THE WINDMILL

                                  1872

                 FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

                              THE WINDMILL

                       by Hans Christian Andersen



A WINDMILL stood upon the hill, proud to look at, and it was proud

too.

"I am not proud at all," it said, "but I am very much

enlightened without and within. I have sun and moon for my outward

use, and for inward use too; and into the bargain I have stearine

candles, train oil and lamps, and tallow candles. I may well say

that I'm enlightened. I'm a thinking being, and so well constructed

that it's quite delightful. I have a good windpipe in my chest, and

I have four wings that are placed outside my head, just beneath my

hat. The birds have only two wings, and are obliged to carry them on

their backs. I am a Dutchman by birth, that may be seen by my

figure- a flying Dutchman. They are considered supernatural beings,

I know, and yet I am quite natural. I have a gallery round my chest,

and house-room beneath it; that's where my thoughts dwell. My

strongest thought, who rules and reigns, is called by others 'The

Man in the Mill.' He knows what he wants, and is lord over the meal

and the bran; but he has his companion, too, and she calls herself

'Mother.' She is the very heart of me. She does not run about stupidly

and awkwardly, for she knows what she wants, she knows what she can

do, she's as soft as a zephyr and as strong as a storm; she knows

how to begin a thing carefully, and to have her own way. She is my

soft temper, and the father is my hard one. They are two, and yet one;

they each call the other 'My half.' These two have some little boys,

young thoughts, that can grow. The little ones keep everything in

order. When, lately, in my wisdom, I let the father and the boys

examine my throat and the hole in my chest, to see what was going on

there,- for something in me was out of order, and it's well to examine

one's self,- the little ones made a tremendous noise. The youngest

jumped up into my hat, and shouted so there that it tickled me. The

little thoughts may grow- I know that very well; and out in the

world thoughts come too, and not only of my kind, for as far as I

can see, I cannot discern anything like myself; but the wingless

houses, whose throats make no noise, have thoughts too, and these come

to my thoughts, and make love to them, as it is called. It's wonderful

enough- yes, there are many wonderful things. Something has come

over me, or into me,- something has changed in the mill-work. It seems

as if the one half, the father, had altered, and had received a better

temper and a more affectionate helpmate- so young and good, and yet

the same, only more gentle and good through the course of time. What

was bitter has passed away, and the whole is much more comfortable.

"The days go on, and the days come nearer and nearer to

clearness and to joy; and then a day will come when it will be over

with me; but not over altogether. I must be pulled down that I may

be built up again; I shall cease, but yet shall live on. To become

quite a different being, and yet remain the same! That's difficult for

me to understand, however enlightened I may be with sun, moon,

stearine, train oil, and tallow. My old wood-work and my old

brick-work will rise again from the dust!

"I will hope that I may keep my old thoughts, the father in the

mill, and the mother, great ones and little ones- the family; for I

call them all, great and little, the company of thoughts, because I

must, and cannot refrain from it.

"And I must also remain 'myself,' with my throat in my chest, my

wings on my head, the gallery round my body; else I should not know

myself, nor could the others know me, and say, 'There's the mill on

the hill, proud to look at, and yet not proud at all.'"

That is what the mill said. Indeed, it said much more, but that is

the most important part.

And the days came, and the days went, and yesterday was the last

day.

Then the mill caught fire. The flames rose up high, and beat out

and in, and bit at the beams and planks, and ate them up. The mill

fell, and nothing remained of it but a heap of ashes. The smoke

drove across the scene of the conflagration, and the wind carried it

away.

Whatever had been alive in the mill remained, and what had been

gained by it has nothing to do with this story.

The miller's family- one soul, many thoughts, and yet only one-

built a new, a splendid mill, which answered its purpose. It was quite

like the old one, and people said, "Why, yonder is the mill on the

hill, proud to look at!" But this mill was better arranged, more

according to the time than the last, so that progress might be made.

The old beams had become worm-eaten and spongy- they lay in dust and

ashes. The body of the mill did not rise out of the dust as they had

believed it would do. They had taken it literally, and all things

are not to be taken literally.

                        THE END

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