alle væggene pyntede med store malerier, som det ret var en fornøjelse at se på. Midt i den største sal plaskede et stort springvand, strålerne stod højt op mod glaskuplen i loftet, hvorigennem solen skinnede på vandet og på de dejlige planter, der voksede i det store bassin.

Nu vidste hun, hvor han boede, og der kom hun mangen aften og nat på vandet; hun svømmede meget nærmere land, end nogen af de andre havde vovet, ja hun gik helt op i den smalle kanal, under den prægtige marmoraltan, der kastede en lang skygge hen over vandet. Her sad hun og så på den unge prins, der troede, han var ganske ene i det klare måneskin.

Hun så ham mangen aften sejle med musik i sin prægtige båd, hvor flagene vajede; hun tittede frem mellem de grønne siv, og tog vinden i hendes lange sølvhvide slør og nogen så det, tænkte de, det var en svane, som løftede vingerne.

Hun hørte mangen nat, når fiskerne lå med blus på søen, at de fortalte så meget godt om den unge prins, og det glædede hende, at hun havde frelst hans liv, da han halvdød drev om på bølgerne, og hun tænkte på, hvor fast hans hoved havde hvilet på hendes bryst, og hvor inderligt hun da kyssede ham; han vidste slet intet derom, kunne ikke engang drømme om hende.

Mere og mere kom hun til at holde af menneskene, mere og mere ønskede hun at kunne stige op imellem dem; deres verden syntes hun var langt større, end hendes; de kunne jo på skibe flyve hen over havet, stige på de høje bjerge højt over skyerne, og landene, de ejede, strakte sig, med skove og marker, længere, end hun kunne øjne. Der var så meget hun gad vide, men søstrene vidste ikke at give svar på alt, derfor spurgte hun den gamle bedstemoder og hun kendte godt til den højere verden, som hun meget rigtigt kaldte landene oven for havet.

"Når menneskene ikke drukner," spurgte den lille havfrue, "kan de da altid leve, dør de ikke, som vi hernede på havet?"

"Jo!" sagde den gamle, "de må også dø, og deres levetid er endogså kortere end vor. Vi kan blive tre hundrede år, men når vi så hører op at være til her, bliver vi kun skum på vandet, har ikke engang en grav hernede mellem vore kære. Vi har ingen udødelig sjæl, vi får aldrig liv mere, vi er ligesom det grønne siv, er det engang skåret over, kan det ikke grønnes igen! Menneskene derimod har en sjæl, som lever altid, lever, efter at legemet er blevet jord; den stiger op igennem den klare luft, op til alle de skinnende stjerner! ligesom vi dykker op af havet og ser menneskenes lande, således dykker de op til ubekendte dejlige steder, dem vi aldrig får at se."

"Hvorfor fik vi ingen udødelig sjæl?" sagde den lille havfrue bedrøvet, "jeg ville give alle mine tre hundrede år, jeg har at leve i, for blot én dag at være et menneske og siden få del i den himmelske verden!"

"Det må du ikke gå og tænke på!" sagde den gamle, "vi har det meget lykkeligere og bedre, end menneskene deroppe!"

"Jeg skal altså dø og flyde som skum på søen, ikke høre bølgernes musik, se de dejlige blomster og den røde sol! Kan jeg da slet intet gøre, for at vinde en evig sjæl!" -

"Nej!" sagde den gamle, "kun når et menneske fik dig så kær, at du var ham mere, end fader og moder; når han med hele sin tanke og kærlighed hang ved dig, og lod præsten lægge sin højre hånd i din med løfte om troskab her og i al evighed, da flød hans sjæl over i dit legeme og du fik også del i menneskenes lykke. Han gav dig sjæl og beholdt dog sin egen. Men det kan aldrig ske! Hvad der just er dejligt her i havet, din fiskehale, finder de hæsligt deroppe på jorden, de forstår sig nu ikke bedre på det, man må dér have to klodsede støtter, som de kalder ben, for at være smuk!"

Da sukkede den lille havfrue og så bedrøvet på sin fiskehale.

"Lad os være fornøjede," sagde den gamle, "hoppe og springe vil vi i de tre hundrede år, vi har at leve i, det er såmænd en god tid nok, siden kan man des fornøjeligere hvile sig ud i sin grav. I aften skal vi have hofbal!"

Det var også en pragt, som man aldrig ser den på jorden. Vægge og loft i den store dansesal var af tykt men klart glas. Flere hundrede kolossale muslingeskaller, rosenrøde og græsgrønne, stod i rækker på hver side med en blå brændende ild, som oplyste den hele sal og skinnede ud gennem væggene, så at søen der udenfor var ganske oplyst; man kunne se alle de utallige fisk, store og små, som svømmede hen imod glasmuren, på nogle skinnede skællene purpurrøde, på andre syntes de sølv og guld. Midt igennem salen flød en bred rindende strøm, og på denne dansede havmænd og havfruer til deres egen dejlige sang. Så smukke stemmer har ikke menneskene på jorden. Den lille havfrue sang skønnest af dem alle, og de klappede i hænderne for hende, og et øjeblik følte hun glæde i sit hjerte, thi hun vidste, at hun havde den skønneste stemme af alle på jorden og i havet! Men snart kom hun dog igen til at tænke på verden oven over sig; hun kunne ikke glemme den smukke prins og sin sorg over ikke at eje, som han, en udødelig sjæl. Derfor sneg hun sig ud af sin faders slot, og mens alt derinde var sang og lystighed, sad hun bedrøvet i sin lille have. Da hørte hun valdhorn klinge ned igennem vandet, og hun tænkte, "nu sejler han vist deroppe, ham som jeg holder mere af end fader og moder, ham som min tanke hænger ved og i hvis hånd jeg ville lægge mit livs lykke. Alt vil jeg vove for at vinde ham og en udødelig sjæl! Mens mine søstre danser derinde i min faders slot, vil jeg gå til havheksen, hende jeg altid har været så angst for, men hun kan måske råde og hjælpe!"

Nu gik den lille havfrue ud af sin have hen imod de brusende malstrømme, bag hvilke heksen boede. Den vej havde hun aldrig før gået, der voksede ingen blomster, intet søgræs, kun den nøgne grå sandbund strakte sig hen imod malstrømmene, hvor vandet, som brusende møllehjul, hvirvlede rundt og rev alt, hvad de fik fat på, med sig ned i dybet; midt imellem disse knusende hvirvler måtte hun gå, for at komme ind på havheksens distrikt, og her var et langt stykke ikke anden vej, end over varmt boblende dynd, det kaldte heksen sin tørvemose. Bag ved lå hendes hus midt inde i en sælsom skov. Alle træer og buske var polypper, halv dyr og halv plante, de så ud, som hundredhovedede slanger, der voksede ud af jorden; alle grene var lange slimede arme, med fingre som smidige orme, og led for led bevægede de sig fra roden til den yderste spidse. Alt hvad de i havet kunne gribe fat på, snoede de sig fast om og gav aldrig mere slip på. Den lille havfrue blev ganske forskrækket stående der udenfor; hendes hjerte bankede af angst, nær havde hun vendt om, men så tænkte hun på prinsen og på menneskets sjæl, og da fik hun mod. Sit lange flagrende hår bandt hun fast om hovedet, for at polypperne ikke skulle gribe hende deri, begge hænder lagde hun sammen over sit bryst, og fløj så af sted, som fisken kan flyve gennem vandet, ind imellem de hæslige polypper, der strakte deres smidige arme og fingre efter hende. Hun så, hvor hver af dem havde noget, den havde grebet, hundrede små arme holdt det, som stærke jernbånd. Mennesker, som var omkommet på søen og sunket dybt derned, tittede, som hvide benrade frem i polyppernes arme. Skibsror og kister holdt de fast, skeletter af landdyr og en lille havfrue, som de havde fanget og kvalt, det var hende næsten det forskrækkeligste.

Nu kom hun til en stor slimet plads i skoven, hvor store, fede vandsnoge boltrede sig og viste deres stygge hvidgule bug. Midt på pladsen var rejst et hus af strandede menneskers hvide ben, der sad havheksen og lod en skrubtudse spise af sin mund, ligesom menneskene lader en lille kanariefugl spise sukker. De hæslige fede vandsnoge kaldte hun sine små kyllinger og lod dem vælte sig på hendes store, svampede bryst.

"Jeg ved nok, hvad du vil!" sagde havheksen, "det er dumt gjort af dig! alligevel skal du få din vilje, for den vil bringe dig i ulykke, min dejlige prinsesse. Du vil gerne af med din fiskehale og i stedet for den have to stumper at gå på ligesom menneskene, for at den unge prins kan blive forlibt i dig og du kan få ham og en udødelig sjæl!" I det samme lo heksen så højt og fælt, at skrubtudsen og snogene faldt ned på jorden og væltede sig der. "Du kommer netop i rette tid," sagde heksen, "i morgen, når sol står op, kunne jeg ikke hjælpe dig, før igen et år var omme. Jeg skal lave dig en drik, med den skal du, før sol står op, svømme til landet, sætte dig på bredden der og drikke den, da skilles din hale ad og snerper ind til hvad menneskene kalde nydelige ben, men det gør ondt, det er som det skarpe sværd gik igennem dig. Alle, som ser dig, vil sige, du er det dejligste menneskebarn de har set! du beholder din svævende gang, ingen danserinde kan svæve som du, men hvert skridt du gør, er som om du trådte på en skarp kniv, så dit blod må flyde. Vil du lide alt dette, så skal jeg hjælpe dig?"

"Ja!" sagde den lille havfrue med bævende stemme, og tænkte på prinsen og på at vinde en udødelig sjæl.

"Men husk på," sagde heksen, "når du først har fået menneskelig skikkelse, da kan du aldrig mere blive en havfrue igen! du kan aldrig stige ned igennem vandet til dine søstre og til din faders slot, og vinder du ikke prinsens kærlighed, så han for dig glemmer fader og moder, hænger ved dig med sin hele tanke og lader præsten lægge eders hænder i hinanden, så at I bliver mand og kone, da får du ingen udødelig sjæl! den første morgen efter at han er gift med en anden, da må dit hjerte briste, og du bliver skum på vandet."

"Jeg vil det!" sagde den lille havfrue og var bleg, som en død.

"Men mig må du også betale!" sagde heksen, "og det er ikke lidet, hvad jeg forlanger. Du har den dejligste stemme af alle hernede på havets bund, med den tror du nok at skulle fortrylle ham, men den stemme skal du give mig. Det bedste du ejer vil jeg have for min kostelige drik! mit eget blod må jeg jo give dig deri, at drikken kan blive skarp, som et tveægget sværd!"

"Men når du tager min stemme," sagde den lille havfrue, "hvad beholder jeg da tilbage?"

"Din dejlige skikkelse," sagde heksen, "din svævende gang og dine talende øjne, med dem kan du nok bedåre et menneskehjerte. Nå, har du tabt modet! ræk frem din lille tunge, så skærer jeg den af, i betaling, og du skal få den kraftige drik!"

"Det ske!" sagde den lille havfrue, og heksen satte sin kedel på, for at koge trolddrikken. "Renlighed er en god ting!" sagde hun og skurede kedlen af med snogene, som hun bandt i knude; nu ridsede hun sig selv i brystet og lod sit sorte blod dryppe derned, Dampen gjorde de forunderligste skikkelser, så man måtte blive angst og bange. Hvert øjeblik kom heksen nye ting i kedlen, og da det ret kogte, var det, som når krokodillen græder. Til sidst var drikken færdig, den så ud som det klareste vand!

"Der har du den!" sagde heksen og skar tungen af den lille havfrue, som nu var stum, kunne hverken synge eller tale.

"Dersom polypperne skulle gribe dig, når du går tilbage igennem min skov," sagde heksen, "så kast kun en eneste dråbe af denne drik på dem, da springer deres arme og fingre i tusinde stykker!" men det behøvede den lille havfrue ikke, Polypperne trak sig forskrækkede tilbage for hende, da de så den skinnende drik, der lyste i hendes hånd, ligesom det var en funklende stjerne. Således kom hun snart igennem skoven, mosen og de brusende malstrømme.

Hun kunne se sin faders slot; blussene var slukket i den store dansesal; de sov vist alle derinde, men hun vovede dog ikke at søge dem, nu hun var stum og ville for altid gå bort fra dem. Det var, som hendes hjerte skulle gå itu af sorg. Hun sneg sig ind i haven, tog én blomst af hver af sine søstres blomsterbed, kastede med fingeren tusinde kys hen imod slottet og steg op igennem den mørkeblå sø.

Solen var endnu ikke kommet frem, da hun så prinsens slot og besteg den prægtige marmortrappe. Månen skinnede dejligt klart. Den lille havfrue drak den brændende skarpe drik, og det var, som gik et tveægget sværd igennem hendes fine legeme, hun besvimede derved og lå, som død. Da solen skinnede hen over søen, vågnede hun op, og hun følte en sviende smerte, men lige for hende stod den dejlige unge prins, han fæstede sine kulsorte øjne på hende, så hun slog sine ned og så, at hendes fiskehale var borte, og at hun havde de nydeligste små, hvide ben, nogen lille pige kunne have, men hun var ganske nøgen, derfor svøbte hun sig ind i sit store, lange hår. Prinsen spurgte, hvem hun var, og hvorledes hun var kommet her, og hun så mildt og dog så bedrøvet på ham med sine mørkeblå øjne, tale kunne hun jo ikke. Da tog han hende ved hånden og førte hende ind i slottet. Hvert skridt hun gjorde, var, som heksen havde sagt hende forud, som om hun trådte på spidse syle og skarpe knive, men det tålte hun gerne; ved prinsens hånd steg hun så let, som en boble, og han og alle undrede sig over hendes yndige, svævende gang.

Kostelige klæder af silke og musselin fik hun på, i slottet var hun den skønneste af alle, men hun var stum, kunne hverken synge eller tale. Dejlige slavinder, klædte i silke og guld, kom frem og sang for prinsen og hans kongelige forældre; en sang smukkere end alle de andre og prinsen klappede i hænderne og smilede til hende, da blev den lille havfrue bedrøvet, hun vidste, at hun selv havde sunget langt smukkere! hun tænkte, "Oh han skulle bare vide, at jeg, for at være hos ham, har givet min stemme bort i al evighed!"

Nu dansede slavinderne i yndige svævende danse til den herligste musik, da hævede den lille havfrue sine smukke hvide arme, rejste sig på tåspidsen og svævede hen over gulvet, dansede, som endnu ingen havde danset; ved hver bevægelse blev hendes dejlighed endnu mere synlig, og hendes øjne talte dybere til hjertet, end slavindernes sang.

Alle var henrykte derover, især prinsen, som kaldte hende sit lille hittebarn, og hun dansede mere og mere, skønt hver gang hendes fod rørte jorden, var det, som om hun trådte på skarpe knive. Prinsen sagde, at hun skulle alletider være hos ham, og hun fik lov at sove uden for hans dør på en fløjlspude.

Han lod hende sy en mandsdragt, for at hun til hest kunne følge ham. De red gennem de duftende skove, hvor de grønne grene slog hende på skulderen og de små fugle sang bag friske blade. Hun klatrede med prinsen op på de høje bjerge, og skønt hendes fine fødder blødte, så de andre kunne se det, lo hun dog deraf og fulgte ham, til de så skyerne sejle nede under sig, som var det en flok fugle, der drog til fremmede lande.

Hjemme på prinsens slot, når om natten de andre sov, gik hun ud på den brede marmortrappe, og det kølede hendes brændende fødder, at stå i det kolde søvand, og da tænkte hun på dem dernede i dybet.

En nat kom hendes søstre arm i arm, de sang så sorrigfuldt, idet de svømmede over vandet, og hun vinkede af dem, og de kendte hende og fortalte, hvor bedrøvet hun havde gjort dem alle sammen. Hver nat besøgte de hende siden, og en nat så hun, langt ude, den gamle bedstemoder, som i mange år ikke havde været over havet, og havkongen, med sin krone på hovedet, de strakte hænderne hen mod hende, men vovede sig ikke så nær landet, som søstrene.

Dag for dag blev hun prinsen kærere, han holdt af hende, som man kan holde af et godt, kært barn, men at gøre hende til sin dronning, faldt ham slet ikke ind, og hans kone måtte hun blive, ellers fik hun ingen udødelig sjæl, men ville på hans bryllupsmorgen blive skum på søen.

"Holder du ikke mest af mig, blandt dem alle sammen!" syntes den lille havfrues øjne at sige, når han tog hende i sine arme og kyssede hendes smukke pande.

"Jo, du er mig kærest," sagde prinsen, "thi du har det bedste hjerte af dem alle, du er mig mest hengiven, og du ligner en ung pige jeg engang så, men vistnok aldrig mere finder. Jeg var på et skib, som strandede, bølgerne drev mig i land ved et helligt tempel, hvor flere unge piger gjorde tjeneste, den yngste der fandt mig ved strandbredden og reddede mit liv, jeg så hende kun to gange; hun var den eneste, jeg kunne elske i denne verden, men du ligner hende, du næsten fortrænger hendes billede i min sjæl, hun hører det hellige tempel til, og derfor har min gode lykke sendt mig dig, aldrig vil vi skilles!" - "Ak, han ved ikke, at jeg har reddet hans liv!" tænkte den lille havfrue, "jeg bar ham over søen hen til skoven, hvor templet står, jeg sad bag skummet og så efter, om ingen mennesker ville komme. Jeg så den smukke pige, som han holder mere af, end mig!" og havfruen sukkede dybt, græde kunne hun ikke. "Pigen hører det hellige tempel til, har han sagt, hun kommer aldrig ud i verden, de mødes ikke mere, jeg er hos ham, ser ham hver dag, jeg vil pleje ham, elske ham, ofre ham mit liv!"

Men nu skal prinsen giftes og have nabokongens dejlige datter! fortalte man, derfor er det, at han udruster så prægtigt et skib. Prinsen rejser for at se nabokongens lande, hedder det nok, men det er for at se nabokongens datter, et stort følge skal han have med; men den lille havfrue rystede med hovedet og lo; hun kendte prinsens tanker meget bedre, end alle de andre. "Jeg må rejse!" havde han sagt til hende, "jeg må se den smukke prinsesse, mine forældre forlange det, men tvinge mig til at føre hende her hjem, som min brud, vil de ikke! jeg kan ikke elske hende! hun ligner ikke den smukke pige i templet, som du ligner, skulle jeg engang vælge en brud, så blev det snarere dig, mit stumme hittebarn med de talende øjne!" og han kyssede hendes røde mund, legede med hendes lange hår og lagde sit hoved ved hendes hjerte, så det drømte om menneskelykke og en udødelig sjæl.

"Du er dog ikke bange for havet, mit stumme barn!" sagde han, da de stod på det prægtige skib, som skulle føre ham til nabokongens lande; og han fortalte hende om storm og havblik, om sælsomme fisk i dybet og hvad dykkeren der havde set, og hun smilede ved hans fortælling, hun vidste jo bedre, end nogen anden, besked om havets bund.

I den måneklare nat, når de alle sov, på styrmanden nær, som stod ved roret, sad hun ved rælingen af skibet og stirrede ned igennem det klare vand, og hun syntes at se sin faders slot, øverst deroppe stod den gamle bedstemoder med sølvkronen på hovedet og stirrede op igennem de stride strømme mod skibets køl. Da kom hendes søstre op over vandet, de stirrede sorrigfuldt på hende og vred deres hvide hænder, hun vinkede ad dem, smilede og ville fortælle, at alt gik hende godt og lykkeligt, men skibsdrengen nærmede sig hende og søstrene dykkede ned, så han blev i den tro, at det hvide, han havde set, var skum på søen.

Næste morgen sejlede skibet ind i havnen ved nabokongens prægtige stad. Alle kirkeklokker ringede, og fra de høje tårne blev blæst i basuner, mens soldaterne stod med vajende faner og blinkende bajonetter. Hver dag havde en fest. Bal og selskab fulgte på hinanden, men prinsessen var der endnu ikke, hun opdroges langt derfra i et helligt tempel, sagde de, der lærte hun alle kongelige dyder. Endelig indtraf hun.

Den lille havfrue stod begærlig efter at se hendes skønhed, og hun måtte erkende den, en yndigere skikkelse havde hun aldrig set. Huden var så fin og skær, og bag de lange mørke øjenhår smilede et par sortblå trofaste øjne!

"Det er dig!" sagde prinsen, "dig, som har frelst mig, da jeg lå som et lig ved kysten!" og han trykkede sin rødmende brud i sine arme. "Oh jeg er alt for lykkelig!" sagde han til den lille havfrue. "Det bedste, det jeg aldrig turde håbe, er blevet opfyldt for mig. Du vil glæde dig ved min lykke, thi du holder mest af mig blandt dem alle!" Og den lille havfrue kyssede hans hånd, og hun syntes alt at føle sit hjerte briste. Hans bryllupsmorgen ville jo give hende døden og forvandle hende til skum på søen.

Alle kirkeklokker ringede, herolderne red om i gaderne og forkyndte trolovelsen. På alle altre brændte duftende olie i kostelige sølvlamper. Præsterne svingede røgelseskar og brud og brudgom rakte hinanden hånden og fik biskoppens velsignelse. Den lille havfrue stod i silke og guld og holdt brudens slæb, men hendes øre hørte ikke den festlige musik, hendes øje så ikke den hellige ceremoni, hun tænkte på sin dødsnat, på alt hvad hun havde tabt i denne verden.

Endnu samme aften gik brud og brudgom ombord på skibet, kanonerne lød, alle flagene vajede, og midt på skibet var rejst et kosteligt telt af guld og purpur og med de dejligste hynder, der skulle brudeparret sove i den stille, kølige nat.

Sejlene svulmede i vinden, og skibet gled let og uden stor bevægelse hen over den klare sø.

Da det mørknedes, tændtes brogede lamper og søfolkene dansede lystige danse på dækket. Den lille havfrue måtte tænke på den første gang hun dykkede op af havet og så den samme pragt og glæde, og hun hvirvlede sig med i dansen, svævede, som svalen svæver når den forfølges, og alle tiljublede hende beundring, aldrig havde hun danset så herligt; det skar som skarpe knive i de fine fødder, men hun følte det ikke; det skar hende smerteligere i hjertet. Hun vidste, det var den sidste aften hun så ham, for hvem hun havde forladt sin slægt og sit hjem, givet sin dejlige stemme og daglig lidt uendelige kvaler, uden at han havde tanke derom. Det var den sidste nat, hun åndede den samme luft som han, så det dybe hav og den stjerneblå himmel, en evig nat uden tanke og drøm ventede hende, som ej havde sjæl, ej kunne vinde den. Og alt var glæde og lystighed på skibet til langt over midnat, hun lo og dansede med dødstanken i sit hjerte. Prinsen kyssede sin dejlige brud, og hun legede med hans sorte hår, og arm i arm gik de til hvile i det prægtige telt.

Der blev tyst og stille på skibet, kun styrmanden stod ved roret, den lille havfrue lagde sine hvide arme på rælingen og så mod øst efter morgenrøden, den første solstråle, vidste hun, ville dræbe hende. Da så hun sine søstre stige op af havet, de var blege, som hun; deres lange smukke hår flagrede ikke længere i blæsten, det var afskåret.

"Vi har givet det til heksen, for at hun skulle bringe hjælp, at du ikke denne nat skal dø! Hun har givet os en kniv, her er den! ser du hvor skarp? Før sol står op, må du stikke den i prinsens hjerte, og når da hans varme blod stænker på dine fødder, da vokser de sammen til en fiskehale og du bliver en havfrue igen, kan stige ned i vandet til os og leve dine tre hundrede år, før du bliver det døde, salte søskum. Skynd dig! Han eller du må dø, før sol står op! Vor gamle bedstemoder sørger, så hendes hvide hår er faldet af, som vort faldt for heksens saks. Dræb prinsen og kom tilbage! Skynd dig, ser du den røde stribe på himlen? Om nogle minutter stiger solen, og da må du dø!" og de udstødte et forunderligt dybt suk og sank i bølgerne.

Den lille havfrue trak purpurtæppet bort fra teltet, og hun så den dejlige brud sove med sit hoved ved prinsens bryst, og hun bøjede sig ned, kyssede ham på hans smukke pande, så på himlen, hvor morgenrøden lyste mere og mere, så på den skarpe kniv og fæstede igen øjnene på prinsen, der i drømme nævnede sin brud ved navn, hun kun var i hans tanker, og kniven sitrede i havfruens hånd, men da kastede hun den langt ud i bølgerne, de skinnede røde, hvor den faldt, det så ud, som piblede der blodsdråber op af vandet. Endnu engang så hun med halvbrustne blik på prinsen, styrtede sig fra skibet ned i havet, og hun følte, hvor hendes legeme opløste sig i skum.

Nu steg solen frem af havet. Strålerne faldt så mildt og varmt på det dødskolde havskum og den lille havfrue følte ikke til døden, hun så den klare sol, og oppe over hende svævede hundrede gennemsigtige, dejlige skabninger; hun kunne gennem dem se skibets hvide sejl og himlens røde skyer, deres stemme var melodi, men så åndig, at intet menneskeligt øre kunne høre den, ligesom intet jordisk øje kunne se dem; uden vinger svævede de ved deres egen lethed gennem luften. Den lille havfrue så, at hun havde et legeme som de, det hævede sig mere og mere op af skummet.

"Til hvem kommer jeg!" sagde hun, og hendes stemme klang som de andre væsners, så åndigt, at ingen jordisk musik kan gengive det.

"Til luftens døtre!" svarede de andre. "Havfruen har ingen udødelig sjæl, kan aldrig få den, uden hun vinder et menneskes kærlighed! Af en fremmed magt afhænger hendes evige tilværelse. Luftens døtre har heller ingen evig sjæl, men de kan selv ved gode handlinger skabe sig en. Vi flyver til de varme lande, hvor den lumre pestluft dræber menneskene; der vifter vi køling. Vi spreder blomsternes duft gennem luften og sender vederkvægelse og lægedom. Når vi i tre hundrede år har stræbt at gøre det gode, vi kan, da får vi en udødelig sjæl og tager del i menneskenes evige lykke. Du stakkels lille havfrue har med hele dit hjerte stræbt efter det samme, som vi, du har lidt og tålt, hævet dig til luftåndernes verden, nu kan du selv gennem gode gerninger skabe dig en udødelig sjæl om tre hundrede år."

Og den lille havfrue løftede sine klare arme op mod Guds sol, og for første gang følte hun tårer. På skibet var igen støj og liv, hun så prinsen med sin smukke brud søge efter hende, vemodig stirrede de på det boblende skum, som om de vidste, hun havde styrtet sig i bølgerne. Usynlig kyssede hun brudens pande, smilede til ham og steg med de andre luftens børn op på den rosenrøde sky, som sejlede i luften.

"Om tre hundrede år svæver vi således ind i Guds rige!"

"Også tidligere kan vi komme der!" hviskede én. "Usynligt svæver vi ind i menneskenes huse, hvor der er børn, og for hver dag vi finder et godt barn, som gør sine forældre glæde og fortjener deres kærlighed, forkorter Gud vor prøvetid. Barnet ved ikke, når vi flyver gennem stuen, og når vi da af glæde smiler over det, da tages et år fra de tre hundrede, men ser vi et uartigt og ondt barn, da må vi græde sorgens gråd, og hver tåre lægger en dag til vor prøvetid!"

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