The Tale of the Nutcracker

ALEXANDRE DUMAS

Preface

Which explains how the author was obliged to tell the tale of Nutcracker of Nuremberg.

 

There was a large party for children at the home of my friend, Count M——, and I, for my part, had contributed to the noisy and joyful festivities by bringing my daughter. Within half an hour, I had paternally taken part in four or five successive matches of blindman’s buff, hot cockles, and dressing up in fancy garb. My head was a bit shattered by the racket produced by some twenty charming demons eight to ten years old and vying with one another in making the most noise. I therefore slipped away from the salon and went looking for a certain boudoir I was acquainted with. This place was quite soundproof and withdrawn, and I counted on very gently picking up the thread of my interrupted thoughts.

I had worked my retreat so skillfully that, luckily, I abandoned not only the eyes of the young guests—which was not very difficult, given their intense focus on their games. However, I had also discarded their parents, which was quite a different matter altogether.

I had reached the boudoir I was seeking, and I had stepped inside, whereupon I noticed that it had been transformed temporarily into a refectory, piled high with gigantic buffets laden with pastries and refreshments.

Now these gastronomic preparations were a further guarantee that I would not be disturbed before supper, since the above-mentioned boudoir was reserved for snacks.

I spotted an enormous Voltaire chair, with a high padded back, a low seat, and round arms—veritable Louis XV. It was a lazybones, as they say in Italy, that land of true lazybones, and I adjusted voluptuously, delighted as I was by the thought of spending a whole hour all alone with my thoughts. Indeed, my thoughts were so very precious in the midst of this whirlwind, into which we public vassals are incessantly drawn.

So whether it was fatigue or lack of habit or the result of a rare well-being—within ten minutes I was fast asleep.

I don’t know how long I was unaware of what was happening around me when I was suddenly yanked from my slumber by noisy bursts of laughter. Now I opened my big, haggard eyes that saw nothing overhead but a lovely Boucher ceiling scattered with doves and cupids. I tried to get up but my efforts were fruitless. I was attached to my easy chair no less solidly than Gulliver to the Lilliputian shore. I promptly grasped the drawback of my position: I had been caught off guard in enemy territory and I was now a prisoner of war. The best thing for me to do in my situation was to bravely resign myself to my fate and to negotiate my freedom amicably.

My first proposal was to take the victors to Felix tomorrow and to put his entire boutique at their disposition. Unfortunately, it was the wrong time. I was speaking to an audience who was listening to me with mouths stuffed full of babas and hands crammed full of patties.

So my proposal was shamefully rejected.

I offered to gather the whole honorable company tomorrow, in a garden of their choosing, and to let off fireworks composed of many pinwheels and Roman candles as fixed by the spectators themselves.

This offer was successful among the little boys, but vehemently opposed by the little girls, who declared that they were horribly scared of fireworks: Their nerves couldn’t stand the banging of the crackers, and the stench of the powder greatly upset them.

I was about to try a third proposal when I heard a gentle, melodious voice that glided softly into the ears of my companions. Their words made me shudder:

“Have Papa tell us a lovely tale—he’s making a fuss!”

I wanted to protest, but at that very instant my voice was drowned out by these shouts:

“Ah! Yes! A tale! A lovely tale! We want a tale!”

“But, children,” I cried with all my strength. “You’re asking me for the most difficult thing in the world! A tale! What are you doing? Ask me for the Iliad. Ask me for the Aeneid. Ask me for Jerusalem Delivered, and I’ll manage! But a tale, a fairy tale! Damn it! Perrault is a very different man from Homer, from Virgil, and from Torquato Tasso. And Tom Thumb is a very different original creation from Achilles, Turnus, or Renaud!”

“We don’t want a verse epic,” the children yelled unanimously. “We want a tale!”

“My dear children, if—”

“There’s no ‘if.’ We want a tale!”

“But my little friends—”

“There is no ‘but.’ We want a tale! We want a tale! We want a tale!” All these voices chorused in a tone that brooked no reply.

“Very well then,” I sighed. “Let’s have a tale!”

“Ah! That’s wonderful!” said my persecutors.

“But I have to warn you about one thing. The tale I’m going to tell you is not by me!”

“Who cares, so along as it’s entertaining!”

I admit I was a bit humiliated by the audience’s lack of interest in an original work.

“And so who is the author of the tale, mein Herr?” asked a melodious voice, belonging, no doubt, to a setup more curious than the others.

“The author is E. T. A. Hoffmann, mademoiselle. Do you know Herr Hoffmann?”

“No, mein Herr, I don’t know him.”

“And what is the title of your tale?” This question was asked in a hearty tone by someone who senses he has the right to question the son of the master of the house.

“‘Nutcracker of Nuremberg,’” I replied in all humility. “Do you care for the title, my dear Henry?”

“Hmm! That title is not very promising. But so what—it can still work! If you bore us, I’ll stop you, and you’ll try another title, and so on, I warn you, until we find a title that amuses us.”

“One moment, one moment! I refuse to accept that commitment. I could take it only if you were important people!”

“Still, those are our conditions. Otherwise you’ll be a prisoner in perpetuity.”

“My dear Henry, you are a charming child, a wonderful pupil, and I’ll be amazed if you don’t grow up to become a very distinguished statesman someday! Untie me, and I’ll do anything you like!”

“Word of honor?”

“Word of honor!”

At that moment, I felt the thousand bonds loosening. Everyone had lent a hand for my release, and within thirty seconds my freedom was restored.

Now since one must keep one’s word, even when given to a child, I invited my listeners to make themselves comfortable so that they might listen painlessly from listening to slumber. And once each listener was ready, I began.

The Tale of the Nutcracker

Godfather Drosselmayer

Once, in the town of Nuremberg, there lived a highly esteemed presiding judge known as Presiding Judge Silberhaus, which means Silver House.

This judge had a boy and a girl.

The boy, nine years old, was called Fritz.

The girl, seven and a half years old, was called Marie.

They were two lovely children, but so different in face and character that no one would ever have believed them to be brother and sister.

Fritz was a big boy, chubby, blustering, mischievous, stamping his foot at the slightest annoyance. He was convinced that everything in the world was created for his entertainment, and he stuck to his guns until the doctor, intolerant of his cries and tears, his stamping foot, emerged from his office! Raising the forefinger of his right hand to the level of his brow, the doctor merely said: “Herr Fritz!”

The boy was then taken with an enormous desire to sink into the ground.

As for the mother: Needless to say, no matter how high she lifted her finger or even her hand, Fritz totally ignored her.

His sister, Marie, by contrast, was a frail and pallid child with long curly hair, of course, and falling on her narrow white shoulders like a sheaf of moveable and radiant gold on an alabaster vase. Marie was modest, gentle, affable, and merciful toward all sufferings, even those of dolls. She obeyed the slightest signal of her mother, and she never talked back even to her governess, Mademoiselle Trudchen. As a result, Marie was adored by everyone.

Meanwhile, December 24 of the year 17——had arrived. You are not unaware, my little friends, that December 24 is Christmas Eve—that is, the eve of the day when the Infant Jesus was born in a manger between a donkey and a cow. Now I’m going to explain something to you. Even the most ignorant among you have heard that each country has its own customs—isn’t that so? And the most educated among you know, without a doubt, that Nuremberg is a German city famous for its toys, its dolls, and its Punchinellos. Indeed, it sends caseloads of these wondrous things all over the world, so that the children of Nuremberg must be the happiest on earth—unless they are like the inhabitants of Ostende, who have oysters only to watch them pass.

Hence, Germany, being a different country from France, has different habits from France. Among the French, the first day of the year is the day of gift giving, so that many people strongly wish that the year began on January 2. In Germany, however, the day of gift giving is December 24—that is, Christmas Eve. Furthermore, gifts are exchanged in a very particular fashion on the other side of the Rhine. You see, a large tree is placed in the salon. The tree stands in the middle of a table, and the toys to be given to the children are hung from all the branches. If a toy is too heavy for the tree, it is put on the table. Then the children are told that it is dear little Jesus who sends them their share of the presents He has received from the Three Magi. Now this is only a little white lie, for, as you know, all the good things of this world come from Jesus.

I don’t need to tell you that among the favored children of Nuremberg—that is, among those who received the most Christmas toys of all kinds—were the children of Judge Silberhaus. For, aside from their parents, who adored them, they also had a godfather who adored them, and whom they called Godfather Drosselmayer.

I ought to sketch a portrait of this illustrious personage, whose place in the city of Nuremberg was almost as distinguished as that of Judge Silberhaus. Godfather Drosselmayer, a medical counselor, was anything but handsome. He was gaunt, five feet eight inches tall, and quite stooped, so that if he dropped his handkerchief, he could scarcely bend down to pick it up despite his long legs. His face was as wrinkled as a rennet that has suffered an April frost. In lieu of his right eye he wore a big, black patch. He was totally bald, a disadvantage he countered by wearing a grassy, curly periwig—a highly ingenious device of his own composition made of spun glass. In regard to this respectable headgear, he was forced to keep his hat under his arm nonstop. His remaining eye was alive and brilliant. It seemed to perform not only its own tasks but also those of its missing comrades, for it rolled swiftly about a room of which Godfather Drosselmayer desired to capture all the details in one swoop, or else to focus sharply on people of whom he wished to plumb their deepest thoughts.

Now Godfather Drosselmayer was, as I have said, a medical counselor. And instead of dealing, like most of his colleagues, with the killing of living people correctly and according to rules, he occupied himself exclusively with restoring life to dead things. That is to say: by studying the bodies of humans and animals, he got to know all the ins and outs of machines. As a result, he constructed men who walked, men who saluted, men who presented arms, ladies who danced, who played the harpsichord, the harp, and the viola; dogs that ran, that fetched, that barked; birds that flew, that saluted, that hopped and sang; fish that swam and that ate.

In the end, Godfather did manage to get dolls and Punchinellos to utter a few uncomplicated words—such as “Papa,” “Mama,” “Daddy.” However, they were spoken in a shrill, repetitive voice, which saddened you because you sensed that everything resulted from a self-acting scheme. And, all in all, an automatic combination is never anything but a parody of the masterpieces of the Lord.

Still, despite all these fruitless exertions, Godfather Drosselmayer never despaired. He stated firmly that he would invent real men, real women, real dogs, real birds, and real fish. Needless to say, his two godchildren, to whom he had promised his first triumphs in this matter, were eagerly looking forward to that day.

We must realize that, having reached this degree of science in mechanics, Godfather Drosselmayer was a valuable man for his friends. If a clock fell ill in the home of Judge Silberhaus, and despite the care taken by normal clockmakers, its hands stopped marking the time and its ticktock broke off, as did its gears.

They sent for Godfather Drosselmayer, who came running, for he was an artist in love with his art. He was taken to the sick clock, which he promptly opened and inserted between his knees. Next, flicking his tongue from the corner of his mouth, his single eye flashing, his glass periwig on the floor, he produced a hoard of small, nameless instruments from his pockets. He had invented them himself, and he alone knew how to employ them. He usually picked the sharpest instruments, thrusting them into the interior of the clock. This acupuncture profoundly offended little Marie, who couldn’t believe that the poor clock didn’t suffer from these operations. Quite the opposite: The clock resuscitated from the gentle trepanation. And once it returned to Marie’s casket, or between her columns, or to her rock, it began to live, beat, and purr for all it was worth. This instantly restored its existence to the apartment, which seemed to have lost its soul in losing its joyful guest.

Moreover, little Marie had painfully watched the kitchen dog turning the spit—an exhausting occupation for the poor animal. At the little girl’s request, Godfather Drosselmayer had agreed to descend from the heights of science to fabricate a canine automaton, who was now turning the spit with no pain and no greed. Meanwhile, Turc, performing the same task he’d been performing during these past three years, had become very chilly. He now warmed his muzzle and his paws, and, truly of independent means, he had nothing more to do than watch his successor. Once mounted, this replacement could devote an hour to his gastronomic chore, ignored by just about everyone else.

Thus, after the judge, after his wife, after Fritz, and after Marie, Turc was certainly that household member who most loved and venerated Godfather Drosselmayer. Whenever he sensed that the godfather was approaching, Turc put on a big show, whereby his joyful barking and his wagging tail announced that the medical counselor was arriving. So Turc proclaimed his coming before the worthy godfather had even touched the knocker on the door.

Hence, on that blessed Christmas Eve, twilight was beginning to settle in. All day long, Fritz and Marie had been barred from entering the grand salon, and now they huddled in a small corner of the dining room. Mademoiselle Trudchen, their governess, was knitting by the window, trying to catch the final beams of the sun. The children were imbued with a vague fear because, according to the custom of that solemn day, no one had brought them any light. As a result, they spoke softly, the way you whisper when you’re a bit scared.

“Brother,” said Marie, “Papa and Mama are certainly taking care of our Christmas tree. Since morning, there’s been a racket in the salon, which we’re not allowed to enter.”

“Listen,” said Fritz. “Some ten minutes ago, I could tell by Turc’s barking that Godfather Drosselmayer was coming in.”

“Oh, goodness!” cried Marie, clapping her two little hands together. “What is our dear godfather going to bring us? I’m sure it will be some beautiful park filled with trees and with a lovely river flowing across a flowery meadow. There’ll be silver swans with golden collars floating on the river, and a girl will bring them marzipans, which they’ll eat all the way up her aprons.”

“First of all,” said Fritz in the pedagogical tone that was peculiar to him, and that his parents rebuked him for as one of his worst faults, “you should know, Mademoiselle Marie, that swans don’t eat marzipans!”

“I didn’t think they did! But since you’re eighteen months older than I, you must know more about such things than I do!”

Fritz put on airs.

“Then,” he replied, “I believe I can say that if Godfather Drosselmayer does bring us anything, it’ll be a fortress, with soldiers to guard it, cannons to defend it, and enemies to attack it! The combat will be superb!”

“I don’t like battles,” said Marie. “If he does bring us a fortress, as you put it, it will be for you. Only I demand the wounded so I can treat them.”

“Whatever he brings,” said Fritz, “you know very well that it won’t be for you or for me. On the pretext that Godfather Drosselmayer’s gifts are real masterpieces, they’ll be taken back as soon as they are given to us. Then they’ll be locked away on the top shelf of the glass cabinet, which only Papa can reach and only if he climbs on a chair. As a result,” Fritz went on, “I love the toys that Papa and Mama give us—I love them just as much as I love Godfather’s presents and even more. And we’re allowed to play with our parents’ gifts until they fall to pieces.”

“I love them too!” Marie replied. “Only we mustn’t repeat any of these things to Godfather Drosselmayer.”

“Why not?”

“He’d be deeply hurt if he saw that we loved our parents’ gifts more than his. When he brings them, he intends to give us great pleasure. And we have to let him believe that he’s not mistaken.”

“Bah!” said Fritz.

“Mademoiselle Marie is right, Monsieur Fritz,” said Mademoiselle Trudchen, who normally held her tongue and spoke only under very important circumstances.

“Come on,” said Marie brightly in order to keep Fritz from talking back to the poor governess. “Come on! Let’s guess what our parents will give us. On condition that she won’t scold her, I confided in Mama about my doll, Mademoiselle Rose. I explained that she was growing clumsier and clumsier despite my endless sermons. Her sole occupation was to tumble on her nose—an accident that always left highly distasteful marks on her features. Since her face now clashed with her frocks, there was no possibility of taking her out into the world.”

“Well,” said Fritz, “I don’t let Papa ignore the fact that a vigorous chestnut horse would fit nicely in my stable. I also asked him to observe that no well-organized army can exist without a light cavalry, and that the division under my command can be completed only by a squadron of Hussars.”

Upon hearing these words, Mademoiselle Trudchen felt that this was the right moment to speak up again.

“Monsieur Fritz and Mademoiselle Marie,” she said. “You know perfectly well that it is the Infant Jesus who gives and blesses all these lovely toys that you receive. So do not designate in advance the toys you desire, for Jesus knows better than you yourselves the toys you can find agreeable.”

“Oh, yes!” said Fritz. “Last year He gave me only the infantry, while, as I’ve just told you, I would have found a squadron of Hussars very enjoyable.”

“I can only thank Him,” said Marie. “All I asked for was a single doll and I also received a pretty white dove with a rosy beak and rosy feet.”

At this juncture, the night had settled in fully. The children spoke more and more softly and huddled closer and closer together. They felt surrounded by the beating wings of their joyous guardian angels and they heard a distant sweet and melodious music like the music of an organ that has chanted the Nativity of Our Lord under the somber arches of a cathedral. That same moment, a vivid light swept across the wall, and the children understood that it was the mark of the Infant Jesus. After leaving their playthings in the salon, he was flying on a golden cloud, soaring toward the homes of other children, who looked forward just as eagerly to his visit.

A bell rang promptly, the door banged open, and the house was filled with a light so powerful that the children had only enough strength to exclaim: “Ah! Ah! Ah!”

The parents then went over to the threshold and took Fritz and Marie by the hand.

“Come and see, my little friends,” they said, “what the Infant Jesus has brought you.”

The children stepped into the salon, followed by Mademoiselle Trudchen, who had put her knitting on the chair in front of her.

The Christmas Tree

My dear children, it’s not that you don’t know Susse and Giroux, those great entrepreneurs of the happiness of youth. After all, you were conducted into their splendid boutiques and you were told upon opening an infinite credit: “Come, take, pick!”

Next you halted. You were panting, your eyes were gaping, your mouth was gawking. And you had one of those moments of ecstasy that you will never have again—even on the day that you are named a member of the French Academy, or French peer, or French deputy.

And that’s what happened to Fritz and Marie when they entered the salon and saw the Christmas tree, which seemed to emerge from the large table covered by a white tablecloth. The table was fully laden not only with gold apples but also with sugar blossoms instead of natural flowers, and with pralines and sugar almonds instead of fruit. The entire scene was shining with the flames of a hundred candles hidden in the foliage, which rendered it as dazzling as those colossal illumination frames that you see on public holidays. At this point, Fritz executed several entrechats, doing honor to his dancing teacher Monsieur Pochette. Marie, however, didn’t even try to hold back two thick tears of joy, which, similar to liquid pearls, rolled down her beaming face as if down a May rose.

Things got worse when they passed from the whole to the details, and the two children saw the table piled high with all kinds of toys. Marie found a doll twice the size of Mademoiselle Rose with a snug and charming silk gown suspended from a coat peg. It hung in such a way that Marie could see it from all around the salon. And Fritz discovered something else on the table: a squadron of Hussars wearing red pelisses with gold piping and mounted on white steeds. The famous chestnut, which left a huge gap in all stables, was attached to the foot of the same table. Thus the new Alexander the Great instantly got astride the brilliant Bucephalus, which had been offered to him, bridle and saddle.

After galloping around the Christmas tree several times, Fritz declared, upon stepping down on the floor, that even though it was a very wild and stubborn creature, he was certain he could tame it, so that within a month it would be as mild as a lamb.

However, the moment he set foot on the ground, Marie baptized her new doll Mademoiselle Clarchen. This corresponds to the name Claire in French just as Roschen corresponds to Rose. Now the silvery tinkle of the bell could be heard again. The children returned to the source of that sound—that is to say, a corner of the salon.

Now they saw something they had ignored before, fascinated as they had been by the dazzling Christmas tree, which occupied the exact center of the space. You see, this corner had been cut off by a screen, from behind which you could catch a certain noise and a certain music. These sounds proved that something new and alien was taking place in this section of the home. The children realized in unison that they hadn’t yet seen the medical counselor and so they cried out in a single chorus: “Ah! Godfather Drosselmayer!”

At these words, as if awaiting only this exclamation to make its movement, the screen collapsed, revealing not only the godfather but a lot more!

In the middle of a green pasture spangled with flowers looms a magnificent castle with a quantity of glass windows on its facades and two gorgeous golden towers on its wings. That same moment, a ringing could be heard from the interior, doors and windows opened, and in the apartments lit by half-inch candles, you could see little gentlemen and little ladies strolling about in marvelous attire. The men wore magnificently embroidered coats as well as silk jackets and culottes, a sword at one side and a hat under an arm. The women were grandly attired in brocaded gowns with wide hoops, their hairdos in straight roots, their hands clutching fans, cooling their faces as if overwhelmed by the heat. In the middle salon, which looked all ablaze because of a crystal luster brimming with tapers, a throng of children was dancing to that ringing: boys in round jackets, girls in short gowns.

At that same time, a gentleman appeared at the window of an adjoining room, made some signs, and then vanished. Enveloped in a fur coat, he could quite certainly have to be a personage enjoying the right to at least the title of Serene Highness. All this happened while Godfather Drosselmayer himself, clad in his yellow frock coat, with his eye patch and his glass periwig, resembling the godfather to the point of mistaking him for someone else, kept going in and out as if inviting the strollers to visit him.

The first moment was one of joy and surprise for the two children. But after a few minutes of contemplation, Fritz, leaning on his elbows, stood up and approached the godfather impatiently:

“But Godfather Drosselmayer,” said Fritz, “Why do you keep going in and out of the same door? You must be exhausted with all your coming and going. Leave through the downstairs door and reenter by this door.” And Fritz pointed at the gates of the two towers.

“That’s impossible!” the godfather responded.

“Well,” Fritz replied, “then do me the favor of mounting the staircase, taking this gentleman’s place at the window, and telling him to go to the door in your place.”

“Impossible, my dear little Fritz!” the medical counselor repeated.

“Well, the children have danced enough. Now they have to stroll about while the strollers dance in their turn.”

“Why, that’s unreasonable, you eternal plaintiff!” cried the godfather, who was starting to get annoyed. “Since the mechanics are made, they have to work.”

“Then,” said Fritz, “I want to enter the castle.”

“Ah! Not this time,” said the judge, “you’re crazy, my dear son. You can see that it’s impossible for you to get inside. The weathercocks on the uppermost towers barely reach your shoulders.”

Fritz capitulated to this line of reasoning and held his tongue. But a moment later, seeing that these ladies and gentlemen were still ambling nonstop, that the children were still dancing, that the gentleman in fur kept showing up and disappearing at regular intervals, and that Godfather didn’t leave his entrance, Fritz said in a strongly disillusioned tone:

“Godfather Drosselmayer, if all your little figures can do nothing but what they are already doing and can only keep recommencing the same thing, then you are welcome to take them back tomorrow. I just don’t care about them. I prefer my horse, which runs to my will; my Hussars, which maneuver according to my command, which head right and left, forward and backward, and are not enclosed in any house; than all your poor little men who are obliged to work as the mechanics want them to work.”

Upon these words, Fritz turned his back on his godfather and on his castle, flew over to the table, and marshaled his squadron of Hussars in battle formation.

As for Marie, she slipped away very softly, for the regular motion of all the little dolls had struck her as highly repetitive. Only as she was a charming girl with all the instincts of the heart, she had said nothing lest she afflict her godfather. Indeed, scarcely had her brother turned his back than, with a piqued tone, her godfather said to her parents:

“Come on! Come on! Such a masterpiece is not fit for a child. I’m going to put my castle back inside its box and carry it away.”

But Mother approached him, and, to make up for Fritz’s rudeness, she was shown the large details of the godfather’s masterpiece. He explained the works so categorically, and praised the complex gears so ingeniously. And not only did he manage to follow the spirit of the medical counselor by effacing the bad impression, but he also reached into the pockets of his yellow frock coat and brought out a multitude of little men and little women with tan skins and white eyes, as well as gilt hands and feet. Otherwise these little men and little women exuded an excellent fragrance, given that they were made of cinnamon bark.

At that moment, Mademoiselle Trudchen called Marie, giving her permission to slip into that lovely little silk gown, which had so deeply entranced Marie upon her entrance that she had asked if she could be allowed to try it on. But Marie, despite her normal politeness, didn’t reply. She was too preoccupied with a new personage whom she had just discovered among her toys. I ask you, my dear children, to focus all your attention on him. You see, he is the hero of this very truthful story, in which Mademoiselle Trudchen, Marie, Fritz, the judge, his wife, and even Godfather Drosselmayer all play secondary roles.

The Little Man in the Wooden Cape

Marie, as we were saying, failed to answer Mademoiselle Trudchen’s invitation because the girl had, at that very moment, discovered a new toy, which she hadn’t spotted before.

Indeed, leaning mournfully against the trunk of the Christmas tree, Fritz, by making his squadrons curve and tack and twist, unmasked a charming manikin. Silent and quite suitable, the little man was waiting his turn to be seen. There would have been something to say about the figure of this manikin, whom we may have been too quick to dub “charming.” For one thing, his bust, overly extended and overly developed, was no longer perfectly harmonious with his tiny, skinny legs. For another thing, his head was so unreasonably gigantic that it stuck out from all the proportions indicated not only by Nature but also by the drawing masters, who know more about such things than Nature.

But if there was something imperfect about this manikin, his deficiency was redeemed by his outstanding wardrobe, which revealed him to be a man of both taste and culture. He wore a purple velvet polonaise with a quantity of golden frogs, loops, and buttons, plus matching knee breeches and the most attractive little boots that had ever graced the feet of a student or an officer; and they fitted so snugly that they looked pasted on.

But there were two strange features about a man who seemed to have a superior insight in fashion. On the one side, he had a cramped and hideous wooden cape like a pigtail that he had attached to the bottom of his neck and that fell down in the middle of his back. On the other side, he had a wicked little highlander cap, which the manikin had straightened out on his head.

On seeing these two objects, which formed a huge disparity with the rest of the costume, Marie had reflected that Godfather Drosselmayer himself wore a small collar over his yellow frock coat. This collar, scarcely more stylish than the wooden manikin with the polonaise, sometimes covered his head with a wretched and obnoxious hat, next to which all the hats in the world could suffer no comparison. However, this did not prevent Drosselmayer from being an excellent godfather. This comparison had actually said that, even if Godfather Drosselmayer were to base his entire wardrobe on that of the little wooden manikin, he would still be very far from being as gentle and as graceful.

We appreciate that Marie hadn’t made these reflections without a thorough investigation of the manikin, whom she had liked at first blush. And the more she examined his face, the more goodness and sweetness she discerned in his features. Her light green eyes, which could be rebuked only for being a tad too prominent, expressed nothing but serenity and benevolence. The fluffy and curly white beard, blanketing his entire chin, looked especially good on Drosselmayer today, for Marie brought out her charming smile. Her lips may have been a bit too far apart, but they were red and brilliant. So after considering him with growing affection for over ten minutes, she exclaimed without daring to touch him:

“Oh! Tell me! Good Father. That dear manikin over there, leaning against the Christmas tree—whom does he belong to?”

“To no one in particular!” the judge replied. “To all of you together!”

“How can that be, Father dear? I don’t understand you.”

“He’s the universal worker,” the judge went on. “From now on, his job will be to break for you all the nuts that you eat. And he belongs to Fritz as much as to you, and to you as much as to Fritz.”

With those words, the judge cautiously shifted the manikin from the place where he was posted. Raising his cramped wooden cape, the judge got the manikin to undo his mouth by way of the easiest seesaw motion. The opening mouth exposed two rows of sharp white teeth. At her father’s bidding, Marie then stuck in a hazelnut and: Crack! Crack! The manikin crushed the nut so skillfully that the shell scattered into a thousand bits and pieces while the unbroken kernel remained in Marie’s hand. The little girl now realized that this stylish manikin was a descendant of that ancient and venerated breed of Nutcrackers whose origin, as antique as that of Nuremberg, was likewise lost in the mists of time. That same manikin continued to exercise the honorable and philanthropic profession of his ancestors, while Marie, delighted to have made this discovery, started jumping for joy.

Whereupon the judge said to her: “Well, my good little Marie, since you like the Nutcracker so much, then even though he belongs equally to Fritz and to you, you will be put especially in charge of caring for him. I therefore place him under your protection.”

With these words, the judge returned the manikin to Marie, who took him into her arms and began carrying out her task. Now this captivating child had such a good heart that she selected the smallest nuts. In this way, her protégé didn’t have to open his mouth immeasurably, which didn’t suit him and which made his physiognomy look ridiculous. Next Mademoiselle Trudchen approached him in order to enjoy, in her turn, the sight of the manikin. And for her too, Nutcracker fulfilled his assignment, performing it gracefully and cheerfully, even though Mademoiselle Trudchen was, as we know, merely a governess.

However, while continuing to train his chestnut and make his Hussars maneuver, Fritz had heard: “Crack! Crack! Crack!” After that sound was repeated twenty times, he had realized that something new was going on. He therefore raised his head and focused his enormous and interrogative eyes on the group made up of the judge, Marie, and Mademoiselle Trudchen. In his sister’s arms, he observed the manikin with the wooden cape, and so he dismounted from his steed, and without taking the time to relocate the chestnut to the stable, he hurried over to Marie and revealed his presence with a joyous burst of laughter. His mirth was inspired by the grotesque countenance made by the manikin when it was opening its huge mouth.

Fritz now demanded his share of the nuts cracked by the manikin, and his request was granted. He also demanded the right to crack them himself since he had half ownership. Only, contrary to his sister and to his surveillance, Fritz stuffed the largest and hardest nuts into Nutcracker’s mouth. Then, at the fifth or sixth nut that Fritz had inserted, they suddenly heard: “Crack!” And three little teeth tumbled out from the manikin’s gums, whereby the chin, in pieces, became feeble and shaky like the chin of an old man.

“Oh! My poor, dear Nutcracker!” exclaimed Marie, snatching the manikin from Fritz’s hands.

“What a moron!” cried Fritz. “He wants to be a Nutcracker, but he’s got a glass jaw! He’s a phony Nutcracker; he doesn’t understand his own profession! Hand him over, Marie! I’ve got to keep cracking him even if he loses the rest of his teeth and even if his chin is totally dislocated! Listen! Why are you so interested in that lazy bum anyhow?”

“No! No! No!” cried Marie, squeezing the manikin in her arms. “No! You won’t have my poor Nutcracker anymore! Look! He’s watching me so horribly, showing me his poor injured jaw! Goodness! You have a nasty heart! You beat your horses. And the other day, you had one of your soldiers shot to death!”

“I beat my horses when they get unruly!” Fritz retorted in his most swaggering tone of voice. “As for the soldier that I had shot the other day: He was a miserable vagabond. For the year he was in my service, I hadn’t managed to do anything for him. One fine morning, he deserted along with his bag and baggage. In all the countries on earth, desertion entails capital punishment! Furthermore, all these issues are matters of discipline, and they don’t involve women! I don’t prevent you from whipping your dolls, and you shouldn’t prevent me from beating my horses and having my soldiers shot. Now I want Nutcracker!”

“Oh, good Father! Save me!” said Marie, enveloping the manikin in her pocket handkerchief. “Help me, Father! Fritz wants to grab Nutcracker!”

Because of her shouting, Marie was approached not only by the judge and his group of children: The mother as well as Godfather Drosselmayer also came running. The two children each explained their reasons: the girl for keeping Nutcracker, the boy for getting him back. To her great amazement, Godfather Drosselmayer, with a smirk that looked ferocious to the little girl, sided with Fritz. Luckily for poor Nutcracker, the two parents came around to Marie’s way of thinking.

“My dear Fritz,” said the judge. “I’ve put Nutcracker under your sister’s protection. To the extent that my paltry medical knowledge allows me to judge his condition, I can see that poor, wretched Nutcracker is terribly injured and needs lots of attention. Therefore, until his complete recovery, I assign full power to Marie, and nobody is to find fault with my decision. Incidentally, you, who are so strong in military discipline: When have you ever seen a general return a wounded soldier to the front—a soldier wounded in the general’s service? The wounded go to the hospital and stay there until they’re cured, while the cripples have the right to army pensions.”

Fritz tried to impose, but the judge raised his forefinger to the level of his right eye, and these two words slipped out of him:

“Herr Fritz!”

We’ve already told you what a powerful impact these two words had on the little boy. Ashamed of having drawn this rebuke, Fritz, gentle and wordless, glided to the area of the table where he had stationed the Hussars, who, after setting up their lost sentinels and establishing their outposts, had silently retired for the night.

Meanwhile, Marie gathered Nutcracker’s minute teeth, which she kept on, wrapped in her handkerchief and supporting his chin in a lovely white ribbon taken from her silk frock. On his side, the manikin, at first very pale and very frightened, appeared to be highly confident about the kindness of his protector. Little by little, he grew more and more reassured, feeling very tenderly cradled. Marie now saw that Godfather Drosselmayer mockingly watched her applying maternal care to the manikin in the wooden cape. It even struck her that his single eye had taken on an expression of spite and malice, which she was not in the habit of finding in him. As a result, she wanted to move away from him.

Godfather Drosselmayer then burst out laughing and said: “Goodness, my dear goddaughter! I don’t understand how a pretty girl like you can be so kind to that horrid manikin!”

Marie turned around. In her neighborly love, the compliment paid to her by her godfather (“pretty”) was not sufficient compensation for the unjust attack against Nutcracker. Contrary to her nature, she was inundated by a great anger. And this vague comparison between Godfather and the manikin in the wooden cape crossed her mind:

“Godfather Drosselmayer,” she said. “You’re unfair to my poor little Nutcracker, whom you call a horrid manikin! Who knows—if you even had his pretty little polonaise, his pretty little culottes, and his pretty little boots—who knows if you wouldn’t look as good as he does.”

Marie’s parents started laughing, and the medical counselor’s nose grew prodigiously. Why did it grow? And why did the parents burst out laughing? That was what Marie, astonished by the effect of her reply, was trying vainly to fathom. Now since there is no effect without a cause, this effect was doubtlessly attached to some unknown and mysterious cause, which will be explained below.

Wondrous Things

I do not know, my dear little friends, if you recall that I mentioned a huge glass cabinet in which the children locked away their toys. This cabinet stood to the right of the entrance to the judge’s salon. Marie had still been in her cradle, and Fritz had barely been able to walk, when the judge had ordered this cabinet from a highly skillful artisan. The cabinetmaker had decorated the cabinet with squares so brilliant that the toys were ten times more beautiful on the shelves than in your hands.

On the topmost level, beyond the reach of Marie and Fritz, were the masterpieces of Godfather Drosselmayer. Directly underneath were the picture books, while the two shelves below were given over to Marie and Fritz, who filled them to their hearts’ content. However, according to a tacit agreement, Fritz always took hold of the upper shelf for billeting his troops while Marie reserved the lower shelf for her dolls, their household goods, and their beds.

That was what happened on Christmas Day. Fritz arranged his newcomers on his upper shelf, and Marie, after relegating Mademoiselle Rose to a corner, had assigned her bedroom and her bed to Mademoiselle Claire. That was the name of the new doll, whom Marie invited over for an evening of candies. Furthermore, Mademoiselle Claire, looking all around, saw her household goods nicely arranged on the cabinet shelves. Her table was laden with bonbons and pralines, and, above all, her little white bed with its rose silk quilt was fresh and lovely. She appeared extremely satisfied with her new apartment.

Meanwhile, evening had been advancing. It was almost midnight, and Godfather Drosselmayer had long since taken his leave. The parents were unable to tear the children away from their cabinet. Contrary to his habit, though, it was Fritz who first surrendered to their reasoning: They pointed out to him that it was time he went to bed.

“Actually,” said Fritz, “upon getting drilled all evening, my poor, miserable Hussars must be dog tired. I know them. They are brave soldiers who are fully aware of their duty toward me. Since as long as I’m here, not a single man will permit himself to close his eyes, I’m going to retire right away.”

After giving them the password so they wouldn’t be caught off guard by an enemy patrol, Fritz did indeed retire for the night.

Marie, however, stayed awake. Eager to join the judge, who had already gone to their bedchamber, the mother urged the girl to tear herself away from her dear cabinet.

“Just one more instant, a teensy instant, dear Mama,” said Marie. “Let me finish my business here. I still have a lot of important things to take care of. Once I’m done, I promise I’ll go to bed.”

The voice of this both well-behaved and obedient child was so insistent that her mother saw nothing wrong in fulfilling her desire. Mademoiselle Trudchen had already gone upstairs to prepare the bed for the little girl, afraid as she was that Marie would be so absorbed in her new toys that she would forget to snuff the candles. Her mother snuffed them for her, leaving only the ceiling lamp, which spread a soft, pale light in the room. The mother retired in her turn, saying: “Go to bed soon, my dear little Marie. If you stayed up too late, you’d be exhausted, and you might not get up tomorrow.” Having said those words, the mother left the salon, shutting the door behind her.

Finding herself alone, Marie took up the thought that occupied her more than any other—her poor little Nutcracker, whom she still carried in her arm, wrapped in her pocket handkerchief. She placed him gently on the table, unswaddling him and inspecting his injuries. Nutcracker appeared to be suffering greatly—at least, he seemed very disgruntled.

“Ah. Poor manikin!” Marie whispered. “Please don’t be angry at my brother, Fritz, for all the injuries he’s inflicted on you. He meant no harm—you can be certain of that! It’s just that in his military life his manners have grown a bit crude, and his heart has hardened ever so slightly. Otherwise he’s a very fine boy—I can assure you of that. I’m convinced that when you get to know him, you’ll forgive him. To make amends for what my brother has done to you, I’m going to nurse you so properly and attentively that within a few days you’ll be cheerful and healthy again. As for reinserting your teeth and reattaching your chin, that’s the responsibility of Godfather Drosselmayer. He’s well versed in such things.”

However, Marie couldn’t finish her brief discourse. The moment she pronounced Godfather’s name, Nutcracker, to whom those words were addressed, made such an atrocious grimace, and his two green eyes flashed so brilliantly, that the terrified little girl halted and then stepped back. But as soon as Nutcracker regained his benevolent physiognomy and his melancholy smile, she assumed that it had all been an illusion, and that the flame of the lamp, agitated by some draft, had thus disfigured the manikin.

Marie even went so far as to make fun of herself and tell herself: “Honestly! It was so stupid of me to believe for even an instant that this wooden figure was capable of making faces at me. Come on! Let’s go over to him and nurse him as his position requires.”

Following this interior monologue, Marie took her protégé back into her arms, stepped over to the glass cabinet, and knocked on the door that had been closed by Fritz. She then said to the new doll:

“I beg you, Mademoiselle Claire, please turn your bed over to my Nutcracker—he’s sick. Make do for one night with the sofa. Remember that you are the picture of health, which is proved by your chubby red cheeks. Besides, one night passes quickly. The sofa is comfortable. And in all of Nuremberg there are not many dolls that are as contented as you.”

Mademoiselle Claire, as we can imagine, did not breathe a word, though it struck the little girl that the new doll looked very glum and very peevish. But Marie, who found in her conscience that she and Mademoiselle Claire had been extra cautious, made no fuss. The girl very carefully pulled over and slipped the patient under the covers, drawing them up to his chin.

Marie then reflected that she was unacquainted with the depth of the new doll’s character because she had arrived only a few hours ago. When Marie had borrowed her bed, the doll seemed to have been in an awful mood. Moreover, Marie figured that something dreadful might have happened to the patient if the manikin were left within the range of that insolent person.

In consequence, Marie placed the bed and Nutcracker on the top shelf of the cabinet, against the lovely hamlet where Fritz’s cavalry was billeted. Next, after placing Mademoiselle Claire on the sofa, Marie shut the cabinet door and was about to rejoin Mademoiselle Trudchen in her bedroom. However, the entire room around that poor girl emitted a throng of terse, dry noises behind the easy chairs, behind the stove, behind the cabinets. The big wall clock, surmounted by a huge gilded owl in lieu of the traditional cuckoo, hummed louder and louder without, however, deciding to strike amidst all this. Marie peered at the clock and she saw that the big, gilded owl had spread its wings, fully covering the dial face. The clock, as well as it could, thrust out its repulsive feline head with its round eyes and its recurved bill. The humming grew louder and louder, changing into a murmur that resembled a human voice, and you could distinguish these words, which seemed to emerge from the beak of the owl:

“Clocks, clocks, hum very softly, Mouse King has a fine ear. Boom, boom, boom, just sing, sing the ancient song. Boom, boom, boom, ring, handbell, ring, ring the final hour, for soon he will be done for.”

And boom, boom, boom, they heard a dozen hollow, husky strokes. Marie was terrified. She shuddered from head to foot, and she was about to flee, when she spotted Godfather Drosselmayer sitting on the clock instead of the owl. Furthermore, the two tails of his yellow frock coat had taken the place of the two wings hanging from the night bird. Upon seeing this, Marie stopped in her tracks and she tearfully exclaimed:

“Godfather Drosselmayer, what are you doing up there? Come down to me, and stop trying to scare me, you wicked man!”

With these words, a shrill hissing and an enraged snickering could be heard all around. Soon you heard thousands of tiny feet pitter-pattering behind the walls. Then you saw thousands of tiny lights flickering through cracks in the walls. When I say “thousands of tiny lights,” I’m mistaken. They were actually thousands of tiny, brilliant eyes. Marie realized that she was surrounded by a whole population of mice, who were preparing to enter the room. And indeed, during the next five minutes, thousands of mice came pitter-pattering through door joints, through chinks in the floor. And trot, trot, trot, and hop, hop, hop, they galloped hither and yon. Soon they lined up in the same fashion in which Fritz arranged his soldiers for battle.

The little girl really liked this disposition, for she didn’t feel the natural and puerile terror that other children feel toward mice. She was probably about to enjoy this spectacle ad infinitum when she suddenly heard a dreadful hissing. It was so acute and so prolonged that it sent icy shivers up and down her spine.

At that moment, the floor rose up under Marie’s feet, and, pushed by a cavernous force, Mouse King, sporting his seven crowned heads, appeared at her feet, amidst sand, plaster, and crushed soil. Each of those seven heads began to hiss and nibble hideously, while the body to which they belonged emerged in its turn. The entire mouse army dashed toward its king, squeaking three times in unison. Next, while keeping their ranks, the mouse regiments started rushing all over the room, heading toward the glass cabinet. Enveloped on all sides, the girl beat a retreat—toward that cabinet.

As we have said, Marie was no scaredy-cat. But when she found herself encircled by that endless horde of mice under the command of that seven-headed monster, she was overwhelmed with fear. Her heart pounded so intensely that her chest was ready to burst. The blood seemed to freeze in her veins. She couldn’t breathe. Half fainting, she reeled backward. Finally: kling, kling, purr. The glass of the cabinet, poked by her elbow, fell on the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces.

That very instant, Marie suffered a sharp pain in her left arm, whereas her heart felt lighter, for she no longer heard those horrible squeaks, squeaks, that had terrified her. Indeed, everything around Marie had grown tranquil again. The mice had disappeared, and the girl believed that, petrified by the noise of shattering glass, those creatures had taken refuge in their holes.

However, following that almost immediate noise, a bizarre clamor resounded in the cabinet, and all the sharp, shrill voices exclaimed with all their weak might: “To arms! To arms!” At the same time, the castle bells started ringing, and murmurs came from all sides: “Mayday! Mayday! Let’s get up! It’s the enemy! Battle, battle, battle!”

Marie turned around. The cabinet was miraculously lit and it was filled with a loud hubbub. All the Harlequins, the Pierrots, the Punchinellos, and the jumping jacks were on the move, scurrying hither and yon, exhorting one another, while the dolls were shredding linen and preparing remedies for the wounded.

Finally, Nutcracker himself flung away his covers and with two feet together he leaped off the bed and onto the floor, yelling: “Crack! Crack! Crack! Stupid heap of mice! Get back to your holes or I’ll take care of you on the spot!”

However, this threat triggered a wide hissing, and Marie realized that the mice had not returned to their holes. Terrified by the clatter of shattering glass, the mice had sought refuge under the tables and under the armchairs, and now they were beginning to venture forth.

Nutcracker, far from being alarmed by the hissing, was now twice as courageous. “Ah! Miserable Mouse King!” he exclaimed. “So it’s you! And you finally accept the challenge that I’ve been offering you for ages! Come on! And let this night decide which of us two is the better one. As for you, my companions, my brothers! If it’s true that we were linked by some tenderness in Zechariah’s shop, then support me in this raw combat! Come on! Forward! Attack! And whoever loves me can follow me!”

No proclamation had ever had a similar effect. Two Harlequins, a Pierrot, two Punchinellos, and three jumping jacks cried out: “Yes, my lord, you can count on us for life and for death! We will triumph under your orders or we will perish with you!”

Upon these words, which proved that the hearts of his friends echoed his sentiments, Nutcracker felt so thoroughly electrified that he drew his saber and, heedless of the dreadful height he was on, he hurled himself from the second shelf. Marie, seeing that perilous leap, cried out, for Nutcracker was sure to break. Now Mademoiselle Claire, who was on the lower shelf, jumped from her sofa and received Nutcracker in her arms.

“Ah! Dear, kind little Claire!” exclaimed Marie, tenderly joining her two hands. “How gravely I misjudged you!”

But Mademoiselle Claire, fully given to the situation, told Nutcracker: “Excuse me, sir. Already wounded and suffering as you are, how can you risk new dangers? Stick to commanding! Let the others fight. Your courage is well known and it won’t gain anything if I furnish more proof.”

Speaking those words, Mademoiselle Claire tried to hold back the valiant Nutcracker. She pressed him against her silk bodice, but he wriggled and struggled so much that she was forced to let him escape. He glided from her arms and, falling to his feet with perfect grace, he placed one knee on the floor and said to her:

“Princess, rest assured that even though you were unjust to me at a certain time, I will never forget you—even in the thickest fray of battle!”

Mademoiselle Claire leaned over him as far as she could and, clutching his little arm, she forced him to stand up again. Next, vividly removing her sparkling spangled belt, she turned it into a scarf that she wanted to slip around the young hero’s neck. But he recoiled two paces. Bowing as evidence of his gratitude for such a great favor, he undid the small, white ribbon with which Marie had bandaged him. He raised the ribbon to his lips, and then drew it around his waist. Light and swift as a bird, brandishing his sword, he leaped from the shelf to the floor.

The squeaking and squealing resumed more fiercely than ever, and Mouse King, as if in response to Nutcracker’s challenge, emerged from under the huge central table. Mouse King was accompanied by his army, while to the right and to the left, the soldiers of the two wings started overrunning the armchairs, where they had entrenched themselves.

The Battle

“Bugles, sound the charge! Drums, call to arms!” hollered Nutcracker. And the bugles of Fritz’s Hussars started blasting, while the drums of his infantry began beating, and you could hear the dull boom of cannons jumping on their mounts.

At the same time, a corps of musicians was formed. There were barbers with their guitars, piferaris with their accordions, Swiss shepherds with their horns, Africans with their triangles. Although not summoned by Nutcracker, they nevertheless began to descend as volunteers from shelf to shelf, playing the March of the Samnites. This got even the most peaceable men excited, and at that very moment, a kind of national guard took shape, commanded by the Swiss mercenary of the parish. The ranks were filled with Harlequins, Punchinellos, Pierrots, and jumping jacks, and in an instant, the guards, arming themselves with whatever they could grab, were prepared for combat. The last to go was a cook, who, abandoning his fire, came down with his skewer, on which he had half roasted a turkey. He now took his position in the ranks. Nutcracker gained control of this intrepid battalion, which, to the shame of the regular troops, was the first to be prepared.

We also have to reveal everything, for one might think we were blinded by our empathy with the illustrious Citizens’ Militia, to which I belong. It was not the fault of Fritz’s Hussars and foot soldiers that they couldn’t press forward as rapidly as the others. After fixing the advanced sentinels and the outlying posts, Fritz had barracked the rest of his army, locking it up in four boxes. The unfortunate prisoners had therefore heard uselessly the drum and the bugle, which summoned them to combat. They were locked up, unable to leave. You could hear them swarming in their boxes like lobsters in a basket. But no matter how hard they tried, they were unable to escape. Finally, the grenadiers, less tightly shut than the others, managed to raise the lid of their box, and they now lent a hand to the chasseurs and the riflemen. Within an instant, they were all on their feet. Sensing how valuable the cavalry would be for them, they went to deliver the Hussars, who started capering on the flanks and lining up four abreast.

However, if the regular troops were several minutes late, they quickly made up for lost time, thanks to the discipline in which Fritz had always maintained them. Horsemen, gunners, foot soldiers started plunging down like an avalanche, amid the applause of Mademoiselle Rose and Mademoiselle Claire, who clapped their hands, watching them pass, and who egged them on with their voices and their gestures. They resembled those beautiful chatelaines from whom they were, no doubt, descended.

However, Mouse King had understood that he would be facing a full army. Indeed, at the center stood Nutcracker with his valiant Civic Guard; at the left, the Hussar regiment, waiting solely for the moment to charge; at the right, a formidable infantry. Meanwhile, on a stool that dominated the whole battlefield, a battery of ten cannons was established. Furthermore, a powerful reserve composed of gingerbread manikins and sugary cavaliers of all colors had remained in the cabinet, and now they were making their presence felt in their turn. But Mouse King was too advanced to move back. And he gave the signal with a “squeak,” which was echoed in unison by his entire army.

At the same time, an artillery broadside, coming from the stool, responded by shooting a hail of bullets into the thick of the mouse masses.

Almost simultaneously, the full Hussar regiment charged forth: On one side, the dust kicked up by the hooves of horses; on the other side, the thickening smoke of the cannons. Either way, Marie was unable to view the battlefield.

Still, amid the booming of cannons, the shouting of combatants, the rattling of the dying, the girl kept hearing the voice of Nutcracker prevailing over the entire fracas.

“Sergeant Harlequin!” he yelled. “Take twenty men, and throw yourself as a sharpshooter on the enemy flanks! Lieutenant Punchinello! Form a square! Captain Clown! Order the platoon to fire! Colonel of the Hussars! Charge in masses and not in fours, as you’ve been doing! Bravo, my lead soldiers! Bravo! If everyone did their duty as you do, we would carry the day!”

However, through that very encouragement, Marie knew that the fighting was ferocious and the victory indecisive. The mice, thrown back by the Hussars, decimated by the platoon firing, knocked over by the hails of bullets, kept returning faster and faster, biting and shredding anything in their path! As in the melees during the period of chivalry, there was an atrocious hand-to-hand combat, in which each participant attacked and defended himself without concern for his neighbor. Nutcracker tried, ineffectively, to govern all the different movements and to proceed in terms of masses. The Hussars, shoved back by an enormous corps of mice, had scattered, and they attempted, ineffectively, to rally around their colonel. A huge battalion of mice had cut them off from the army corps, overwhelming the Civic Guard, who worked miracles.

The Swiss guard of the parish thrashed about with his halberd like a devil in a basin of holy water. The cook skewered entire ranks of mice on his spit. The lead soldiers stood like a lofty wall. But Harlequin, with his twenty men, had been repulsed and so he came here, seeking the protection of the battery. However, Lieutenant Punchinello’s square had been shattered, and, fleeing the remains, he had strewn disorder in the Civic Guard. Finally, Captain Clown had stopped shooting—for lack of cartridges, no doubt—and was now withdrawing, albeit only step-by-step, but at least he was moving.

As the result of this retrograde motion, which was drawn all along the front lines, the battery of cannons was fully exposed. Aware that triumph hinged on that very battery, Mouse King ordered his most seasoned troops to attack it. Within a second, the stool was escaladed, and the gunners were killed on their guns. One gunner even set fire to his own caisson, enveloping some twenty foes in his heroic death.

But all this courage was useless against the sheer numbers, and soon a hail of bullets, taken from his own guns and striking at the very core of Nutcracker’s battalion, informed him that the battery had succumbed to enemy power.

Once the battle was lost, Nutcracker focused purely on making an honorable retreat. Still, to give his troops a breathing spell, he summoned the reserves.

The gingerbread men and the bodies of sugar candy came down from the cabinet and gave tit for tat. These troops were fresh but inexperienced. The gingerbread men were particularly awkward and, striking without rhyme or reason, they crippled friend and foe alike. The bodies of the bonbons stood their ground. But there was nothing homogenous about the combatants. They were emperors, knights, Tyroleans, gardeners, cupids, monkeys, lions, or crocodiles. So they couldn’t unite their progress, and they had power only in masses.

However, their competition had one useful outcome. No sooner had the mice tasted gingerbread men and nibbled on sugar candy bodies than they abandoned their lead soldiers. It was with great difficulty that they had bitten those warriors. And they also abandoned the Punchinellos, the clowns, the Harlequins, the Swiss sentinels, and the cooks, who were simply enveloped in tow and padding. They pounced on the miserable reservists, who were instantaneously surrounded by thousands of mice. After a heroic defense, they were devoured bag and baggage.

Nutcracker wanted to profit from this moment of rest by rallying his army. But the ghastly spectacle of the annihilation of the reserves had frozen even the most fiery courage. Clown was as pale as death; Harlequin’s suit was in rags; a mouse had gnawed into Punchinello’s hump and, like the young Spartan’s fox, the mouse gobbled up his entrails. Finally, the Hussar colonel was taken prisoner together with a segment of his regiment. And, thanks to the horses of these wretched captives, a unit of cavalry mice had just been formed.

There was no issue of victory for unfortunate Nutcracker; nor was there an issue of retreat. The sole issue was death. Nutcracker took charge of a small group of men, who were as intent as he on selling their lives dearly.

During that time, desolation reigned among the dolls. Mademoiselle Claire and Mademoiselle Rose twisted their arms while emitting loud cries.

“Alas!” said Mademoiselle Claire. “Must I die in the prime of life? I? The king’s daughter? With such a lovely future ahead of me?”

“Alas!” said Mademoiselle Rose. “Must I die alive to the enemy’s power? And haven’t I taken good care of myself—only to be gnawed by filthy mice?”

The other dolls scurried tearfully, their cries mingling with the laments of the two principal dolls. Meanwhile, things were going from bad to worse for Nutcracker. He had just been deserted by his few remaining friends. The remnants of the Hussar squadron had sought refuge in the cabinet. The lead soldiers had fallen completely to the enemy power. The artillerists had long since been wiped out. The Civic Guard had died like the three hundred Spartans, without taking a single step back. Nutcracker was joined side by side against the edge of the cabinet, which he tried in vain to escalade. For that, he needed the help of Mademoiselle Claire or Mademoiselle Rose. But the two of them had decided to vanish.

Nutcracker made a final effort. Gathering all his resources, he cried out in the agony of despair: “A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!”

But, like the voice of King Richard III, Nutcracker’s voice was ignored—or rather, it exposed his whereabouts to the enemy. Two sharpshooters pounced on him and grabbed him by his wooden cape. At that same moment, they heard the voice of Mouse King, whose seven heads were hollering. “If you value your necks, take him alive. Remember that I have to avenge my mother. Her torture has to horrify any future Nutcrackers.”

And the king hurled himself on the prisoner!

But Marie couldn’t support that ghastly spectacle any longer. “Oh! My poor Nutcracker!” she sobbed. “Oh! My poor Nutcracker! I love you with all my heart! And now I have to watch you perish like this!”

Marie instinctively, and without realizing what she was doing, pulled off one shoe and flung it with all her strength into the thick of the melee. She had such good aim that the terrible projectile struck Mouse King, and he rolled in the dust. At that same moment, king and army, victors and vanquished, disappeared as if obliterated. Marie felt a sharper pain than ever in her wounded arm. She wanted to reach the easy chair in order to sit. But she didn’t have the strength, and so she fainted.

The Illness

When Marie awoke from her lethargic slumber, she found herself lying in her little bed. The sun, radiant and brilliant, shone through the frosted panes. Next to her sat a visitor, whom she soon recognized as Dr. Wandelstern the surgeon. Once her eyes opened, he murmured: “She’s awake!”

The mother came over and scrutinized her daughter with a nervous and frightened look.

“Ah! Dear Mama!” little Marie exclaimed upon perceiving her. “Have all those dreadful mice gone away? And was my poor Nutcracker saved?”

“For heaven’s sake, my dear Marie! Stop talking nonsense! I ask you: What do the mice have to do with Nutcracker? You naughty child—you scared us all half to death! And all this is what happens when children get obstinate and disobedient. You played with your dolls here until late at night. You probably dozed off, and maybe you were frightened by a little mouse. Finally, in your terror, you banged your elbow against the cabinet mirror. The gash was so bad that when Dr. Wandelstern extracted the last remaining glass fragments, he warned us that you risked cutting your artery and dying of the loss of blood. Thank God I awoke! I don’t know what time it was! But I remembered that I had left you in the salon. I entered it. Poor child! You were sprawled on the floor, near the cabinet. And you were surrounded by a chaos of dolls. Clowns, Punchinellos, lead soldiers, gingerbread men, and Fritz’s Hussars lay strewn around pell-mell. As for you, you were holding Nutcracker on your bleeding arm. But how come you removed your left shoe, which was only two or three steps away?”

“Oh! Mama, Mama!” replied Marie, still shuddering at the memory of all that. “You can see that these are the traces of the great battle that was fought here between the dolls and the mice. What terrified me was to see the victorious mice capturing poor Nutcracker, who was in command of the army of dolls. That was when I flung my shoe at Mouse King. I don’t know anything that occurred after that.”

The surgeon blinked at the mother, who softly told Marie: “Forget about all that, my child, and calm down. All the mice have left, and little Nutcracker is in the mirror cabinet, joyful and healthy.”

The father entered the room in his turn and chatted with the surgeon for a long time. But of all they said, Marie caught only one word: “Delirium!”

Marie guessed that they were skeptical about her story. Now that a new day was dawning, the little girl perfectly understood that they viewed everything that had happened to her as a fable. She didn’t insist, she submitted to whatever they desired, for she was eager to visit her poor Nutcracker. She knew that he had retreated from the free-for-all safe and sound, and for the moment that was all she wished to know.

However, Marie was bored stiff. Because of her injured arm, she couldn’t play. And when she tried to read or to leaf through a picture book, everything spun so quickly before her eyes that she had to renounce that distraction. Time dragged by horribly, and she looked forward to the evening, because that was when her mother sat at her bedside, telling her stories or reading them aloud.

One evening, the mother had just recounted the delightful story of Prince Facardin, when the door opened, and Godfather Drosselmayer stuck in his head, saying:

“I have to see the poor patient with my own two eyes!”

But the instant Marie spotted Godfather Drosselmayer with his glass periwig, his eye patch, and his yellow frock coat, she was flooded with vivid memories. She recalled the night that Nutcracker had lost the famous battle against the mice, and her recollection was so intense that she involuntarily cried out:

“Oh! Godfather Drosselmayer! You were horrible! I saw you clearly when you were straddling the clock, and your wings were covering the clock so that it couldn’t strike the hours. The loud noise of the stroke would have driven away the mice. I heard you calling the king with seven heads. Why didn’t you come to rescue my poor Nutcracker, you awful person, you? Alas! By not coming, you made me get wounded—and in my own bed, to boot!”

The mother listened, wide-eyed. She believed that the poor child was becoming delirious once more. Terrified, she asked her: “Why, what are you saying, dear Marie? Are you losing your mind all over again?”

“Not at all!” Marie retorted. “And Godfather Drosselmayer knows I’m telling the truth!”

However, without responding, the godfather made hideous faces, like a man who’s been walking on live coals. All at once, he recited in a twangy monotone:

 

Perpendicular

Must hum.

Advance and retreat,

Brilliant squadron!

The plaintive clock

Is about to strike midnight.

The owl arrives

And the king flees.

Perpendicular

Must hum.

Advance and retreat,

Brilliant squadron!

 

Marie peered with more and more haggard eyes at the godfather, for he seemed even uglier than usual. She would have been atrociously scared if her mother hadn’t been present, and if Fritz, who had just entered, hadn’t interrupted this bizarre chant by laughing his head off.

“Godfather Drosselmayer!” said Fritz. “Do you know that you are extremely clownish today? You make gestures like my old Punchinello, whom I threw behind the stove—not to mention your song, which lacks common sense.”

But the mother remained very serious. “Dear Medical Counselor,” she said. “That’s a singular joke you’re playing. It appears to have no other goal than to make Marie even sicker than she is.”

“Bah!” replied Godfather. “Dear Madame! Don’t you recognize the clockmaker ditty that I’m in the habit of singing whenever I come here to repair your timepieces?”

At the same moment, he settled by Marie’s bed, saying: “Don’t be angry, dear child, just because I didn’t rip out Mouse King’s fourteen eyes with my bare hands. I knew what I was doing, and today, since I want us to be friends again, I’m going to tell you a story.”

“What kind of story?” Marie asked.

“The story of Krakatuk Nut and Princess Pirlipat. Do you know the story?”

“No, my dear little Godfather,” the girl responded, instantly becoming friends again with the clockmaker. “Tell the story! Tell it!”

“Dear Counselor,” said the mother. “I do hope that your story won’t be as lugubrious as your song.”

“Oh, no! Dear lady!” Godfather replied. “My story is enormously funny.”

“Then do tell us the story!” the children shouted. “Tell us!”

And Godfather Drosselmayer began.

The Tale of Krakatuk Nut and Princess Pirlipat

How Princess Pirlipat was born, and what great joy her birth gave her illustrious parents

 

In the environs of Nuremberg there was a tiny kingdom that was not Prussia or Poland or Bavaria or the Palatinate, and it was ruled by a king.

One day, the king’s wife, who was therefore a queen, gave birth to a little girl, who therefore found herself as a princess by birth, and who received the graceful and distinguished name of Pirlipat.

The king was promptly notified of this happy event. He came rushing, out of breath, and upon seeing this pretty little girl lying in her cradle, he felt the deep satisfaction of being the father of such a charming infant. He was so explosive, that he emitted loud shouts of joy, then started dancing in a whirl, and finally hopped on one foot, saying: “Ah! Great God, you see angels every day. Have you ever seen anyone so beautiful as my Pirlipat?”

The king had been followed by the ministers, the generals, the high officers, the presidents, the councilors, and the judges. Seeing the king dancing and hopping, they all started dancing like him, saying: “No, no, never, Sire! No, no, never! There’s no one in the world so beautiful as your Pirlipat!”

Indeed, my dear children, you will be surprised to learn that no flattery was intended in that response. For there had never been a more beautiful child than Princess Pirlipat since the creation of the world. Her little face seemed woven out of delicate silk flakes—rosy as the roses and white as the lilies. Her eyes were the most sparkling azure, and nothing was more charming than to see the golden threads of her hairdo fuse into darling ringlets, crisp and brilliant curls on alabaster shoulders.

We must add that upon first seeing the light of day, the princess had brought along two rows of tiny teeth—or rather, veritable pearls. Two hours later, the Grand Chancellor, being myopic, got too close to the baby, who bit the man’s finger so vigorously, that despite his adherence to the school of the Stoics, he screamed.

A few people claim that he shrieked: “Damn it!”

Others maintain that in honor of philosophy, he merely said: “Ow! Ow! Ow!”

Today, opinions on this major issue are still divided, since neither of these two parties cares to give in. The only thing on which the “Damn its” and the “Ow! Ow! Ows!” agree, the sole fact that remains incontestable, is that Princess Pirlipat did indeed bite the Grand Chancellor’s finger. This showed the kingdom that there was as much mind as beauty in Pirlipat’s little body. Thus, everyone was happy in this country that was favored by heaven.

Only the queen was tremendously nervous and troubled, but nobody knew why. What struck people most of all was the vigilance with which this anxious mother had the infant’s cradle watched. Not only were all the doors protected by the trabants of the guard, but, aside from the two ladies-in-waiting who stayed near the queen, there were six others seated around the cradle and spelling one another every night. However, what piqued curiosity to the highest degree was something that no one understood: Why was each lady-in-waiting compelled to hold a cat on her lap and to scratch it all night long so that it wouldn’t stop purring?

I am convinced, my dear children, that you are as curious as the inhabitants of that little anonymous kingdom to solve the mystery of the cats. Why did the six ladies have to each keep a cat on her lap and scratch it incessantly so that it wouldn’t stop purring? Well, since you’ll never solve the enigma, I’ll explain it and spare you the headache that would probably result for you.

One day, half a dozen of the finest sovereigns agreed to simultaneously visit our heroine’s future father-in-law, for at that time Princess Pirlipat had not been born as yet. The visiting sovereigns were accompanied by the most agreeable crown princes, hereditary grand dukes, and pretenders. For our host, who was one of the most glorious of monarchs, this was an occasion to make a huge breach in his treasury and to put on lots of tournaments, tilting matches, and plays.

But that wasn’t all. Through the Superintendent of the Royal Kitchens, the king learned that the royal astrologer had announced that it was time to slaughter the pigs. Since the conjunction of the stars proclaimed that this would be a favorable year for cold cuts, the king ordered a vast butchery of pigs in his farmyards. Stepping into his carriage, he now made the rounds personally, each visitor in turn. He was inviting all the kings and princes now staying in the capital to join him in a snack. He wanted to delight in their surprise at the sight of the outstanding meal that he was planning for them. Next, upon coming home, he had himself announced to the queen, and, approaching her, he spoke in a caressing tone that he was in the habit of employing to get what he wanted from her:

“Good, darling, you haven’t forgotten—have you?—how much I love blood pudding? You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

At the king’s very first word, she caught her husband’s drift. Indeed, with those insidious words, His Majesty quite simply meant that she was to devote herself, as she had so often done, to a very useful occupation. Her royal hands were to prepare the greatest possible number of sausages, chitterlings, and blood sausages. The queen therefore smiled at her husband’s declaration. For, while very honorably exercising the profession of queen, she was less sensitive to compliments about her dignity in holding the crown and the scepter than about her skill in making a pudding or a baba. She therefore contented herself with gracefully curtsying to her husband, while telling him that she was his servant in regard to a blood sausage and to everything else.

The Grand Treasurer was to deliver to the royal kitchens the gigantic vermilion cauldron and the enormous silver pots. Next, an immense sandalwood fire was kindled. The queen slipped into her kitchen apron, which was made of white damask, and soon the sweetest fragrances wafted out from the cauldron. These delicious aromas quickly spread through the corridors, swiftly filled all the chambers, and then reached the throne room, where the king was holding counsel.

The king was a gourmet, and so the fragrance made a vivid and pleasurable impression on him. However, since he was an earnest ruler, with a reputation for self-control, he at first resisted the attraction that was pulling him toward the kitchen. But finally, whatever his sway over his passions may have been, he had to yield to the inexpressible ecstasy he was experiencing.

“Gentlemen,” he cried out, saying: “With your permission, I’ll be right back. Wait for me!”

And dashing through chambers and corridors, the king raced to the kitchen, hugged his wife, stirred the contents of the cauldron with his gold scepter, licked it with the tip of his tongue, and, more tranquil though a bit distracted, he returned to the counsel and resumed the discussion where he had interrupted it.

The king had left the kitchen at the crucial moment when the bacon, chopped into small pieces, was about to be roasted on silver grills. The queen, encouraged by the praises she enjoyed, dedicated herself to that important occupation, and the first drops of grease sizzled as they fell on the coals—when suddenly a faint, tremulous voice piped up:

“Sister dear, do offer me a piece of bacon. Since I’m also a queen, I want to gorge myself! I seldom get any decent food, so I wish to have my share of that tasty morsel.”

The queen recognized the voice. It belonged to Lady Mouserink, who had been living in the palace for many long years. She claimed that she was related to the royal family and that she herself was a queen of the Mouse Kingdom. That was why she kept a large court under the kitchen hearth.

The queen was a very good and very gentle person. Out loud, she refused to recognize Lady Mouserink as queen and as sister. But when the queen murmured softly, she showed the lady a vast amount of complaisance and consideration. Her husband, who often reproached her for that, was more of an aristocrat than she, while she had a tendency to depart from custom. Thus we can readily understand why, in this solemn circumstance, the queen didn’t care to refuse to give her young friend what she asked for. Instead, she commanded:

“Advance, Lady Mouserink, advance fearlessly. I authorize it. Taste as much of my bacon as you wish!”

Lady Mouserink appeared merry and lively, and when she jumped into the fireplace, her little hand adroitly seized the pieces of bacon that the queen gave her one after another.

However, drawn by the tiny cries of pleasure uttered by their queen, and especially by the succulent aroma of the grilled bacon, many visitors kept hopping and skipping. First came Lady Mouserink’s seven sons, then her relatives, then her kinfolk—all of them very wicked rascals. They were so terribly fond of their food, and they pounced so intently on the bacon, that the queen, albeit very hospitable, had to point out to them that, if they kept gobbling at that rate, no bacon would be left for the blood sausages. Still, however valid that protest, Lady Mouserink’s seven sons paid it no heed. Setting a poor example for their relatives, and ignoring the rebukes of their mother and queen, they gorged themselves on their aunt’s bacon.

This bacon was on the verge of disappearing altogether—when the cries of the queen, who could no longer manage to drive out her unwanted guests, drew the attention of the wife of the Superintendent of the Royal Kitchens. She, in turn, summoned the head of the kitchens, who summoned the head of the scullions, who came racing, armed with canes, fans, switches, and brooms. And they succeeded in getting the whole Mouse folk back under the hearth.

But victory, though complete, came too soon. There remained scarcely one-fourth of the bacon necessary for cooking up sausages, chitterlings, and blood puddings. According to the indications of the Royal Mathematician, who had been hastily sent for, the residual bacon was scientifically divided between the grand cauldron for blood puddings and the two grand pots for chitterlings and sausages.

Half an hour later, the cannons boomed, the bugles and trumpets blared, and the guests arrived: all the potentates, all the crown princes, all the hereditary dukes, and all the pretenders, and all wearing their most magnificent garb. Some rode in crystal carriages, others were mounted on parade horses. The king awaited them on the perron of the palace, welcoming them with the most amiable courtesy and the most gracious cordiality. After conducting them to the dining hall, he sat down at the head of the table in his quality of suzerain. With his crown on his head and his scepter in his hand, he invited the other monarchs to settle each in the seat assigned by his rank amid the crowned heads, the crown princes, the hereditary dukes, and the pretenders.

The table was laden sumptuously, and everything went smoothly between the soup and the next course. But during the chitterlings course, they noticed that the king looked agitated. With the sausage course, he turned considerably pale. Finally, with the blood pudding course, he peered up at the heavens, sighs escaped his chest, and an agony seemed to rip his soul apart. Eventually, he leaned back in his chair and covered his face with both hands, despairing and sobbing so lamentably that the diners stood up from their places and surrounded him in extreme anxiety.

Indeed, the crisis seemed dreadfully grim. In vain did the Royal Surgeon check the pulse of the wretched monarch, who appeared to be under the brunt of the deepest, most appalling, most unbelievable of calamities. In the end, after the surgeon tried the most violent remedies—such as burned feathers, Epsom salts, and keys on his spine—the king seemed to be coming to somewhat. He half opened his lackluster eyes, and in a very feeble, almost inaudible voice, he stammered this brief phrase:

“Not enough bacon!…”

Now it was the queen who turned pale. She fell to her knees, exclaiming in a voice broken by sobs:

“Oh! My unhappy, unfortunate royal consort! What grief haven’t I caused you by disregarding your remonstrances so often? Now you see the culprit on her knees, and you can punish her as harshly as you wish.”

“What’s this all about?” asked the king. “What haven’t I been told?”

“Alas! Alas!” the queen responded. Her husband had never spoken so crudely to her. “Alas! Alas! It’s Lady Mouserink, with her seven sons, with her nephews, her cousins, and her kinfolk, who has devoured all the bacon.”

The queen could talk no further. All her energy was sapped. She fell back in a faint.

The king rose furiously to his feet and he turned to the wife of the Superintendent of the Royal Kitchens: “Madame! What’s the meaning of this?”

The superintendent’s wife recounted whatever she knew. Upon hearing the queen’s cries, she had hurried over and she had found Her Majesty pitted against Lady Mouserink’s entire family. The superintendent’s wife had then called the kitchen head, who, with the help of his pots, had managed to dispatch all the pillagers back under the hearth. The king, seeing that a crime of lèse-majesté had been committed, gathered all his calm and all his dignity. Given the enormity of this heinous offense, the king ordered an immediate assembly of his cabinet, and the whole business was explained to his most skillful councilors.

The cabinet met and, by a majority of votes, it decided that Lady Mouserink had to stand trial. She was accused of eating the bacon that was meant for the king’s sausages, blood puddings, and chitterlings, and if she was found guilty, she would be exiled forever from the kingdom, she and her entire race, and whatever she owned, all her goods, estates, castles, palaces, royal residences—they would all be confiscated.

However, the king pointed out to his Privy Council and to his dexterous councilors that, during the period of the trial, Lady Mouserink and her family would have lots of time to keep eating her bacon. This would expose the king to affronts like the ones he had just endured in the presence of six crowned heads, not to mention the crown princes, the hereditary dukes, and the pretenders. The king therefore requested a discretionary power in regard to Lady Mouserink and her family. The council, as we can imagine, voted pro forma, granting the monarch the discretionary power he had asked for.

Next, the king dispatched one of his finest coaches, preceding it by a courier to hasten the trip. The monarch was sending for an excellent technician who lived in the town of Nuremberg. His name was Christian-Elias Drosselmayer. The king promptly summoned him to his palace for an urgent matter.

Drosselmayer obeyed instantly, for he was a true artist, who never doubted that such a renowned monarch would summon him to create a masterpiece. The technician mounted the coach, which sped day and night until he was in the king’s presence. Drosselmayer had dashed so quickly that he hadn’t had time to don a suit. Instead, he wore his habitual yellow frock coat. But rather than being angry at this breach of etiquette, the king was grateful. For if the illustrious technician had made a mistake, it meant that he would have been following His Majesty’s orders without delay.

The king, receiving Drosselmayer in his study, described the situation. He had decided to set a great example by purging his entire kingdom of the Mouse race. Alerted by the technician’s vast renown, the king had singled him out to be the executor of his justice. The monarch had only one fear: namely, that no matter how adroit, the technician might see insurmountable difficulties in the project conceived by the royal anger.

But Drosselmayer reassured the king, promising him that by the end of a week, there wouldn’t be a mouse left anywhere in the kingdom.

That same day, the technician started constructing small, oblong, ingenious boxes. Inside each box, he attached a piece of bacon at the end of a wire. By pulling the bacon, the thief, whoever he might be, dropped the door behind him, thus making him a prisoner. In less than a week, one hundred such boxes had been crafted, and they were placed not only beneath the hearth, but also in all the garrets and all the cellars of the palace.

Lady Mouserink was infinitely too wise and too shrewd not to expose Master Drosselmayer’s ruse at first blush. She therefore assembled her seven sons, her nephews, and her cousins, to warn them of the ambushes lying in wait for them. But after seeming to listen because of the respect they owed her rank and the gracious condescendence commanded by her age, the mice retreated, laughing at those terrors. Drawn by the aroma of the roasted bacon, a fragrance headier than any possible protests, they figured they would take advantage of the windfall, which arrived without their knowing from where.

By the end of twenty-four hours, Lady Mouserink’s seven sons, eighteen of her nephews, fifty of her cousins, and two hundred thirty-five of her relatives of different degrees, not counting thousands of her subjects, were caught in the mousetraps, and were shamefully executed.

Lady Mouserink, together with the remnants of her court and the relics of her people, resolved to abandon these places that were stained with the blood of her homeland massacres. The rumors about her resolution transpired and they reached the king. His Majesty congratulated himself, and the court poets produced many sonnets on his victory, while the courtiers compared him to Sesostris, to Julius Caesar, to Alexander the Great.

Only the queen was sad and nervous. She knew Lady Mouserink, and she suspected that the lady would not leave her sons and her kinfolk unavenged. Now, in order to make the king forget her mistake, the queen was preparing, with her own hands, the chopped liver that he loved so much. Suddenly, Lady Mouserink emerged before her and she said to her:

Killed by your spouse without remorse or fear,

Dead are my sons, my nephews, and my cousins dear.

But tremble, tremble, Your Majesty!

The child you carry in your womb today,

Soon the object of your love,

It’s now the object of your hate.

Your spouse has forts, cannons, soldiers,

Technicians, state councilors,

Cabinet ministers, mousetraps,

Mouse Queen has none of these things,

But heaven gave her the teeth that you see!

To devour the heiresses.

Then she disappeared, and no one had laid eyes on her again. However, the queen had realized a few days ago that she was indeed pregnant. She was so terrified by Lady Mouserink’s prediction that she dropped the chopped liver into the fire.

Thus Lady Mouserink had, for a second time, deprived the king of one of his favorite dishes. He hit the roof, and he applauded himself all the more for the coup that he had so happily committed.

Needless to say, Christian-Elias Drosselmayer was sent home with a splendid reward, and he entered Nuremberg in triumph.

 

Despite all the precautions taken by the queen, Lady Mouserink carries out her threat in regard to Princess Pirlipat

 

Now, my dear children, you know as well as I do—don’t you?—why the queen so tightly guarded the miraculous little princess. She feared Lady Mouserink’s revenge. According to what the lady had said, the point was no worse, for the heiress to the happy little nameless kingdom, than the loss of her life, or at least the loss of her beauty—which, we are assured, is far worse for a woman.

What increased, above all, the agitation of the tender mother was that Master Drosselmayer’s devices could do absolutely nothing against the experience with Lady Mouserink.

It is true that the court astrologer, who was also the Grand Augur and the Grand Astrologer, was scared that he might be discharged for being useless if he didn’t stick his nose into this whole business. He now claimed he had definitively read in the stars that only the family of the illustrious Tomcat Murr was able to defend the cradle against the approach of Lady Mouserink. That was why each of the six ladies-in-waiting was forced to keep a male feline of that kingdom incessantly in her lap. Furthermore, that family was attached to the court in their quality of private legation secretaries—cats—whereby a delicate and prolonged scratching was meant to soften these young diplomats, sweeten the laborious service they performed for the state.

But one evening (as you know, my children, there are days when you wake up fast asleep), one evening, the six ladies-in-waiting were sitting around the room as usual, each lady with a cat in her lap. Those six ladies, plus the two intimate ones sitting at the head of the bed, felt gradually sleepier and sleepier despite their efforts to stay awake.

Now each lady kept her feelings to herself, refusing to confide them in her companions and hoping they wouldn’t notice her lack of vigilance. They would thereby watch over her place while she slept. As a result, their eyes closed successively, their hands stopped scratching the cats, and the cats took advantage of the circumstance to doze off.

We couldn’t tell you how long this bizarre slumber lasted, but around midnight one of the intimate ladies woke up with a start. All the persons around her seemed to have fallen into a lethargy. Not the slightest snoring could be heard. Not the faintest breath. The chamber was filled with a deathly hush, in the midst of which nothing could be perceived aside from the worm chewing through the wood. And what happened to the intimate lady-in-waiting upon her seeing a huge and horrible mouse who, standing on her hind legs, had plunged her head into Princess Pirlipat’s cradle and seemed engrossed in gnawing the infant’s face? What happened? The lady-in-waiting stood up and shrieked in terror. Everyone else awoke.

Lady Mouserink—for that’s who it was—dashed toward one of the corners of the chamber. The “private legation councilor” (the cat) raced after her. Alas! He was too late! Lady Mouserink had escaped through a crack in the floor. That same moment, the princess, aroused by all the hubbub, burst into tears. The ladies-in-waiting and the intimate ladies responded with cries of joy. “Praise the Lord!” they exclaimed. Since the princess had exclaimed something, she couldn’t be dead.

And they hurried over to the cradle. But imagine their despair when they saw what had ensued for that charming and delicate creature! That white and rosy face, that small head with golden hair, that mirror of the sky, those azure eyes had been supplanted by an immense and deformed head thrust upon a misshapen and shriveled body. Her two lovely eyes had lost their celestial color and, green, fixed, and haggard, they had blossomed on head level. Her little lips were extended from ear to ear, and her chin was covered with a crisp and fluffy beard that was altogether suitable for an old Punchinello but hideous for a young princess.

At that instant, the queen entered. The six ordinary ladies-in-waiting and the two intimate ones threw themselves facedown on the floor, while the six legation councilors (cats) looked around for an open window so that they might gain the rooftops.

The poor mother’s despair was dreadful. She fainted, and they carried her into the royal chamber.

But it was the miserable father whose torment was seen above all—dreary and profound as it was. They had to padlock his casement windows to keep him from leaping out. They padded his apartment to prevent him from smashing against the walls. Needless to say, they removed his sword, and they didn’t overlook any knife or fork lying around—or any other pointed or cutting implement. This was all the easier, given that he ate nothing during the first two or three days. Instead, he continued reiterating nonstop: “Oh! What a monarch I am! Oh, destiny! How cruel you are!”

Perhaps, instead of accusing destiny, the king should have figured that, like all men, he was the artisan of his own suffering. He might have eaten his blood pudding with a bit less bacon than usual. Furthermore, renouncing all vengeance, he might have left Lady Mouserink and her family under the hearth. The misfortune he would have then bewailed would have never come to pass. However, the king’s reflections did not follow that philosophical route.

On the contrary: Powerful men always believe they need to blame smaller men for any calamities they endure, and so the king shifted responsibility to the skillful technician Christian-Elias Drosselmayer. Quite convinced that, if he returned to court, he would be hanged or beheaded, the technician would ignore any invitation. Instead, he was urged to come and receive a new category that His Majesty had created purely for artists, technicians, and literati.

Master Drosselmayer was not free of pride. He felt that the red ribbon of the Legion of Honor would look good against his yellow frock coat. So he instantly started out. But his joy soon changed into terror. For at the border of the kingdom, sentries were waiting for his arrival. They grabbed hold of the technician and conducted him, brigade by brigade, to the capital.

The king, who, no doubt, feared that Drosselmayer might be moved, didn’t even welcome him in the palace. He was taken straight to Pirlipat’s cradle and told that if, within a month from today, the princess wasn’t restored to her natural state, the technician would pitifully have his head chopped off.

Master Drosselmayer laid no claim to heroism, nor had he ever expected to die anything but a natural death, as the idiom goes. So that threat horrified him. Nonetheless, he soon relied on his knowledge, whereby his personal modesty never prevented him from appreciating the vast scope of his learning. A bit reassured, the technician instantly focused on the first and now the most useful operation. He had to determine whether Pirlipat’s illness could be treated with a remedy or whether it was actually incurable, as he had ascertained from the very beginning.

To this end, he very adroitly disassembled the princess: first the head; then all the limbs one after another. He detached her feet and her hands in order to more comfortably examine not only the joints and the springs, but also the inner construction. Alas! The deeper he delved into the mystery of the Pirlipatian organization, the further he perceived that the more the princess grew, the more hideous and malformed she would become.

The technician therefore cautiously reattached the limbs of the princess. Not knowing what to do or what to become, he lapsed into a profound melancholy. He remained near the cradle, which he was not allowed to leave until the princess had regained her initial form.

Now the fourth week arrived, and it reached Wednesday. As was his habit, the king came by to see if there was any change in the appearance of the princess. Seeing that her exterior was still the same, the king, shaking his scepter at the technician, cried out:

“Christian-Elias Drosselmayer, be warned! You’ve got only three days left to render my daughter as she was before. And if you stubbornly fail to cure her, you’ll be decapitated this Sunday!”

Master Drosselmayer, whose failure was due not so much to obstinacy as to incapacity, started weeping bitterly. With his eyes full of tears, he watched Princess Pirlipat cracking a hazelnut as merrily as if she were the prettiest girl in the world. Now, at that poignant scene, the technician was first struck by a particular delight that the princess had enjoyed since birth—a taste for hazelnuts, which was coupled with the remarkable circumstance that she had been born with teeth. Indeed, with her transformation, she started shouting, and she continued to do so, until, finding a filbert within easy reach, she cracked it, ate the almond, and tranquilly fell asleep. Ever since that time, the two intimate ladies made sure to stuff their pockets with nuts, and to give the princess one or more nuts as soon as she made a face.

“Oh! Instinct of nature! Eternal and impenetrable sympathy with all created beings!” exclaimed the technician. “You show me the door that leads to the solutions of your mysteries. I will knock, and the door will open!”

With these words, which astonished the king, the technician asked His Majesty for permission to consult the court astrologer. The king consented, but only under a heavy escort. Master Drosselmayer would, no doubt, have preferred to go alone. However, since he wasn’t the least bit free to make his own choice, he had to suffer the inevitable and walk along the streets of the capital, escorted like a common criminal.

When the technician reached the astrologer, the two men embraced each other in a torrent of tears, for they had been deeply loving friends for a very long time. They withdrew to an isolated study, and together they leafed through countless tomes about instincts, sympathies, antipathies, and a host of other topics that were no less mysterious.

That night, finally, the astrologer climbed his tower, assisted by the technician, who was himself quite skillful in such matters. Despite the encumbrance of endlessly crisscrossing lines, they discovered a remedy for the princess’s condition. In order to break the spell that made her ugly and in order to restore her full beauty, she needed to do only one thing. She had to eat a Krakatuk Nut, which had a shell so hard that a forty-eight–millimeter cannon could have rolled across it without breaking it. Furthermore, the Nut had to be broken in Pirlipat’s presence by the teeth of a young man who had never shaved, and who, so far in his life, had worn only boots. And lastly, he had to present the almond to the princess with his eyes closed; and, with his eyes still shut, he had to take seven steps backward without stumbling. Such was the answer provided by the stars.

Drosselmayer and the astrologer had been working nonstop for three days and three nights, in order to clear up this whole mysterious affair. It was precisely Saturday evening. The king had completed his dinner and he was tackling his dessert, when the technician, doomed to lose his head at the crack of dawn, entered the royal dining hall. Joyful and lively, he announced that he had finally discovered a method for restoring the princess’s lost beauty. Upon hearing this news, the king squeezed the technician in his arms with touching benevolence and he asked what the method was.

The technician reported the outcome of his consultation with the astrologer.

“I knew, Master Drosselmayer,” the king exclaimed, “that you were not being stubborn in everything you were doing! Fine! It’s settled! We’ll get to work right after dinner. Make sure, my very dear technician, that within ten minutes, the unshaven and booted young man will be here with Krakatuk Nut in his hand. See to it, above all, that as of now he drinks no wine, so he won’t stumble when he backs up like a lobster, moving seven paces. But once the procedure is finished, tell him that I’ll put my wine cellar at his complete disposal, and he can get dead drunk to his heart’s content.”

To the king’s great amazement, Master Drosselmayer seemed dismayed when he heard that discourse. Since Drosselmayer was holding his tongue, the king insisted on knowing why he was silent and why he was glued to the spot instead of setting out to implement the sovereign orders.

“Sire,” said the technician, kneeling down, “it’s true that we have tracked down the method for healing the princess. As we have said, this method consists of having her eat Krakatuk Nut while the Nut is cracked by a young man who has never shaved and who has always worn boots since his birth. Alas! We have neither the young man nor the Nut. We don’t know where to find them and, in all likelihood, we will have an awful time locating Nut and Nutcracker.”

The king hit the roof. He brandished his scepter over the technician’s head and shouted:

“Fine! Then death it is!”

However, the queen knelt down next to Drosselmayer. She pointed out to her august consort that if the technician were beheaded, they would forfeit the last glimmer of hope, which would be preserved only if he were allowed to live. In all probability, the man who found the horoscope would also catch Nut and Nutcracker. They had to believe all the more strongly in the astrologer’s new forecast since none of his predictions had ever come true. Sooner or later, his prognoses had to be right, given that the king, who could never be wrong, had made him his Grand Augur. The princess, barely three months old, was hardly prepared for marriage. Indeed, she probably wouldn’t be ready until the age of fifteen. Hence, Master Drosselmayer and his friend the astrologer had fourteen years and nine months ahead of them in their search for Krakatuk Nut and for the young man who was fated to crack it. One could therefore grant Christian-Elias Drosselmayer a delay, at the end of which he would come back and place himself in the king’s hands—whether or not he possessed the twofold remedy for curing the princess. If he didn’t have the remedy, then he would be mercilessly decapitated; and if he did have the remedy, then he would be generously rewarded.

On that special day, the king had dined to perfection on his two favorite dishes: blood pudding and chopped liver. Being a just man, he lent a benevolent ear to the request of his sensitive and magnanimous spouse. He decided that the technician and the astrologer should instantly depart in their search for Nut and Nutcracker. The king granted them fourteen years and nine months, but solely on condition that at the expiration of that period, the two men would come back and place themselves in the monarch’s power. Should they return empty-handed, he could do with them whatever his royal pleasure liked.

If, on the other hand, they brought back Krakatuk Nut, which was supposed to restore the princess’s original beauty, they would be duly rewarded. The astrologer would receive a lifelong pension of a thousand ducats plus the Telescope of Honor, and the technician would receive a diamond-studded sword, the Order of the Golden Spider (the great order of the state), and a new frock coat. As for finding a young man who was to crack the Nut, the king was less nervous about him. He maintained that they would locate him through reiterated advertisements in native and foreign gazettes.

Touched by this magnanimity, which reduced the difficulty of his task by half, Drosselmayer swore that he would either find Krakatuk Nut or, like the Roman general Regulus, put himself in the king’s hands.

That same evening, the technician and the astrologer left the capital of the kingdom and began their search.

 

How the technician and the astrologer explored
the four corners of the earth and discovered a fifth corner
without finding Krakatuk Nut

 

The technician and the astrologer had already been wandering fourteen years and five months without encountering even a hint of their quest. They had investigated first Europe, then America, then Africa, and then Asia. They had even determined that the world has a fifth part, which scholars have since named New Holland because it was discovered by two Germans.

Now throughout their peregrination, the technician and the astrologer had viewed countless nuts of different shapes and sizes, but they had never stumbled upon Krakatuk Nut. However, in hopes that, alas, proved useless, they had spent many years at the courts of the King of Dates and the Prince of Almonds. They had also, to no avail, consulted the famous Academy of Green Monkeys and the renowned Naturalist Society of Squirrels. Finally, devastated by fatigue, they collapsed on the edge of the great forest that borders on the foot of the Himalayas, and there, profoundly discouraged, they repeated to one another that they had no more than one hundred twenty-two days left to find what they had been futilely hunting for fourteen years and five months.

If I recounted, my dear children, the miraculous adventures that the two seekers had suffered in the course of their long odyssey, I would have to bring us all together every evening for at least a month, which, in the end, would certainly bore you. I will tell you only that Christian-Elias Drosselmayer was the fiercer searcher because his head depended on that famous Nut. Having endured more exhaustion and risked more danger than his companion, he had lost all his hair because of a sunstroke on the equator, and he had lost his right eye because of an arrow shot by a Caribbean chieftain.

Furthermore, the technician’s yellow frock coat, which had not exactly been new when he had left Germany, was now literally falling to pieces. His situation was therefore utterly deplorable, and yet such is a man’s love of life that, thoroughly injured by his successive damages, he waited, with ever-mounting terror, for the moment that he would go and place himself in the hands of the king.

Still, the technician was a man of honor. There was no bargaining on such a solemn occasion. He therefore resolved, whatever it might cost him, to head back to Germany tomorrow. Indeed, there was no time to lose. Fourteen years and five months had worn by, and the two travelers, as we have said, had no more than one hundred twenty-two days to reach the capital of Princess Pirlipat’s father’s kingdom. Drosselmayer informed his friend the astrologer of his courageous resolution, and they decided to start back the next morning.

And indeed, at the crack of dawn, the two travelers slogged out toward Baghdad, from Baghdad they reached Alexandria, in Alexandria they set sail to Venice, from Venice they reached the Tyrol, and from the Tyrol they descended into Princess Pirlipat’s father’s kingdom. During their trek, they had very faintly hoped, from the bottom of their hearts, that the king would be dead or at least in his dotage.

Alas! Neither was the case. Upon their arrival in the capital, the unhappy technician learned that the worthy monarch not only had lost none of his intellectual faculties, but he was even healthier than ever. So the technician was doomed—unless the princess was healed of her own accord (which was impossible) or the king’s heart had softened (which was improbable). Hence, the technician could not elude his dreadful fate.

Still, he presented himself no less boldly at the palace gates, for he was sustained by the idea that he was performing a heroic action. He then asked to speak to the king.

The king, who was a highly accessible ruler, welcoming anyone who had business with him, ordered his master of ceremonies to bring in the two foreigners. The master of ceremonies pointed out to His Majesty that these two men looked very shady, and that their clothes were incredibly tattered. The king replied that one mustn’t judge the heart by the face, and that the habit did not make the monk.

The master of ceremonies, grasping the validity of both proverbs, bowed respectfully and went to summon the technician and the astrologer.

The king was still the same, so they recognized him on the spot. But the two travelers, especially the poor technician, had changed so thoroughly that they were obliged to state their names.

Upon seeing the two men return of their own free will, the king felt a surge of joy, for he was convinced that they wouldn’t have shown up again if they hadn’t found Krakatuk Nut. But he was soon undeceived. The technician, throwing himself at the king’s feet, confessed to him that, despite the most assiduous and conscientious efforts, the technician and his friend, the astrologer, were returning empty-handed.

The king, as we have said, had a bit of a temper, but at bottom his character was outstanding. He was touched by the fact that Drosselmayer had kept his word punctually. So he commuted the original death sentence to lifelong incarceration. As for the astrologer, the monarch was content to exile him.

However, since there were still three days left until the completed deadline of fifteen years and nine months, Master Drosselmayer, who loved his country to the nth degree, asked the king’s permission to profit from those three days by visiting Nuremberg one last time.

This request struck the king as so just that he granted it with no restrictions. The technician, who had only three days for himself, resolved to make good use of the time. As luck would have it, he got seats on the stagecoach, and the two travelers departed instantly. Since the astrologer was in exile, it was all the same to him whether he went to Nuremberg or elsewhere, and so he joined the technician.

The next morning, they reached Nuremberg around ten A.M. Since Master Drosselmayer had only one relative here, his brother Christophe-Zacharias Drosselmayer, a premier toy dealer in Nuremberg, the two travelers went to his home.

This brother was delighted to see poor Christian, whom he had thought dead. At first, he couldn’t recognize the technician because of his baldness and his eye patch. But the visitor showed him his famous yellow frock coat, which, tattered as it was, had preserved a few traces of its original color. In support of that initial proof, the visitor evoked many secret incidents that could be known only by the two brothers, so that the toy dealer had to yield to the facts.

He now asked his brother why he had stayed away from his native town for such a long time, and in what country he had left his hair, his eye, and the holes in his frock coat.

Christian-Elias Drosselmayer had no reason to hide his experiences from his brother. He therefore began by introducing his fellow sufferer. Next, having implemented this customary formality, he described all his misfortunes from A to Z. He ended by saying he had only a few hours to spend with his brother, since, unable to find Krakatuk Nut, he would be entering eternal imprisonment tomorrow.

During that discourse, the toy dealer had repeatedly shaken his fingers, hopped on one leg, and clucked. In an entirely different circumstance, the technician would have most likely asked him what those motions signify. But he was so absorbed in recounting his adventures that he saw nothing. It was only when his brother muttered “Hum! Hum!” twice and “Oh! Oh! Oh!” three times that he asked the meaning of those exclamations.

“The meaning,” said Zacharias, “is that it would be the devil…Oh, no! Oh, yes!”

“That it would be the devil?” the technician repeated.

“Yes…,” the toy dealer continued.

“Yes, what?” Master Drosselmayer asked.

Instead of replying, Zacharias, who, during all these broken questions and answers, had most likely been gathering his memories, now hurled his periwig into the air and started dancing and shouting: “Brother, you are saved! Brother, you won’t go to prison! Brother, unless I’m awfully mistaken, I am the owner of Krakatuk Nut!”

And, offering his flabbergasted brother no further explanation, Christophe-Zacharias dashed out of the apartment and then came back an instant later with a box containing a big gilded filbert, which he presented to the technician.

The latter, not daring to believe in so much good fortune, took the nut hesitantly, turning it every which way and examining it with the care that it deserved. After that inspection, the technician stated that he agreed with his brother, and that he’d be quite astonished if the filbert weren’t Krakatuk Nut. He passed it on to the astrologer, asking his opinion.

After examining the filbert no less attentively than Master Drosselmayer had done, the astrologer shook his head and replied:

“I would share your opinion and, by consequence, your brother’s opinion if the filbert weren’t gilded. Nowhere in the stars have I found that the fruit we are seeking should be clad in this adornment. Besides, how did you come to possess Krakatuk Nut in the first place?”

“Let me explain,” said Zacharius, “how the Nut fell into my hands, and why it has this gilt, which prevents you from recognizing it, and which is certainly not natural to it.”

He then had the two visitors sit down, for he quite judiciously figured that they were bound to be tired after a trek of fourteen years and nine months. And then the toy dealer began his account:

“The same day on which the king summoned you under the pretext of giving you the cross, a stranger arrived in Nuremberg, carrying a sack of nuts that he planned to sell. However, the local nut merchants, who wanted to preserve their monopoly, picked a fight with him, right outside the door to their shop.

“Trying to defend himself more easily, the stranger put his sack on the ground. The battle wore on, much to the satisfaction of the street urchins and the commissioners, when an overloaded wagon rolled across the sack of nuts. Seeing this accident, which they attributed to divine justice, the local merchants felt sufficiently avenged and they left the stranger alone. The stranger collected the nuts, and, indeed, all of them were crushed—except for one, which he presented to me with a singular grin. He urged me to buy that nut for a new twenty-ducat piece minted in 1720, promising that eventually I would no longer be angry about this purchase, so onerous as it might strike me at the moment. I dug through my pocket and I was very surprised to find a twenty-ducat piece quite similar to the one the stranger was requesting of me. The coincidence was so bizarre that I handed him my twenty-ducat piece, he handed me the Nut, and he disappeared.

“I put the Nut up for sale, and even though I was asking for the price it had cost me, plus two kreutzers, it remained on display for seven or eight years; but I could find no buyers. I therefore decided to have it gilded in order to raise its value. But I merely wasted two more twenty-ducat pieces. Until today, the Nut has still found no takers.”

At that moment, the astrologer, who was holding the Nut, shrieked for joy! During Master Drosselmayer’s discourse to his brother, the astrologer, using a penknife, had delicately scraped the gilt on the Nut, and, in a tiny corner of the shell, he had found the name Krakatuk engraved in Chinese characters.

There could no longer be any doubt! The identity of the Nut was acknowledged.

 

How, after finding Krakatuk Nut, the technician had also found the young man who was supposed to crack it

 

Christian-Elias Drosselmayer was so eager to bring the good news to the king that he wanted to climb into the return coach immediately. But Christophe-Zacharias asked him to at least wait until the toy dealer’s son came home. The technician was all the more anxious to honor this request since he hadn’t seen his nephew for fifteen years. In gathering his memories, he recalled that when he, the uncle, had left Nuremberg, the nephew had been a charming little boy of three and a half, whom Elias loved with all his heart.

At that instant, a handsome young man of eighteen or nineteen stepped into the shop and approached the toy dealer, addressing him as “Father.”

After embracing him, Zacharias introduced him to Elias, saying to the young man: “Now hug your uncle!”

The young man hesitated. There was absolutely nothing appealing about Uncle Drosselmayer, with his bald head, his eye patch, and his tattered frock coat. But since the father noticed his son’s hesitation, he was afraid that Elias would be offended. He therefore pushed his son, so that, for better or worse, the young man landed in his uncle’s arms.

Meanwhile, the astrologer was focusing his eyes on the young man, with a continuous attention that appeared so bizarre that he seized upon the first pretext to leave. Being gaped at like that made him ill at ease.

The astrologer asked Zacharias for a few details about his son, and the father readily complied with a thoroughly paternal verbosity.

As his face indicated, young Drosselmayer was seventeen or eighteen years old. From his earliest childhood, he was so funny and so gentle that his mother enjoyed dressing him like the dolls in the shop—that is, like a student or a postilion or a Hungarian. Moreover, it was always a costume that required boots. For, since he had the loveliest feet in the world but slightly thin calves, the boots emphasized the quality and concealed any defects.

“And so,” the astrologer asked Zacharias, “your son has never worn anything but boots?”

Elias’s eyes opened wide.

“My son has never worn anything but boots,” the toy dealer repeated. He then went on: “At the age of ten, I sent him to the University of Tübingen, where he remained until he turned eighteen without developing any of the bad habits of his fellow students, without drinking, without cursing, without fighting. His sole weakness is that he lets four or five bad hairs grow on his chin and he refuses to let a barber touch his face.”

“And so,” the astrologer replied, “your son has never shaved his face?”

Elias’s eyes opened wider and wider.

“Never!” Zacharias responded.

“What about vacations?” the astrologer continued. “How did he spend his time?”

“He stayed in my shop, sporting his pretty little student costume,” said the father, “and, out of sheer gallantry, he cracked nuts for girls who came to buy toys and who nicknamed him Nutcracker.”

“Nutcracker?” the technician exclaimed.

“Nutcracker?” the astrologer echoed.

The two of them exchanged glances while Zacharias looked at both of them.

“My dear sir,” the astrologer said to Zacharias, “I do believe you’ve made your fortune.”

The toy dealer, who was not indifferent to that forecast, wanted an explanation. But the astrologer said they would have to wait until the next morning.

When the technician and the astrologer reentered their chamber, the astrologer threw his arms around his friend, saying: “It’s him! We’ve got him!”

“Do you think so?” Elias asked in the tone of a man who doubts but who wishes nothing better than to be convinced.

“Goodness! If I think so? He seems to have all the qualities.”

“Recapitulate.”

“He has never worn anything but boots.”

“That’s true.”

“He has never been shaved.”

“That’s true, too.”

“Finally, through gallantry or rather by vocation, he stayed in his father’s shop in order to crack nuts for girls who only called him Nutcracker.”

“That’s true, too.”

“My dear friend, all good things come in pairs. Anyway: if you’re still skeptical, let’s go and consult the stars.”

They went up to the terrace of the house. Casting the young man’s horoscope, they saw that he was destined for a great future. This prediction, confirming all the hopes of the astrologer, compelled the technician to submit to his opinion.

“And now,” said the triumphant astrologer, “there are only two things we should not neglect.”

“What are they?” asked Elias.

“First of all, we have to adjust a tough wooden plait to the back of your nephew’s neck—a plait working so well with the jaw that the pressure can double the force.”

“Nothing could be simpler,” Elias replied. “That’s the ABC of mechanics.”

“Secondly,” the astrologer continued, “when we arrive at the residence, we have to carefully hide the fact that we have brought along the young man who is destined to smash Krakatuk Nut. I believe that the more broken teeth and the more dislocated jaws result from efforts to crack Krakatuk Nut, the more likely the king will be to offer a gigantic reward to the man who succeeds where so many others have failed.”

“My dear friend,” the technician responded, “you are a man of good common sense. Let’s go to bed.”

Leaving the terrace and returning to their chamber, the two friends went to bed. They tied their cotton bonnets around their ears and then slept more peacefully than they had ever done in the past fourteen years and nine months.

The next morning, the two friends went to Zacharias and told him about all the wonderful plans they had forged the night before. Now, Zacharias did not lack ambition, and so his paternal ego was flattered that his son should have one of the most powerful jaws in Germany. He therefore enthusiastically accepted the arrangement that took not only Nut but also Nutcracker from his shop.

It was harder convincing the young man. He was especially worried about the plait that was to be applied to the back of his neck in lieu of the elegant purse, which he carried so gracefully. However, the astrologer, as well as the uncle and the father, made him such marvelous promises that he finally gave in. And since Elias Drosselmayer got to work instantly, the plait was soon finished and then tightly screwed into the back of the neck of this hopeful young man. To satisfy the curiosity of our readers, we must hasten to add that this ingenious apparatus succeeded perfectly, and that, from the very outset, our skillful technician obtained the most brilliant results with the toughest and most obstinate pits of apricots and peaches.

After these experiences, the astrologer, the technician, and the young Drosselmayer immediately started out for the residence. Zacharias would have liked to accompany them, but since somebody had to guard the shop, this excellent father sacrificed himself and remained in Nuremberg.

The End of the Tale of Princess Pirlipat

When the travelers arrived, their first concern was to install young Drosselmayer at the inn while the two friends went to the palace to announce that, after searching fruitlessly through the four continents, they had finally tracked down Krakatuk Nut in Nuremberg. But, as they had agreed, they didn’t breathe a word about the man who was to crack it.

There was great joy in the palace. The king promptly summoned his privy councilor, the guardian of public feeling, who kept supreme control over all newspapers. The ruler ordered the councilor to write an official note for the Royal Monitor—a note that other newspaper editors would be forced to repeat. In substance, it would say that any man who believed his teeth were strong enough to crack Krakatuk Nut need merely present himself at the palace. If the operation succeeded, he would receive a generous reward.

Only in a comparable circumstance can we appreciate how many jaws are to be found in a kingdom. There were so many applicants that the authorities were obliged to establish a jury presided over by the Crown Dentist, who examined the contestants to see if they had their thirty-two teeth and to make sure that no tooth was decayed.

Three thousand five hundred candidates were admitted to the first test, which lasted a week, resulting only in an indefinite number of broken teeth and cracked mandibles.

So they decided to make a second appeal. The domestic and foreign gazettes were covered with ads. The king offered the position of lifetime chairman of the Academy and the Order of the Golden Spider to the upper jaw that would smash Krakatuk Nut. Literacy was not required.

This second test drew five thousand applicants. All the learned associations sent their representatives to this important congress. Several members of the French Academy could be spotted, among others, with its lifetime secretary. The latter was unable to compete because of the absence of his teeth, which he had broken while trying to rip up the works of his colleagues.

The second test, which lasted for two weeks, was—alas!—even more disastrous than the first. The delegates of scholarly bodies, among others, stubbornly insisted on trying to crack Nut for the honor of their learned societies. But all they accomplished was to leave their best teeth behind them.

As for Nut, its shell didn’t show even a single trace of the efforts to penetrate it.

The king was in despair. He resolved to make a dramatic move. Since he had no male descendant, he published a third ad in all domestic and foreign gazettes. The new ad said that whoever cracked Krakatuk Nut would be granted the hand of Princess Pirlipat and the succession to the throne. The sole condition was that the contender had to be between sixteen and twenty-four years old.

The guarantee of that reward moved the whole of Germany. The candidates came from every corner of Europe. Indeed, they would also have come from Asia, Africa, and America as well as from the fifth continent, which had been discovered by Elias Drosselmayer and his friend the astrologer. But their time was limited. The readers could have judiciously reflected that only when they read the ad, the test could have already commenced or already finished.

This time, the technician and the astrologer felt that the moment had come for them to produce young Drosselmayer, for the king could not have supplied a higher prize or a more wonderful reward. The two travelers were confident about their success even though a throng of princes with royal or imperial jaws had arrived. The two friends, however, did not register with the Bureau of Inscriptions (you are free to confuse the Bureau of Inscriptions with the Bureau of Belles Lettres) until right before it closed. The name Nathaniel Drosselmayer was the 11,375th and it was the final name on the list.

Their efforts were all the same. Nathaniel Drosselmayer’s 11,374 competitors were disabled. And on the nineteenth day of the test, at 11:35 A.M., just as the princess was completing her fifteenth year, the name Nathaniel Drosselmayer was called out. The young man presented himself, accompanied by his two godfathers—the technician and the astrologer.

This was the first time these two illustrious personages had seen the princess since leaving the side of her cradle. Since then, she had undergone tremendous changes. But, to be perfectly frank as a historian, the changes had not been to her advantage. When the two friends had left her, she had been merely awful. But now she had become dreadful.

Her body had grown a lot but with no weight. Nor could one understand how these skinny legs, these feeble hips, this shriveled torso could support that monstrous head. That head was made up of the same bristly hair, the same green eyes, the same immense mouth, the same fluffy chin, except that everything was fifteen years older. Upon seeing this hideous freak, poor Nathaniel shuddered and he asked the technician and the astrologer whether they were absolutely certain that the meat of Krakatuk Nut would restore the princess’s beauty. If she remained in her present state, Nathaniel was willing to take the test for the glory of succeeding where so many others had failed. But he would leave the honor of marriage and the benefit of succession to the throne to whoever would care to accept them. Needless to say, the technician and the astrologer assured their godson that once Nut was cracked and its meat was eaten, Pirlipat would instantly revert to being the most beautiful princess on earth.

But, if the sight of the princess had frozen poor Nathaniel’s heart, we must say in his honor that his presence had produced the very opposite effect on the sensitive heart of the successor to the crown. And she couldn’t help exclaiming: “Oh! I hope that he’s the man who cracks Nut!”

To which the Supervisor of the Princess’s Education retorted: “I must point out to Your Highness that it is not customary for a young and lovely princess like yourself to voice her opinion in such matters.”

Now, Nathaniel was appealing enough to turn the heads of all the princesses in the world. He sported a short, violet velvet polonaise with frogs and loops as well as gold buttons, a garment that his uncle had ordered for this solemn occasion. Nathaniel also wore similar culottes, plus charming little boots, which were so snug and well polished that they looked painted. It was only that miserable wooden pigtail screwed in his nape that slightly marred the ensemble. But, by inserting extension pieces, Uncle Drosselmayer had provided the shape of a small cape, which, in a pinch, could pass for a vagary of Nathaniel’s wardrobe, or for some new fashion that his tailor, given the circumstance, was trying to introduce at court very gently.

And so, watching the young and charming little man enter the court, the princess’s ladies-in-waiting very softly murmured to one another the words that the princess had been imprudent enough to voice out loud. Nor was there a single person, not even the king and the queen, who did not wish at the bottom of their hearts that Nathaniel would carry the day.

Young Drosselmayer approached the royal family with a self-confidence that doubled the hopes of the well-wishers. Arriving in front of the royal rostrum, he bowed to the king and the queen, then to the princess, then to the ladies-in-waiting. Next, the Grand Master of Ceremony handed him Krakatuk Nut, which the young man took delicately between his index and his thumb, like a conjuror playing with his vanishing ball. He then inserted Nut into his mouth, violently punched the wooden plait, and—Crack! Crack!—he crushed the shell into several pieces. Next, he skillfully slipped the kernel out of the attached filaments and presented it to the princess, drawing a both elegant and respectful metal doormat. After that, he shut his eyes and began walking backward.

As soon as the princess swallowed the nut meat—Oh, miracle!—the deformed monster vanished and was replaced by a girl of angelic beauty. Her face seemed woven out of silk flakes as rosy as roses and as white as lilies. Her eyes were a sparkling azure, and the abundant curls formed by gold threads tumbled down over her alabaster shoulders.

The trumpets blared and the cymbals clanged—to beat the band! The joyful shouts of the people responded to the clamor of the instruments. Like at Pirlipat’s birth, the king, the ministers, the councilors, and the judges began dancing and hopping, and they had to sprinkle cologne on the face of the queen, who had fainted in sheer delight. This huge tumult troubled young Drosselmayer, who, we recall, had to take those seven paces backward in order to complete his mission.

Still, he pulled himself together with a power that inspired the greatest hopes for the time when he himself would be ruling. He was just extending his leg for the seventh pace when, all at once, Mouse Queen pierced through the floor, squealing horribly as she scurried between the legs of the future crown prince. At that moment, he lowered his heel right into Mouse Queen, which caused him to stagger and very nearly fall.

Oh! Fatality! The handsome young man was instantly as malformed as the princess had been before him. His legs were skinny, his shriveled body could barely support his enormous and repulsive head. His eyes were green, haggard, and bulging. Finally, his mouth was split from ear to ear, and his pretty little burgeoning beard changed into a soft, white material that was later identified as cotton.

However, the offender who caused this turn of events was punished even as she caused it. Lady Mouserink bled and twisted on the floor. Thus her evil did not go unpenalized. Indeed, young Drosselmayer’s boot heel had pressed her so violently against the floor that the crush was mortal. As she lay there, twisting and writhing, she exclaimed with all the strength of her agonizing voice:

 

Krakatuk! Krakatuk! Oh, Nut so hard!

It is to you I owe the death I endure.

Heeheeheehee…

But the future will hold my revenge:

My son will even the score, Nutcracker.

Teeteeteetee…

Farewell, life,

Taken too soon!

Farewell, sky,

Cup of honey!

Farewell, world,

Fertile source!

Ah, I am dying!

Heeheetee! See!

 

Lady Mouserink’s final breath may not have been so well rhymed. But if one is allowed a single fault in this versification, it is—we agree—in rendering the final sigh.

Once the final sigh was rendered, they summoned the Grand Royal Felt Maker. He picked Lady Mouserink up by her tail and carried her away, promising to unite her with the unhappy remnants of her family, who, fifteen years and several months ago, had been buried in a mass grave.

Meanwhile, no one but the technician and the astrologer had focused on Nathaniel Drosselmayer. The princess, unaware of his condition, ordered her servants to bring her the young hero. Despite the rebukes of the Supervisor for Education, she was eager to thank Nathaniel. But no sooner did she set eyes on him than she buried her face in her hands and, forgetting his service to her, she exclaimed:

“Get out! Get out! You terrible Nutcracker! Get out! Get out!”

The grand marshal of the palace instantly grabbed poor Nathaniel’s shoulders and pushed him down the stairs.

The king, furious that they had dared to propose a Nutcracker as his son-in-law, blamed the astrologer and the technician. He refused to grant the astrologer the pension of ten thousand ducats, plus the Telescope of Honor. And he refused to award the technician the diamond-studded sword, plus the Royal Order of the Golden Spider and the yellow frock coat. Instead of all those prizes that he owed them, the king exiled both men from his kingdom, allowing them a mere twenty-four hours to reach the border. They had to obey. The technician, the astrologer, and young Drosselmayer (now Nutcracker) left the capital and crossed the border.

At nightfall, however, the two savants consulted the stars again and they read in their conjunction that, albeit deformed, their godson would nevertheless become prince and then king, unless he preferred remaining a private citizen—that would be totally up to him. It would come about when his malformation disappeared, and his malformation would disappear once he commanded his side of a battle. This conflict would claim the life of Mouse Prince, whom, after the deaths of her first seven sons, Lady Mouserink had borne with seven heads. And this prince was the current Mouse King. Finally, despite his ugliness, Nutcracker would have to gain the love of a pretty lady.

While awaiting these brilliant destinies, Nathaniel Drosselmayer, who had left his father’s boutique as an only child, reentered it as Nutcracker. Needless to say, his father didn’t recognize him at all. And when he asked the technician and the astrologer about his son, these two illustrious personages replied with the composure that characterizes scholars. They explained that the king and the queen had refused to let the princess’s savior leave, so that young Nathaniel had remained at court, overwhelmed with glory and honor.

As for unhappy Nutcracker, who felt everything that was distressing about his position, he didn’t breathe a word. He was waiting for the change that was bound to occur in him. Still, despite the gentleness of his nature and the stoicism of his mind, we must admit that, at the very bottom of his enormous mouth, he kept one of his uncle’s biggest teeth. Seeking the young man at the very moment that he least expected him to be, and inveigled by his marvelous promises, Drosselmayer was the one and only cause of the horrible misfortune that had befallen him.

 

Well, my dear children, there you have the tale of Krakatuk Nut and Princess Pirlipat, as recounted by Godfather Drosselmayer to little Marie. And now you know why we say about a difficult thing:

“That’s a hard nut to crack.”

The Uncle and the Nephew

If any of my readers, girls or boys, had ever cut themselves on broken glass, which they might have done on their days of disobedience, they must know from experience that this is a particularly unpleasant cut because it takes forever to heal. Marie was therefore compelled to spend an entire week in bed, for she felt dizzy whenever she tried to stand up. In the end, she was completely cured and she could skip around the room as she had done before the accident.

Either we are unjust toward our little heroine or we can easily understand why her first visit was at the glass cabinet. It looked absolutely charming: The broken pane had been replaced, and behind the other panes, scrupulously cleaned by Mademoiselle Trudchen, the trees, the houses, and the dolls of the new year appeared, fresh, brilliant, and polished. But, among all the treasures of her juvenile realm, and before anything else, what stood out for Marie was her Nutcracker. He smiled at her from the second shelf, and his teeth were in as good a state as they had ever been.

As Marie happily contemplated her favorite, a certain thought, which had already occurred to her several times, now made her heart sink. She figured that everything her godfather had related was no fairy tale. It was all a history of Nutcracker’s quarrels with the late Mouse Queen and her son, the prince regnant. Marie therefore realized that Nutcracker could be none other than young Drosselmayer of Nuremberg, her godfather’s pleasant but spellbound nephew. Nor could the ingenious technician of the king, Pirlipat’s father, be anyone but Drosselmayer. She had never doubted it for even a second once his yellow frock coat had surfaced in the narrative. And her conviction had deepened when she saw that he had lost his hair because of sunstroke, and his eye because of an arrow. The latter had necessitated the fabrication of the dreadful eye patch and the former her invention of the inspired glass periwig, which we talked about at the beginning of this account.

“But why didn’t your uncle help you, poor Nutcracker?” said Marie in front of the glass cabinet. Looking at her protégé, she considered that the disenchantment of that poor little fellow depended on their victory in the battle. His elevation to the rank of monarch over the kingdom of dolls marked these dolls as being ready to submit to his authority. Marie recalled that during the combat the dolls had obeyed Nutcracker just as soldiers obey a general. Her godfather’s indifference caused her all the more pain in that she was positive that these dolls, to whom her imagination gave life and movement, actually lived and moved.

However, things were different in the glass cabinet, at least initially. Everything was tranquil and immobile. Yet, rather than renouncing her inner conviction, Marie attributed all those things to the spell cast by the Mouse Queen and her son. The little girl was involved so deeply in her sentiment that, albeit watching Nutcracker, she soon continued to tell him aloud what she had started to tell him very softly.

“Still,” Marie went on, “even if you’re unable to move or just to breathe the slightest word because of the spell, I’m certain, my dear Herr Drosselmayer, that you understand me perfectly. In fact, you are well aware of my intentions toward you. So please count on my support if you need it. Meanwhile, keep calm. I’m going to ask your uncle to help you. He is so adroit that we have to hope he’ll come to your aid, as slightly as he may care for you.”

Despite Marie’s eloquence, Nutcracker didn’t budge. However, a sigh appeared to pass very softly across the glass cabinet while the panes began reverberating very gently. The sounds were so miraculously tender that Marie felt as if a voice as sweet as a small silver chime were saying: “Dear little Marie, my guardian angel. I’ll be yours, Marie, all yours.”

Hearing those mysterious words, Marie, across a thrill that shot through her entire body, felt overwhelmed by a singular well-being.

Meantime, twilight had set in. The judge entered together with Drosselmayer. Mademoiselle Trudchen had laid out the tea service in the twinkling of an eye, and the entire family sat down around the table. Everyone was chatting merrily. As for Marie, she had taken hold of her little armchair and had wordlessly settled at her godfather’s feet. Then, in an instant when everybody happened to be silent, Marie raised her big, blue eyes and stared at her godfather’s face.

“Now I know, dear Godfather,” she said, “that my Nutcracker is your nephew, young Drosselmayer of Nuremberg. He became the prince and the king of the kingdom of dolls, as was so accurately forecast by your companion, the astrologer. But you do know that the nephew is involved in fierce open warfare with Mouse King. Honestly, dear Godfather, why didn’t you come to his aid when you were an owl mounted on the clock? And why are you still abandoning him even now?”

At these words, Marie once again described the famous battle that she had witnessed. She spoke amid the laughter of her father, her mother, and Mademoiselle Trudchen. The only ones who frowned were Fritz and Godfather.

“Just where,” said the godfather, “does this little girl find all the silly things that occur to her?”

“She has a very lively imagination,” said the mother. “These are basically dreams and visions created by her fever.”

“And the proof,” said Fritz, “is that she says my Red Hussars fled the battle, which couldn’t be further from the truth—unless they’re abominable cowards. In which case—darn it all!—they’d be risking nothing, and I’d knock them silly!”

With a bizarre grin, Godfather Drosselmayer took little Marie on his lap and spoke more gently than before:

“Dear child, you don’t realize what path you’re choosing if you so heatedly take up Nutcracker’s interests? You’ll have to endure a lot of suffering if you continue siding with the poor, disgraced candidate. You see, Mouse King considers him his mother’s killer and he’ll persecute him by all possible means. In any case, it’s not I, do you hear, it’s only you who can save him. Be firm and loyal, and it will all work out for the best.”

Neither Marie nor anyone else grasped a single bit of that discourse. Furthermore, it sounded so outlandish to the judge that he wordlessly took hold of the medical counselor and, after checking his pulse, he said: “My dear friend, you’ve got a high fever. I advise you to go to bed.”

The Capital

During the night after the scene that we have just described, the moon was shining with all its power, slipping a light ray between the twisted curtains of the chamber. Little Marie, sleeping near her mother, was awakened by a noise that seemed to come from a corner and was punctuated by sharp hissing and prolonged squealing.

“Alas!” exclaimed Marie, who had heard those noises during the famous evening of the battle. “Alas! The mice are coming back, Mama, Mama, Mama!” But no matter how strenuous her efforts, her voice faded in her mouth. She tried to leave, but she couldn’t move her arms and legs—she appeared virtually nailed to her bed. Turning her horrified eyes to the corner from which the noise was coming, Marie saw Mouse King scratching himself a passage through the wall, making the hole bigger and bigger. First one of his heads poked out, then two, then three, until finally all seven heads, each one crowned. After touring the room several times, like a conqueror taking possession of his conquest, Mouse King leaped up to little Marie’s nightstand. There, he gazed at the girl with his carbuncle eyes, whistling and grinding his teeth while talking:

“Hee hee hee! You have to give me your sugar pills and your marzipan cookies, little girl. Otherwise I’ll devour your friend Nutcracker!” After voicing that threat, Mouse King escaped through his hole.

Marie was so terrified by the dreadful apparition that when she awoke in the morning, she had a pale face and a heavy heart—and even more so because she didn’t dare describe what she had experienced that night. She was afraid the others would make fun of her. The account reached her lips twenty times, regarding either her mother or her brother. But she caught herself every time. She was still convinced that neither would believe her. However, what struck her the most clearly in this confusion was that she would have to sacrifice her sugar pills and marzipan cookies in order to save Nutcracker. That same evening, she put all her sweets on the edge of the cabinet.

The next morning, the judge’s wife said: “Honestly, I don’t know where all these mice are coming from—bursting into our home! Just look, my poor Marie,” she went on, taking the little girl into the parlor. “Those nasty beasts have gobbled up all the goodies!”

The judge’s wife was making a mistake. Instead of “gobbled up,” she ought to have said “spoiled.” For this gourmand, Mouse King, didn’t much care for marzipan. He had just nibbled the cookies so thoroughly that they had to be thrown away.

Moreover, since it wasn’t bonbons either that Marie preferred, she didn’t truly regret the sacrifice demanded of her by Mouse King. Believing he’d be satisfied with that first contribution, she was delighted that she had gotten Nutcracker off so easily.

Unfortunately, her enjoyment did not last. That night, she was awoken by squeals and hisses.

Alas! It was Mouse King again, his eyes sparkling more horribly than in the previous night. And in the same voice, mixed with squeals and hisses, he said to Marie: “You have to give me your sugar dolls and your biscuit dolls, little girl. Otherwise I’ll devour your friend Nutcracker.”

And the Mouse King scurried away and vanished through his hole.

The next morning, Marie, who was terribly distressed, headed straight for the glass cabinet. With a mournful gaze, she surveyed her sugar dolls and her biscuit dolls. Her pain was certainly natural, for nobody had ever seen such a little girl with such a big sweet tooth.

“Alas!” said little Marie, turning toward Nutcracker. “Dear Herr Drosselmayer, what wouldn’t I do to save you! But you’ll agree that the demand made on me is quite harsh.”

Nutcracker now looked so lamentable that Marie, who believed she saw Mouse King’s jaw open in order to devour Nutcracker, resolved to make this sacrifice, too, in order to save the unhappy young man. That same evening, she therefore placed her sugar dolls and her biscuit dolls on the edge of the cabinet just as she had placed her sugar pills and marzipan cookies there the previous night. But, by way of saying farewell, Marie kissed her dolls each in turn—her shepherds, her shepherdesses, and their sheep. And behind the herd, there was a puffy-cheeked baby whom Marie particularly liked.

“This is too much!” the judge’s wife cried out the next morning. “Some awful mice must have established their domicile in the glass cabinet. They’ve devoured all of poor Marie’s dolls.”

Thick tears welled up from Marie’s eyes, but they dried up almost instantly, giving way to a gentle smile, for she told herself: “Who cares about shepherds, shepherdesses, and sheep? Nutcracker is saved!”

“But,” said Fritz, who had had a pensive air about him throughout the conversation, “let me remind you, dear Mama, that the baker has an excellent gray legation adviser—a cat. We can find him, and he can soon put an end to this business by munching the mice one after the other, and after the mice Lady Mouserink herself, and Mouse King as well as his royal mother.”

“Fine,” replied the judge’s wife, “but the legation adviser is going to jump on the tables and the fireplace mantels and shatter my cups and my glasses.”

“Oh, come on!” said Fritz. “There’s no danger! The baker’s legation adviser is too skillful to commit such blunders. I wish I could walk on the edges of gutters and the ridges of roofs as solidly and proficiently as he does.”

“No cats in the house! No cats here!” cried the judge’s wife, who couldn’t stand cats.

“But,” said the judge, drawn by the noise, “there was something helpful in what Herr Fritz has stated: Instead of a cat, we can use mousetraps.”

“Goodness!” exclaimed Fritz. “They’re very welcome here since Godfather Drosselmayer invented the mousetrap.”

Everyone burst out laughing. Now after a narrow search of the entire house, they decided that no such implement existed here. So they sent to the godfather’s home for an outstanding mousetrap, which was enticed by a piece of bacon and put in the very place where the mice had wrought so much havoc the preceding night.

Marie went to bed, hoping that in the morning, Mouse King would be found in the trap box to which his greediness would lead him. But, around eleven P.M., when Marie was drifting into her early sleep, she was awoken by something cold and hairy that was hopping about on her arms and her face. At the same instant, the squealing and hissing that she was thoroughly familiar with reverberated in her ears. Dreadful Mouse King was there, on her bolster, his eyes scintillating with a gory flame, and his seven mouths open as if he were about to devour poor Marie.

“I thumb my nose! I thumb my nose!” said Mouse King. “I won’t enter the small box. Your bacon doesn’t tempt me! I won’t be caught! I thumb my nose! But you have to give me your picture books and your petite silk gown. Otherwise, watch out! I’ll devour your Nutcracker.”

We can understand why, after such a demand, Marie woke up in the morning with her soul full of pain and her eyes full of tears. Thus her mother told her nothing new when she informed her that the trap was useless, and that Mouse King must have suspected some kind of trap. Next, when the mother left to take care of preparations for breakfast, Marie stepped into the salon and, heading toward the glass cabinet, she sobbed:

“Alas, my good and dear Herr Drosselmayer! Where is he going to stop? When I’ve given Mouse King my lovely picture books to tear up and my beautiful petite silk gown to rip apart—the gown the Infant Jesus gave me for Christmas—Mouse King still won’t be content. He’ll require something new every day. And once I have nothing more to give him, he may devour me in your stead. Alas! Poor child that I am, what should I do, my good and dear Herr Drosselmayer? What should I do?”

Amid her weeping and lamenting, Marie noticed that Nutcracker had a drop of blood on his neck. The day on which Marie had learned that her protégé was the toy dealer’s son, and the medical counselor’s nephew, she had stopped carrying Nutcracker in her arms. She had no longer caressed or embraced him. Indeed her shyness toward him was so great that she hadn’t even dared to touch him with a fingertip.

But at this moment, seeing he was hurt, and fearing his injury might be dangerous, Marie carefully removed him from the glass cabinet and wiped that blood away with her handkerchief. Now what was her amazement when she abruptly felt Nutcracker beginning to stir in her hand! His mouth slashed to the right and to the left, which made it look even bigger and, with great difficulty, he finished his movements, articulating these words:

“Ah! My very dear Fräulein Silberhaus, my excellent friend! How much do I owe you, and how grateful must I be to you! Do not sacrifice your picture books and your silk gown for my sake. Just get me a sword, a good sword, and I’ll take care of the rest!”

Nutcracker wanted to keep talking, but his speech grew unintelligible, his voice faded completely, and his eyes, briefly animated by the most tender melancholy, were now immobile and lackluster.

Marie felt no terror. Quite the opposite: She jumped for joy, delighted as she was that she could save Nutcracker without sacrificing her picture books and her silk gown. Only one thing worried her. She had to know where to find the good sword that the little fellow was asking for.

The little girl decided to unburden herself and describe her problems to Fritz, who, apart from his braggadocio, was, as she knew, an obliging boy. She therefore took him to the glass cabinet and told him about everything that had happened to her with Nutcracker and Mouse King. Marie ended her account by informing Fritz what service she expected of him. The only thing to make an impact on Fritz was the fact that his Hussars had actually lacked courage in the thick of battle. He asked Marie if the accusation was true, and she affirmed that it was true. Now since he knew the little girl to be incapable of lying, he reached into the cabinet and gave a long speech, which seemed to inspire a great shame.

And that wasn’t all. To punish the entire regiment with their leaders as proxies, he lowered the rank of each and every officer one by one. He also ordered the trumpeters not to play the march “Hussars of the Guard” for a whole year. Then, turning to Marie, he said:

“As for Nutcracker, he seems to be a decent boy, and I think I can help him get a sword. Yesterday I cashiered an old major of the Cuirassiers—with his pension, of course. He had completed his hitch and so I assume he no longer needs his saber, which has an excellent blade.”

Next they had to track down the major and they found him squandering the pension that Fritz had awarded him. The major was at a small, far-flung inn at the most out-of-the-way nook of the third shelf of the cabinet. As Fritz had assumed, the major didn’t cause any problems in handing over his saber, which was now useless for him.

That night, Marie couldn’t fall asleep. She was so wide awake that she could hear the twelve strokes emitted by the clock in the salon. Scarcely had the vibrations of the last stroke faded when bizarre noises resounded from the cabinet, and the clashing of swords made it seem as if two fierce adversaries were facing each other. Suddenly, one of the combatants squealed.

“Mouse King!” exclaimed Marie, both joyful and terrified.

At first, nothing budged. But then somebody tapped softly, very softly, and a harmonious voice spoke:

“My very dear Mademoiselle Silberhaus, I am bringing you some wonderful news! Please open the door, I beg you!”

Marie recognized young Drosselmayer’s voice. She slipped into her little gown and briskly opened the door. There was Nutcracker, his left hand clutching a blood-stained saber, his right hand gripping a candle. Upon seeing Marie, he knelt before her and said:

“You alone, Mademoiselle, animated me with the chivalrous courage that I have just deployed. You also gave my arm the strength to fight the insolent creature who dared to threaten you. That miserable Mouse King is now bathing in his own blood. Please, Mademoiselle, would you disdain the trophies of victory, which are offered by a knight who will be devoted to you until his last breath?”

Nutcracker removed Mouse King’s seven gold crowns from his left arm, having worn them as bracelets, and he presented them to Marie, who was thrilled to accept them.

Encouraged by this benevolence, Nutcracker stood up and continued:

“Oh, my dear Demoiselle Silberhaus, now that I have vanquished my enemy, what admirable things could I not show you if you had the gracious condescendence to accompany me for only a few paces? Oh, do it, do it, my dear demoiselle, I beg you.”

Marie didn’t waver for even an instant. She followed Nutcracker, knowing that she owed him her gratitude and quite certain that he had no designs on her.

“I’ll follow you, my dear Herr Drosselmayer,” she said. “But the trip mustn’t be long and the destination mustn’t be far—you see, I didn’t get enough sleep last night.”

“Then,” said Nutcracker, “I’ll choose the shorter road even though it’s the more difficult one.”

Next he walked ahead, followed by Marie.

The Kingdom of Dolls

The two of them soon arrived in front of an old and huge armoire that stood in a corridor right next to the door, serving as a wardrobe. Nutcracker halted. To her great astonishment, Marie noticed that the cabinet leaves, usually shut tight, were wide open. As a result, she had a marvelous view of her father’s travel pelisse, a fox skin hanging in front of the other garments. Nutcracker very skillfully climbed up along the edges. With the help of frogs and loops, he managed to reach the great crest, which, attached by a thick braid, hung down the back of the pelisse. Nutcracker promptly drew forth some charming cedar steps, which he arranged in such a way that their base touched the ground while their head vanished inside the sleeve of the pelisse.

“And now, my dear Mademoiselle,” said Nutcracker, “please be so kind as to give me your hand and go up together with me.”

Marie obeyed. And scarcely was she seen through the sleeve than a light sparkled in front of her. Suddenly, she was transported to the middle of a fragrant meadow, which scintillated as if it had been completely strewn with precious stones.

“Oh, my goodness!” cried Marie, bedazzled. “Just where are we, my dear Herr Drosselmayer?”

“We are in the Sugar Candy Plain, Mademoiselle. But we won’t stop off here, if you don’t mind. We will immediately pass through this gate.”

Only now did Marie, raising her eyes, notice an admirable gate through which you could leave the plain. The gate seemed to be built out of white marble, red marble, and brown marble. But when Marie drew nearer, she saw that the entire gate was made of preserves—orgeat blossoms, pralines, and currants. That was why, according to Nutcracker, this gate was known as the Praline Gate.

The gate opened upon an immense gallery supported by columns of barley sugar. On top of the gallery, six monkeys clad in red were making music—if not the most melodious then at least the most original. Marie was in such a hurry to arrive that she didn’t even realize she was walking on a pavement of pistachios and macaroons, which she quite simply mistook for marble.

At last, she reached the end of the gallery, and no sooner was she out in the fresh air than she found herself overpowered by the most delicious perfumes, which emanated from a charming little forest that opened in front of her. This forest, which would have been dark without its countless lights, was so thoroughly illuminated that you could sharply distinguish the gold and silver fruits which were suspended from branches adorned by ribbons and bouquets and similar to those of joyful newlyweds.

“Oh, my dear Herr Drosselmayer!” cried Marie. “Please tell me! What is this charming place?”

“We’re in Christmas Forest, Mademoiselle,” said Nutcracker. “This is where they get the trees on which the Infant Jesus hangs his presents.”

“Oh!” Marie continued. “Couldn’t I stop here for a moment? It’s so comfortable and it smells so good!”

Nutcracker applauded, and several shepherds and shepherdesses, huntsmen and huntswomen emerged from the forest. They were so white and delicate that they looked like refined sugar. They were also carrying a lovely easy chair made of chocolate encrusted with angelica. They placed a jujube cushion on the chair and they very cordially urged Marie to sit down.

No sooner was she sitting than, as is customary in operas, the shepherds and shepherdesses, the huntsmen and huntswomen took their positions. They began to dance a delightful ballet accompanied by horns. The huntsmen blew the horns in a very masculine way that colored their faces so that they looked as if they had made preserves of roses. When the performance was done, they vanished in the bushes.

“Please forgive me, my dear Mademoiselle Silberhaus,” said Nutcracker, giving Marie his hand. “Forgive me for offering you such a dreadful ballet. These rascals can only keep reiterating the same choreography that they’ve performed a hundred times. As for the huntsmen, they blew their horns like good-for-nothings. I assure you that I’ll be dealing with them all. Let’s leave these nobodies and let’s continue our promenade, if you please.”

“Why, I find all these things very appealing,” said Marie, accepting Nutcracker’s invitation. “It strikes me, my dear Herr Drosselmayer, that you’re being unfair to the little dancers.”

Nutcracker pouted, which signified: “We’ll see, and your indulgence will be counted in their favor.”

They went on, arriving on the banks of a creek that seemed to exhale all the fragrances that filled the air.

“This,” said Nutcracker without even waiting for Marie to question him, “is the Orange River. It’s one of the smallest rivers in the kingdom. Apart from its lovely scents, it can’t be compared to the Lemonade River, which flows into the Southern Sea, which is known as the Punch Sea, and it can’t be compared to Lake Orgeat, which empties into the Northern Sea, which is known as the Almond Milk Sea.”

Not far from there lay a small village, in which houses, churches, the presbytery—in short, everything was brown. However, the roofs were gilded, and the walls were resplendent and encrusted with small pink, blue, and white bonbons.

“That’s Marzipan Hamlet,” said Nutcracker. “It’s a genteel hamlet, as you can see, and it’s situated on the Honey Creek. The inhabitants are a pleasant sight to behold, but they are always in a bad mood because they suffer from constant toothaches.

“However, dear Mademoiselle Silberhaus, we can’t halt at every village and every townlet in the kingdom. To the capital! To the capital!”

Nutcracker walked on, still holding Marie’s hand. But he now moved more briskly, for Marie, who was very curious, walked at his side, as light as a bird. After a while, the scent of roses wafted through the air, and everything around them took on a rosy tint. Marie noticed that it was the fragrance and the reflection of a river of attar of roses, which rolled its little waves with a charming melody. Silver swans with gold necklaces glided slowly on the water, crooning the most delicious songs, and this very joyful harmony seemed to make the diamond fish skip around them.

“Ah!” Marie explained. “This is the lovely river that Godfather Drosselmayer wanted to give me at Christmas, and I’m the little girl who petted the swans.”

The Journey

Nutcracker clapped again, and the river of attar of roses swelled perceptibly. And from its agitated waves, a wagon of seashells emerged. This vehicle, covered with jewels that sparkled in the sun, was drawn by gold dolphins. A dozen charming little Moors, sporting dorado scales on their heads and suits of hummingbird feathers, jumped ashore. And they gently carried first Marie, then Nutcracker, to the vehicle, which began to cross the water.

The sight of Marie on her seashell carriage was, we must admit, a ravishing tableau, comparable to Cleopatra’s voyage up the Cydnus River. Marie was bathed in fragrances as she floated on waves of attar of roses, drawn along by gold dolphins, who reared their heads, launching brilliant sheaves of rosy crystal in the air, then falling back in a rain that ran the gamut of all the colors of the rainbow. Finally, with all the senses imbued with joy, a sweet harmony began to resound, and delicate, silvery voices could be heard singing:

“Who is sailing on the river of attar of roses? Is it Queen Mab or Queen Titania? Answer me, you little fish who scintillate under the waves, similar to liquid lightning. Answer me, you graceful swans who glide across the watery surface. Answer me, you colorful birds who fly through the air like hovering flowers.”

Meanwhile, the dozen little Moors, who had jumped in back of the seashell vehicle, rhythmically shook their small parasols, which were decorated with chimes. The shade cast by these parasols provided a shelter for Marie, who, leaning over the water, smiled at the charming face, which smiled at her from every passing wave.

Thus she forded the river of attar of roses and approached the opposite shore. Then, when the shore was only an oar’s length away, the dozen Moors leaped into the water or on the riverbank. Forming a chain, they carried Marie and Nutcracker on an angelica carpet strewn with peppermint candy.

Next, they had to pass through a small grove, which was perhaps even lovelier than Christmas Forest, whereby each tree shimmered and sparkled with its own essence. But most remarkable of all were the fruits hanging from the various branches. Not only were these fruits of a singular color and transparency—some of them were yellow like topazes, others red like rubies, topped off by a strange perfume.

“We’re in Marmalade Forest,” said Nutcracker, “and the capital is just beyond that border.”

And indeed, when Marie pushed away the final branches, she was stunned by the vastness, the magnificence, and the originality of the city that now loomed before them on a lawn of flowers. Not only were the walls and the belfries resplendent with the most vivid colors, but there was no chance of encountering the same shapes of the buildings anywhere else on earth. As for the gates and the ramparts, they were constructed entirely of glacé fruits, their true colors shining in the sun and dazzled more brilliant by the crystallized sugar that covered them. At the main gate, through which they entered the capital, silver soldiers presented their weapons, and a little manikin, enveloped in a gold brocade house coat, flung his arms around Nutcracker, saying:

“Oh! Dear Prince, you’ve come at last! Welcome to Marmaladeburg.”

Marie was a bit astonished by the pompous title given Nutcracker. But she was then so distracted by the noise of a huge number of voices jabbering together that she asked Nutcracker if people were rioting or celebrating in the capital of the Kingdom of Dolls.

“Neither one, dear Mademoiselle Silberhaus,” replied Nutcracker. “You see, the capital is a joyful, densely populated city that creates a hullabaloo on the surface of the earth. And this occurs every single day, as you will see. Just take the trouble to keep going forward—that’s all I ask of you!”

Impelled by her own curiosity as well as Nutcracker’s cordial invitation, Marie quickened her steps. Soon she arrived at the marketplace, which had the most magnificent vista in the world. All the surrounding houses were sugar candy, with galleries upon galleries. And at the center of the square, in the shape of an obelisk, there was a gigantic brioche, in the midst of which four fountains bubbled away: lemonade, orangeade, orgeat, and currant syrup. As for the basins, they were filled with whipped cream so appetizing that countless very elegant people, who appeared to be at the acme of fashion, were publicly eating the whipped cream with spoons. However, most agreeable and most entertaining at once were the charming little people strolling arm in arm, elbowing one another, laughing, singing, chatting at the top of their lungs—all of which unleashed the merry tumult that Marie had heard. Aside from the inhabitants of the capital, there were men from every corner of the world: Armenians, Jews, Greeks, Tyroleans, officers, soldiers, preachers, Capuchin monks, shepherds, Punchinellos—in short, all kinds of men, jugglers and tumblers, whom you encounter in the world.

Soon the tumult intensified at the entrance to a street leading to the square, and the merrymakers stepped aside, allowing the passage of a cortege. It was the Grand Mogul carried on a palanquin and escorted by ninety-three grandees of his kingdom and seven hundred slaves. But at that very moment, in a parallel street, the Grand Sultan came galloping along, accompanied by three hundred Janissaries. The two sovereigns had always been rivals, so to speak, and therefore enemies. As a result, the members of their suites rarely crossed paths without getting into a brawl.

The situation, as we can readily understand, was different when these two powerful monarchs met face to face. First of all, there was profound confusion, which the citizens tried to escape. Soon, the air was alive with shouts of fury and despair. A gardener, using the handle of a spade, had lopped off the head of a Brahman, who was highly esteemed in his caste. The Grand Sultan himself had knocked a terrified Punchinello off his mount, the victim tumbling between the legs of his quadruped. The brouhaha was getting worse and worse—when they had a surprise encounter with the man in the brocade robe, the same man who had saluted Nutcracker as “Prince” at the city gates. Now, in a single leap, the stranger reached the height of the gigantic brioche, where he rang the bell three times, a loud, clear, twinkling bell, and he cried out three times:

“Confectioner! Confectioner! Confectioner!”

Instantly the tumult faded. The two embroiled corteges disembroiled. Someone was brushing the Grand Sultan, who was covered with dust. Someone else was returning the Brahman’s head, recommending that he avoid sneezing for three days. Otherwise he might lose his head!

With calm restored, people were joyful again, and they each returned to sipping lemonade, orangeade, and currant syrup at the fountain and wolfing down big spoonfuls of whipped cream from the basins. “But my dear Herr Drosselmayer,” said Marie, “how come that word, if you pronounce it three times, has such an effect on these little people? Confectioner! Confectioner! Confectioner!”

“I must tell you, Fräulein,” Nutcracker responded, “that on the basis of their experiences, the people of Marmaladeburg believe in metempsychosis. They live under the influence of a prime cause known as ‘Confectioner’—a principle that, according to caprice, gives them the shape they desire. And they acquire that shape by being baked for a more or less prolonged time. Now since everyone feels that his shape is the best, no one ever cares to alter it. That’s what gives the word ‘Confectioner’ its magical power over the inhabitants.

“And when the mayor pronounces that word, it is strong enough to put down the worst tumult, as you have just seen. At such a moment, each person forgets earthly matters—fractured ribs and bumps on the head. Then, entering his home, he asks himself:

“‘Oh, God! What is man and what can’t he become?’”

While chatting, they arrived at a palace that, spreading a rosy light, was surmounted by a hundred elegant, aerial turrets. The walls showed scattered nosegays of violets, narcissi, tulips, and jasmine, and these various colors enhanced the rosy background against which it stood out. The enormous cupola at the center of the palace was strewn with thousands of gold and silver stars.

“Oh, my goodness!” Marie exclaimed. “What is this marvelous building?”

“It is the Palace of the Marzipans,” replied Nutcracker, “—that is to say, one of the most remarkable monuments in the capital of the Kingdom of Dolls.”

However, absorbed as Marie was in her contemplative admiration, she nevertheless realized that the roof on one big tower was entirely gone, and that little gingerbread manikins on a cinnamon scaffold were trying to replace it. She wanted to ask Nutcracker about that disaster, but he cut her off:

“Alas! Not so long ago, this palace was threatened with a great deal of damage if not total dilapidation. The giant Sweet-Tooth had lightly bit into that tower, and he had even started nibbling on the cupola. But then the Marmaladeburgers brought a fourth of a town (named Nougat) and a huge portion of the Angelica Forest. Seeing these tributes, the giant agreed to withdraw, wreaking no further havoc than what you now see.”

At this point, they heard some sweet and charming music. The gates of the palace opened of their own accord, and twelve little pageboys emerged, clutching sheaves of aromatic herbs lit up like torches. Each head was composed of a pearl; six pageboys had bodies made of rubies, and six had bodies made of emeralds. And each page very nicely trotted along on two small feet of gold engraved meticulously in the style of Benvenuto Cellini.

They were followed by four ladies, who were the same size as Mademoiselle Claire, the new doll, but so splendidly clad, so richly adorned that Marie couldn’t fail to perceive in them the crown princesses of Marmaladeburg. Upon spotting Nutcracker, the four ladies flung their arms around him with demonstrations of love, while exclaiming in one voice:

“Oh! My prince! My excellent prince!…Oh! My brother! My excellent brother!”

Nutcracker sounded deeply moved, as he dried the many tears that were gushing from his eyes. Taking Marie’s hand, he said grandiloquently to the four princesses:

“My dear sisters, may I introduce Fräulein Marie Silberhaus, the daughter of Magistrate Silberhaus of Nuremberg, a gentleman who is highly esteemed in his native city. It was his daughter who saved my life, just as I had lost the battle. She flung her slipper at Mouse King, and later on she had the goodness to lend me the saber of a retired major. Had she not done those things, I would now be moldering in the grave or, even worse, be devoured by Mouse King.

“Ah! Dear Fräulein Silberhaus!” cried Nutcracker, unable to master his excitement. “Pirlipat, Princess Pirlipat, albeit the king’s daughter, is not worthy of untying the laces of your pretty little shoes!”

“Oh, no! Quite certainly!” the four princesses repeated in chorus.

And throwing their arms around Marie, they exclaimed: “Oh! Noble liberator of our dearly beloved prince and brother! Oh! Excellent Fräulein Silberhaus!”

And with these exclamations, which their joyously swollen hearts did not allow them to develop any further, the four princesses conducted Marie and Nutcracker into the palace. Here they urged the visitors to sit on charming little couches made of cedar and brazilwood and strewn with gold flowers. Saying they wanted to prepare the meal themselves, the princesses went in search of numerous small vessels and small bowls of the finest Japanese porcelain, spoons, knives, forks, saucepans, and other kitchenware in gold and silver. They brought the loveliest fruits and the tastiest candies that Marie had ever seen, and they made such a tremendous effort that Marie could tell that the princesses of Marmaladeburg were marvelous chefs. Now since Marie knew a thing or two about cooking, she tacitly wanted to take an active part in the proceedings. As if she could read Marie’s mind, the most beautiful of Nutcracker’s four sisters handed the little girl a small gold mortar, saying:

“Dear liberator of my brother, please crush some of that sugar candy for me.”

Marie instantly did so, and while she was gently pounding away, making a delightful melody, Nutcracker started to describe all his adventures in detail. However, during his account, Marie was struck by something bizarre. Little by little, young Drosselmayer’s words and the crushing of the mortar reached her ears only indistinctly. Soon she was virtually enveloped by a flimsy mist. Then the mist changed into a silvery gauze, which grew thicker and thicker around her as it gradually veiled the sight of Nutcracker and his sisters, the princesses. A strange singing, which reminded the little girl of the crooning she had heard on the river of attar of roses, mingled with the growing murmur of the water. Now it seemed to Marie that the waves were billowing underneath her, plunging and lifting her. She felt she was ascending—high, higher, far higher, and prrrrrrrrrrrr! And paff! And now she felt she was plunging down from a height that she couldn’t measure.

Conclusion

You can’t plummet thousands of feet without waking up. So Marie woke up, and upon waking up, she found herself in her little bed. It was broad daylight, and her mother was at her side, saying:

“Is it possible to be as lazy as you? Come on, let’s get up! And let’s get dressed very fast—breakfast is waiting for us.”

“Oh, dear, sweet mother,” said Marie, wide-eyed with astonishment. “Where did the young Herr Drosselmayer take me last night, and what admirable things did he show me?”

Marie recounted everything that we have just described. And when she was done, her mother said to her:

“You’ve had a very long and charming dream, dear little Marie. But now that you’re awake, you’ve got to forget all that. Come and have breakfast.”

But while dressing, Marie persisted in maintaining that it hadn’t been a dream, that she had really seen all those things. Her mother then went to the cabinet, took Nutcracker (who was on the third shelf as usual), handed him to her daughter, and said:

“You foolish child, how can you imagine that this doll, which is composed of wood and cloth, can have life, motion, and reflection?”

“But dear Mama,” little Marie responded impatiently, “I know perfectly well that Nutcracker is no one else but the young Herr Drosselmayer, our godfather’s nephew.”

Marie heard a blast of mirth behind her.

The judge, Fritz, and Mademoiselle Trudchen were laughing their heads off at Marie’s expense.

“Ah!” cried Marie. “Aren’t you also making fun of my Nutcracker, dear Papa? Yet he spoke very respectfully about you when we entered the Marzipan Palace and he introduced me to his sisters, the princesses.”

The hilarity grew so loud that Marie understood she had to provide some kind of evidence of what she had told them. Otherwise they would think she had lost her mind. Stepping into the adjacent room, she picked up a small casket in which she had carefully stored the seven crowns of Mouse King. Then she returned, saying:

“Look, dear Mama. Here are Mouse King’s seven crowns, which Nutcracker gave me last night as a sign of his victory.”

The judge, quite amazed, scrutinized the crowns. Fashioned out of an unknown and brilliant metal, they were engraved with a finesse that human hands were incapable of implementing. The judge was unable to stop the examination, and he declared the crowns to be so precious that he ignored Fritz’s appeals. Indeed, the boy stood on tiptoe to see them and he asked whether he could touch them. But his father refused to let him touch even one.

Her parents pressured Marie to tell them the origin of these tiny crowns, but she stuck to her account. Next, when her father, annoyed at what he regarded as her mulishness, called her a liar, the little girl burst into tears and cried out:

“Alas! Poor child that I am—what do you want me to say?”

At that moment, the door opened. The godfather appeared and he exclaimed in his turn:

“What’s the matter? What have they done to my godchild, making her cry and sob like this? What’s wrong? What’s the matter?”

The judge instructed the godfather about everything that had occurred. He then showed the godfather the crowns. But barely did he see them than he started guffawing:

“Ah! Ah! It’s a great joke! Those are the crowns I wore on my watch chain several years ago. I gave them to my godchild on her second birthday—don’t you remember, dear judge?”

The parents wracked their brains, but they couldn’t ferret out a single reminiscence of that event. Still and all, they took the godfather at his word, so that their faces gradually regained their expressions of ordinary kindness. Seeing this, Marie dashed over to her godfather and exclaimed:

“But you know all this, Godfather Drosselmayer. Admit that Nutcracker is your nephew and that he’s the person who gave you these seven crowns!”

However, the godfather seemed to take the matter poorly. His brow furrowed and he scowled so deeply that the judge called little Marie over, taking her between his legs and saying:

“Now listen to me, my dear child! I’m speaking to you very seriously. Do me a favor and discard those wild fantasies once and for all! If you happen to say yet again that your ugly and misshapen Nutcracker is the nephew of our friend, Godfather Drosselmayer, I warn you that I will throw all your dolls out the window—not only Herr Nutcracker but all your other dolls, too, including Mademoiselle Claire.”

Poor Marie no longer dared to talk about all the beautiful fancies that filled her imagination. But my young readers, especially the girls, will understand the effect of spending just a single hour in as gorgeous a country as the Kingdom of Dolls, and viewing as succulent a city as Marmaladeburg. The traveler visiting these places will not easily forget them.

Marie therefore tried to speak to her brother about that whole business. But he had lost all his confidence in her the instant she had dared to tell him that his Hussars had taken flight. Convinced by their father that Marie had lied, Fritz restored the earlier ranks of his officers, and he permitted the trumpeters to play “The March of the Hussars of the Guard” again. But this rehabilitation did not prevent Marie from believing what pleased her about their courage.

The little girl didn’t dare talk about her own adventures. However, she was endlessly besieged by her memories of the Kingdom of Dolls. And when her mind dwelt on these memories, she reviewed everything as if she were still in Christmas Forest or in Rose Attar River or in the city of Marmaladeburg. Instead of playing with her toys as she had done before, she just sat there, silent and immobile, keeping her thoughts to herself. As a result, people called her the Little Dreamer.

But one day, with his glass periwig lying on the floor, his tongue darting into a corner of his mouth, the sleeves of his yellow jacket rolled up, Drosselmayer was repairing a clock. He had inserted a long, pointed instrument into its gears. Marie happened to be sitting by the glass cabinet, watching Nutcracker, as was her habit. She was so absorbed in her reveries that, suddenly forgetting that not only her godfather but also her mother were present, Marie accidentally cried out:

“Ah! Dear Herr Drosselmayer! If you weren’t made of wood, as my father claims, and if you really existed, I wouldn’t imitate Princess Pirlipat, I wouldn’t desert you. To oblige me, you wouldn’t have to be a charming young man, for I truly love you. Ah!”

But no sooner had Marie heaved a sigh than the room was filled with such a racket that the little girl fainted and tumbled to the floor.

When she came to, she found herself in her mother’s arms, and her mother said to her:

“How is it possible, I ask you, that a big girl like yourself can be foolish enough to fall off her chair—and at the very moment that Herr Drosselmayer’s nephew has finished his travels and has returned to Nuremberg? Come on! Wipe your eyes and be good!”

Marie indeed wiped her eyes and, turning toward the door, which opened at that moment, she spotted her godfather. With his glass periwig on his head, his hat under his arm, his yellow frock coat on his torso, he was smiling with an air of satisfaction. Moreover, he was holding the hand of a young man, who was very tiny but very nicely shaped and very handsome.

The young man was wearing a superb red velvet frock coat with gold embroideries. He was also sporting white silk stockings and glossy patent-leather shoes. He had a delightful nosegay on his jabot and he was very daintily groomed and powdered, while a perfectly braided queue was hanging down his back. Furthermore, the little sword at his side looked studded with jewels, and the hat under his arm was woven of the finest silk.

The young man’s amiable manners became known instantly. For no sooner had he entered than he deposited a huge number of magnificent toys at Marie’s feet. More than anything else, he gave Marie the most delectable marzipans and the most delicious bonbons that she had ever tasted in all her life (aside from those she had enjoyed in the Kingdom of Dolls). Regarding Fritz: As if the godfather’s nephew had guessed the boy’s military pleasures, he brought him a saber—the finest Damascus blade. Nor was that all. When, at the end of the meal, they reached dessert, the amicable Nutcracker cracked nuts for the entire company. Even the hardest nuts couldn’t resist him for a second. His right hand placed the nut in the boy’s teeth, his left hand drew the braid, and crack! The nut shattered into pieces.

Marie had reddened upon spotting that handsome little fellow, and she reddened even deeper when, after dinner, he invited her to join him in passing the glass cabinet.

“Come on, children, come on! And have a good time!” said the godfather. “I don’t need the salon. All the clocks of my friend the judge are working properly.”

The two young people stepped into the parlor. But scarcely was young Drosselmayer alone with Marie when he knelt down on one foot and spoke to her:

“Oh, my excellent Fräulein Silberhaus! You see at your feet the happy Drosselmayer whose life you saved in this same place. Furthermore, you’ve been good enough to tell me that you wouldn’t reject me like the ugly Princess Pirlipat—if, to serve you, I had turned hideous. Now, the spell cast on me by Mouse Queen would lose its total impact on the day that, despite my ugly face, I were loved by a young and pretty girl. At that very moment, I would stop being a stupid Nutcracker, and I would revert to my original form, which is not disagreeable, as you can see. So, my dear Fräulein, if you still feel the same way about me, please do me the honor of giving me your beloved hand, sharing my throne and my crown, and reigning with me over the Kingdom of Dolls, for I have now become its king again.”

Marie gently helped young Drosselmayer to stand up, and she said to him:

“You are a good and friendly ruler, Your Majesty, and you have a charming kingdom adorned with magnificent palaces and inhabited by very cheerful subjects. I therefore accept you as my fiancé, provided my parents have no objection.”

The salon door opened very softly. But the young people paid it no heed, they were too engrossed in their own feelings. Mother and Father and Godfather came forward, shouting “Bravo!” with all their strength. Marie was as red as a cherry, while the young man was unfazed. He went over to her parents, and with a graceful bow, he paid them a lovely compliment. He then asked for Marie’s hand, and it was granted to him on the spot.

That same day, Marie was engaged to young Drosselmayer on condition that the wedding take place in a year.

One year later, the fiancé came for his bride in a small mother-of-pearl carriage encrusted with gold and silver and drawn by ponies no larger than sheep. These creatures had an inestimable value, for there was nothing like them anywhere in the world. The bridegroom conducted his bride into Marzipan Palace, where they were married by the castle chaplain. Twenty-two thousand figurines, covered with pearls, diamonds, and dazzling jewels, danced at the celebration.

At this hour, Marie is still queen of the gorgeous kingdom, where we see brilliant Christmas Forests everywhere, rivers of orangeade, orgeat, and attar of roses, diaphanous palaces of sugar finer than snow and more transparent than ice. And finally, all kinds of magnificent and miraculous things—provided your eyes are sharp enough to see them.

The End of the History of a Nutcracker