Soup from a Sausage Skewer
by
Hans Christian Andersen
(1858)
E had such an excellent dinner
yesterday,” said an old mouse of the female sex to another who had not
been present at the feast. “I sat number twenty-one below the mouse-king,
which was not a bad place. Shall I tell you what we had? Everything was
first rate. Mouldy bread, tallow candle, and sausage. And then, when we
had finished that course, the same came on all over again; it was as good
as two feasts. We were very sociable, and there was as much joking and
fun as if we had been all of one family circle. Nothing was left but the
sausage skewers, and this formed a subject of conversation, till at last
it turned to the proverb, ‘Soup from sausage skins;’ or, as the people in
the neighboring country call it, ‘Soup from a sausage skewer.’ Every one
had heard the proverb, but no one had ever tasted the soup, much less
prepared it. A capital toast was drunk to the inventor of the soup, and
some one said he ought to be made a relieving officer to the poor. Was
not that witty? Then the old mouse-king rose and promised that the young
lady-mouse who should learn how best to prepare this much-admired and
savory soup should be his queen, and a year and a day should be allowed
for the purpose.”
“That was not at all a bad proposal,” said the other mouse; “but how is
the soup made?”
“Ah, that is more than I can tell you. All the young lady mice were
asking the same question. They wished very much to be queen, but they did
not want to take the trouble of going out into the world to learn how to
make soup, which was absolutely necessary to be done first. But it is not
every one who would care to leave her family, or her happy corner by the
fire-side at home, even to be made queen. It is not always easy to find
bacon and cheese-rind in foreign lands every day, and it is not pleasant
to have to endure hunger, and be perhaps, after all, eaten up alive by
the cat.”
Most probably some such thoughts as these discouraged the majority from
going out into the world to collect the required information. Only four
mice gave notice that they were ready to set out on the journey. They
were young and lively, but poor. Each of them wished to visit one of the
four divisions of the world, so that it might be seen which was the most
favored by fortune. Every one took a sausage skewer as a traveller’s
staff, and to remind them of the object of their journey. They left home
early in May, and none of them returned till the first of May in the
following year, and then only three of them. Nothing was seen or heard of
the fourth, although the day of decision was close at hand. “Ah, yes,
there is always some trouble mixed up with the greatest pleasure,” said
the mouse-king; but he gave orders that all the mice within a circle of
many miles should be invited at once. They were to assemble in the
kitchen, and the three travelled mice were to stand in a row before them,
while a sausage skewer, covered with crape, was to be stuck up instead of
the missing mouse. No one dared to express an opinion until the king
spoke, and desired one of them to go on with her story. And now we shall
hear what she said.
HEN I first went out into the world,”
said the little mouse, “I fancied, as so many of my age do, that I
already knew everything, but it was not so. It takes years to acquire
great knowledge. I went at once to sea in a ship bound for the north. I
had been told that the ship’s cook must know how to prepare every dish at
sea, and it is easy enough to do that with plenty of sides of bacon, and
large tubs of salt meat and mouldy flour. There I found plenty of
delicate food, but no opportunity for learning how to make soup from a
sausage skewer. We sailed on for many days and nights; the ship rocked
fearfully, and we did not escape without a wetting. As soon as we arrived
at the port to which the ship was bound, I left it, and went on shore at
a place far towards the north. It is a wonderful thing to leave your own
little corner at home, to hide yourself in a ship where there are sure to
be some nice snug corners for shelter, then suddenly to find yourself
thousands of miles away in a foreign land. I saw large pathless forests
of pine and birch trees, which smelt so strong that I sneezed and thought
of sausage. There were great lakes also which looked as black as ink at a
distance, but were quite clear when I came close to them. Large swans
were floating upon them, and I thought at first they were only foam, they
lay so still; but when I saw them walk and fly, I knew what they were
directly. They belong to the goose species, one can see that by their
walk. No one can attempt to disguise family descent. I kept with my own
kind, and associated with the forest and field mice, who, however, knew
very little, especially about what I wanted to know, and which had
actually made me travel abroad. The idea that soup could be made from a
sausage skewer was to them such an out-of-the-way, unlikely thought, that
it was repeated from one to another through the whole forest. They
declared that the problem would never be solved, that the thing was an
impossibility. How little I thought that in this place, on the very first
night, I should be initiated into the manner of its preparation.
“It was the height of summer, which the mice told me was the reason that
the forest smelt so strong, and that the herbs were so fragrant, and the
lakes with the white swimming swans so dark, and yet so clear. On the
margin of the wood, near to three or four houses, a pole, as large as the
mainmast of a ship, had been erected, and from the summit hung wreaths of
flowers and fluttering ribbons; it was the Maypole. Lads and lasses
danced round the pole, and tried to outdo the violins of the musicians
with their singing. They were as merry as ever at sunset and in the
moonlight, but I took no part in the merry-making. What has a little
mouse to do with a Maypole dance? I sat in the soft moss, and held my
sausage skewer tight. The moon threw its beams particularly on one spot
where stood a tree covered with exceedingly fine moss. I may almost
venture to say that it was as fine and soft as the fur of the mouse-king,
but it was green, which is a color very agreeable to the eye. All at once
I saw the most charming little people marching towards me. They did not
reach higher than my knee; they looked like human beings, but were better
proportioned, and they called themselves elves. Their clothes were very
delicate and fine, for they were made of the leaves of flowers, trimmed
with the wings of flies and gnats, which had not a bad effect. By their
manner, it appeared as if they were seeking for something. I knew not
what, till at last one of them espied me and came towards me, and the
foremost pointed to my sausage skewer, and said, ‘There, that is just
what we want; see, it is pointed at the top; is it not capital?’ and the
longer he looked at my pilgrim’s staff, the more delighted he became. ‘I
will lend it to you,’ said I, ‘but not to keep.’
“‘Oh no, we won’t keep it!’ they all cried; and then they seized the
skewer, which I gave up to them, and danced with it to the spot where the
delicate moss grew, and set it up in the middle of the green. They wanted
a maypole, and the one they now had seemed cut out on purpose for them.
Then they decorated it so beautifully that it was quite dazzling to look
at. Little spiders spun golden threads around it, and then it was hung
with fluttering veils and flags so delicately white that they glittered
like snow in the moonshine. After that they took colors from the
butterfly’s wing, and sprinkled them over the white drapery which gleamed
as if covered with flowers and diamonds, so that I could not recognize my
sausage skewer at all. Such a maypole had never been seen in all the
world as this. Then came a great company of real elves. Nothing could be
finer than their clothes, and they invited me to be present at the feast;
but I was to keep at a certain distance, because I was too large for
them. Then commenced such music that it sounded like a thousand glass
bells, and was so full and strong that I thought it must be the song of
the swans. I fancied also that I heard the voices of the cuckoo and the
black-bird, and it seemed at last as if the whole forest sent forth
glorious melodies—the voices of children, the tinkling of bells, and the
songs of the birds; and all this wonderful melody came from the elfin
maypole. My sausage peg was a complete peal of bells. I could scarcely
believe that so much could have been produced from it, till I remembered
into what hands it had fallen. I was so much affected that I wept tears
such as a little mouse can weep, but they were tears of joy. The night
was far too short for me; there are no long nights there in summer, as we
often have in this part of the world. When the morning dawned, and the
gentle breeze rippled the glassy mirror of the forest lake, all the
delicate veils and flags fluttered away into thin air; the waving
garlands of the spider’s web, the hanging bridges and galleries, or
whatever else they may be called, vanished away as if they had never
been. Six elves brought me back my sausage skewer, and at the same time
asked me to make any request, which they would grant if in their power;
so I begged them, if they could, to tell me how to make soup from a
sausage skewer.
“‘How do we make it?’ said the chief of the elves with a smile. ‘Why you
have just seen it; you scarcely knew your sausage skewer again, I am
sure.’
“They think themselves very wise, thought I to myself. Then I told them
all about it, and why I had travelled so far, and also what promise had
been made at home to the one who should discover the method of preparing
this soup. ‘What use will it be,’ I asked, ‘to the mouse-king or to our
whole mighty kingdom that I have seen all these beautiful things? I
cannot shake the sausage peg and say, Look, here is the skewer, and now
the soup will come. That would only produce a dish to be served when
people were keeping a fast.’
“Then the elf dipped his finger into the cup of a violet, and said to me,
‘Look here, I will anoint your pilgrim’s staff, so that when you return
to your own home and enter the king’s castle, you have only to touch the
king with your staff, and violets will spring forth and cover the whole
of it, even in the coldest winter time; so I think I have given you
really something to carry home, and a little more than something.’”
But before the little mouse explained what this something more was, she
stretched her staff out to the king, and as it touched him the most
beautiful bunch of violets sprang forth and filled the place with
perfume. The smell was so powerful that the mouse-king ordered the mice
who stood nearest the chimney to thrust their tails into the fire, that
there might be a smell of burning, for the perfume of the violets was
overpowering, and not the sort of scent that every one liked.
“But what was the something more of which you spoke just now?” asked the
mouse-king.
“Why,” answered the little mouse, “I think it is what they call
‘effect;’” and thereupon she turned the staff round, and behold not a
single flower was to be seen upon it! She now only held the naked skewer,
and lifted it up as a conductor lifts his baton at a concert. “Violets,
the elf told me,” continued the mouse, “are for the sight, the smell, and
the touch; so we have only now to produce the effect of hearing and
tasting;” and then, as the little mouse beat time with her staff, there
came sounds of music, not such music as was heard in the forest, at the
elfin feast, but such as is often heard in the kitchen—the sounds of
boiling and roasting. It came quite suddenly, like wind rushing through
the chimneys, and seemed as if every pot and kettle were boiling over.
The fire-shovel clattered down on the brass fender; and then, quite as
suddenly, all was still,—nothing could be heard but the light, vapory
song of the tea-kettle, which was quite wonderful to hear, for no one
could rightly distinguish whether the kettle was just beginning to boil
or going to stop. And the little pot steamed, and the great pot simmered,
but without any regard for each; indeed there seemed no sense in the pots
at all. And as the little mouse waved her baton still more wildly, the
pots foamed and threw up bubbles, and boiled over; while again the wind
roared and whistled through the chimney, and at last there was such a
terrible hubbub, that the little mouse let her stick fall.
“That is a strange sort of soup,” said the mouse-king; “shall we not now
hear about the preparation?”
“That is all,” answered the little mouse, with a bow.
“That all!” said the mouse-king; “then we shall be glad to hear what
information the next may have to give us.”
WAS born in the library, at a castle,”
said the second mouse. “Very few members of our family ever had the good
fortune to get into the dining-room, much less the store-room. On my
journey, and here to-day, are the only times I have ever seen a kitchen.
We were often obliged to suffer hunger in the library, but then we gained
a great deal of knowledge. The rumor reached us of the royal prize
offered to those who should be able to make soup from a sausage skewer.
Then my old grandmother sought out a manuscript which, however, she could
not read, but had heard it read, and in it was written, ‘Those who are
poets can make soup of sausage skewers.’ She then asked me if I was a
poet. I felt myself quite innocent of any such pretensions. Then she said
I must go out and make myself a poet. I asked again what I should be
required to do, for it seemed to me quite as difficult as to find out how
to make soup of a sausage skewer. My grandmother had heard a great deal
of reading in her day, and she told me three principal qualifications
were necessary—understanding, imagination, and feeling. ‘If you can
manage to acquire these three, you will be a poet, and the sausage-skewer
soup will be quite easy to you.’
“So I went forth into the world, and turned my steps towards the west,
that I might become a poet. Understanding is the most important matter in
everything. I knew that, for the two other qualifications are not thought
much of; so I went first to seek for understanding. Where was I to find
it? ‘Go to the ant and learn wisdom,’ said the great Jewish king. I knew
that from living in a library. So I went straight on till I came to the
first great ant-hill, and then I set myself to watch, that I might become
wise. The ants are a very respectable people, they are wisdom itself. All
they do is like the working of a sum in arithmetic, which comes right.
‘To work and to lay eggs,’ say they, ‘and to provide for posterity, is to
live out your time properly;’ and that they truly do. They are divided
into the clean and the dirty ants, their rank is pointed out by a number,
and the ant-queen is number ONE; and her opinion is the only correct one
on everything; she seems to have the whole wisdom of the world in her,
which was just the important matter I wished to acquire. She said a great
deal which was no doubt very clever; yet to me it sounded like nonsense.
She said the ant-hill was the loftiest thing in the world, and yet close
to the mound stood a tall tree, which no one could deny was loftier, much
loftier, but no mention was made of the tree. One evening an ant lost
herself on this tree; she had crept up the stem, not nearly to the top,
but higher than any ant had ever ventured; and when at last she returned
home she said that she had found something in her travels much higher
than the ant-hill. The rest of the ants considered this an insult to the
whole community; so she was condemned to wear a muzzle and to live in
perpetual solitude. A short time afterwards another ant got on the tree,
and made the same journey and the same discovery, but she spoke of it
cautiously and indefinitely, and as she was one of the superior ants and
very much respected, they believed her, and when she died they erected an
eggshell as a monument to her memory, for they cultivated a great respect
for science. I saw,” said the little mouse, “that the ants were always
running to and fro with her burdens on their backs. Once I saw one of
them drop her load; she gave herself a great deal of trouble in trying to
raise it again, but she could not succeed. Then two others came up and
tried with all their strength to help her, till they nearly dropped their
own burdens in doing so; then they were obliged to stop for a moment in
their help, for every one must think of himself first. And the ant-queen
remarked that their conduct that day showed that they possessed kind
hearts and good understanding. ‘These two qualities,’ she continued,
‘place us ants in the highest degree above all other reasonable beings.
Understanding must therefore be seen among us in the most prominent
manner, and my wisdom is greater than all.’ And so saying she raised
herself on her two hind legs, that no one else might be mistaken for her.
I could not therefore make an error, so I ate her up. We are to go to the
ants to learn wisdom, and I had got the queen.
“I now turned and went nearer to the lofty tree already mentioned, which
was an oak. It had a tall trunk with a wide-spreading top, and was very
old. I knew that a living being dwelt here, a dryad as she is called, who
is born with the tree and dies with it. I had heard this in the library,
and here was just such a tree, and in it an oak-maiden. She uttered a
terrible scream when she caught sight of me so near to her; like many
women, she was very much afraid of mice. And she had more real cause for
fear than they have, for I might have gnawed through the tree on which
her life depended. I spoke to her in a kind and friendly manner, and
begged her to take courage. At last she took me up in her delicate hand,
and then I told her what had brought me out into the world, and she
promised me that perhaps on that very evening she should be able to
obtain for me one of the two treasures for which I was seeking. She told
me that Phantaesus was her very dear friend, that he was as beautiful as
the god of love, that he remained often for many hours with her under the
leafy boughs of the tree which then rustled and waved more than ever over
them both. He called her his dryad, she said, and the tree his tree; for
the grand old oak, with its gnarled trunk, was just to his taste. The
root, spreading deep into the earth, the top rising high in the fresh
air, knew the value of the drifted snow, the keen wind, and the warm
sunshine, as it ought to be known. ‘Yes,’ continued the dryad, ‘the birds
sing up above in the branches, and talk to each other about the beautiful
fields they have visited in foreign lands; and on one of the withered
boughs a stork has built his nest,—it is beautifully arranged, and
besides it is pleasant to hear a little about the land of the pyramids.
All this pleases Phantaesus, but it is not enough for him; I am obliged
to relate to him of my life in the woods; and to go back to my childhood,
when I was little, and the tree so small and delicate that a
stinging-nettle could overshadow it, and I have to tell everything that
has happened since then till now that the tree is so large and strong.
Sit you down now under the green bindwood and pay attention, when
Phantaesus comes I will find an opportunity to lay hold of his wing and
to pull out one of the little feathers. That feather you shall have; a
better was never given to any poet, it will be quite enough for you.’
“And when Phantaesus came the feather was plucked, and,” said the little
mouse, “I seized and put it in water, and kept it there till it was quite
soft. It was very heavy and indigestible, but I managed to nibble it up
at last. It is not so easy to nibble one’s self into a poet, there are so
many things to get through. Now, however, I had two of them,
understanding and imagination; and through these I knew that the third
was to be found in the library. A great man has said and written that
there are novels whose sole and only use appeared to be that they might
relieve mankind of overflowing tears—a kind of sponge, in fact, for
sucking up feelings and emotions. I remembered a few of these books, they
had always appeared tempting to the appetite; they had been much read,
and were so greasy, that they must have absorbed no end of emotions in
themselves. I retraced my steps to the library, and literally devoured a
whole novel, that is, properly speaking, the interior or soft part of it;
the crust, or binding, I left. When I had digested not only this, but a
second, I felt a stirring within me; then I ate a small piece of a third
romance, and felt myself a poet. I said it to myself, and told others the
same. I had head-ache and back-ache, and I cannot tell what aches
besides. I thought over all the stories that may be said to be connected
with sausage pegs, and all that has ever been written about skewers, and
sticks, and staves, and splinters came to my thoughts; the ant-queen must
have had a wonderfully clear understanding. I remembered the man who
placed a white stick in his mouth by which he could make himself and the
stick invisible. I thought of sticks as hobby-horses, staves of music or
rhyme, of breaking a stick over a man’s back, and heaven knows how many
more phrases of the same sort relating to sticks, staves, and skewers.
All my thoughts rein on skewers, sticks of wood, and staves; and as I am,
at last, a poet, and I have worked terribly hard to make myself one, I
can of course make poetry on anything. I shall therefore be able to wait
upon you every day in the week with a poetical history of a skewer. And
that is my soup.”
“In that case,” said the mouse-king, “we will hear what the third mouse
has to say.”
“Squeak, squeak,” cried a little mouse at the kitchen door; it was the
fourth, and not the third, of the four who were contending for the prize,
one whom the rest supposed to be dead. She shot in like an arrow, and
overturned the sausage peg that had been covered with crape. She had been
running day and night. She had watched an opportunity to get into a goods
train, and had travelled by the railway; and yet she had arrived almost
too late. She pressed forward, looking very much ruffled. She had lost
her sausage skewer, but not her voice; for she began to speak at once as
if they only waited for her, and would hear her only, and as if nothing
else in the world was of the least consequence. She spoke out so clearly
and plainly, and she had come in so suddenly, that no one had time to
stop her or to say a word while she was speaking. And now let us hear
what she said.
STARTED off at once to the largest
town,” said she, “but the name of it has escaped me. I have a very bad
memory for names. I was carried from the railway, with some forfeited
goods, to the jail, and on arriving I made my escape, and ran into the
house of the turnkey. The turnkey was speaking of his prisoners,
especially of one who had uttered thoughtless words. These words had
given rise to other words, and at length they were written down and
registered: ‘The whole affair is like making soup of sausage skewers,’
said he, ‘but the soup may cost him his neck.’
“Now this raised in me an interest for the prisoner,” continued the
little mouse, “and I watched my opportunity, and slipped into his
apartment, for there is a mouse-hole to be found behind every closed
door. The prisoner looked pale; he had a great beard and large, sparkling
eyes. There was a lamp burning, but the walls were so black that they
only looked the blacker for it. The prisoner scratched pictures and
verses with white chalk on the black walls, but I did not read the
verses. I think he found his confinement wearisome, so that I was a
welcome guest. He enticed me with bread-crumbs, with whistling, and with
gentle words, and seemed so friendly towards me, that by degrees I gained
confidence in him, and we became friends; he divided his bread and water
with me, gave me cheese and sausage, and I really began to love him.
Altogether, I must own that it was a very pleasant intimacy. He let me
run about on his hand, and on his arm, and into his sleeve; and I even
crept into his beard, and he called me his little friend. I forgot what I
had come out into the world for; forgot my sausage skewer which I had
laid in a crack in the floor—it is lying there still. I wished to stay
with him always where I was, for I knew that if I went away the poor
prisoner would have no one to be his friend, which is a sad thing. I
stayed, but he did not. He spoke to me so mournfully for the last time,
gave me double as much bread and cheese as usual, and kissed his hand to
me. Then he went away, and never came back. I know nothing more of his
history.
“The jailer took possession of me now. He said something about soup from
a sausage skewer, but I could not trust him. He took me in his hand
certainly, but it was to place me in a cage like a tread-mill. Oh how
dreadful it was! I had to run round and round without getting any farther
in advance, and only to make everybody laugh. The jailer’s grand-daughter
was a charming little thing. She had curly hair like the brightest gold,
merry eyes, and such a smiling mouth.
“‘You poor little mouse,’ said she, one day as she peeped into my cage,
‘I will set you free.’ She then drew forth the iron fastening, and I
sprang out on the window-sill, and from thence to the roof. Free! free!
that was all I could think of; not of the object of my journey. It grew
dark, and as night was coming on I found a lodging in an old tower, where
dwelt a watchman and an owl. I had no confidence in either of them, least
of all in the owl, which is like a cat, and has a great failing, for she
eats mice. One may however be mistaken sometimes; and so was I, for this
was a respectable and well-educated old owl, who knew more than the
watchman, and even as much as I did myself. The young owls made a great
fuss about everything, but the only rough words she would say to them
were, ‘You had better go and make some soup from sausage skewers.’ She
was very indulgent and loving to her children. Her conduct gave me such
confidence in her, that from the crack where I sat I called out ‘squeak.’
This confidence of mine pleased her so much that she assured me she would
take me under her own protection, and that not a creature should do me
harm. The fact was, she wickedly meant to keep me in reserve for her own
eating in winter, when food would be scarce. Yet she was a very clever
lady-owl; she explained to me that the watchman could only hoot with the
horn that hung loose at his side; and then she said he is so terribly
proud of it, that he imagines himself an owl in the tower;—wants to do
great things, but only succeeds in small; all soup on a sausage skewer.
Then I begged the owl to give me the recipe for this soup. ‘Soup from a
sausage skewer,’ said she, ‘is only a proverb amongst mankind, and may be
understood in many ways. Each believes his own way the best, and after
all, the proverb signifies nothing.’ ‘Nothing!’ I exclaimed. I was quite
struck. Truth is not always agreeable, but truth is above everything
else, as the old owl said. I thought over all this, and saw quite plainly
that if truth was really so far above everything else, it must be much
more valuable than soup from a sausage skewer. So I hastened to get away,
that I might be home in time, and bring what was highest and best, and
above everything—namely, the truth. The mice are an enlightened people,
and the mouse-king is above them all. He is therefore capable of making
me queen for the sake of truth.”
“Your truth is a falsehood,” said the mouse who had not yet spoken; “I
can prepare the soup, and I mean to do so.”
How It Was Prepared
DID not travel,” said the third mouse;
“I stayed in this country: that was the right way. One gains nothing by
travelling—everything can be acquired here quite as easily; so I stayed
at home. I have not obtained what I know from supernatural beings. I have
neither swallowed it, nor learnt it from conversing with owls. I have got
it all from my reflections and thoughts. Will you now set the kettle on
the fire—so? Now pour the water in—quite full—up to the brim; place it on
the fire; make up a good blaze; keep it burning, that the water may boil;
it must boil over and over. There, now I throw in the skewer. Will the
mouse-king be pleased now to dip his tail into the boiling water, and
stir it round with the tail. The longer the king stirs it, the stronger
the soup will become. Nothing more is necessary, only to stir it.”
“Can no one else do this?” asked the king.
“No,” said the mouse; “only in the tail of the mouse-king is this power
contained.”
And the water boiled and bubbled, as the mouse-king stood close beside
the kettle. It seemed rather a dangerous performance; but he turned
round, and put out his tail, as mice do in a dairy, when they wish to
skim the cream from a pan of milk with their tails and afterwards lick it
off. But the mouse-king’s tail had only just touched the hot steam, when
he sprang away from the chimney in a great hurry, exclaiming, “Oh,
certainly, by all means, you must be my queen; and we will let the soup
question rest till our golden wedding, fifty years hence; so that the
poor in my kingdom, who are then to have plenty of food, will have
something to look forward to for a long time, with great joy.”
And very soon the wedding took place. But many of the mice, as they were
returning home, said that the soup could not be properly called “soup
from a sausage skewer,” but “soup from a mouse’s tail.” They acknowledged
also that some of the stories were very well told; but that the whole
could have been managed differently. “I should have told it so—and so—and
so.” These were the critics who are always so clever afterwards.
When this story was circulated all over the world, the opinions upon it
were divided; but the story remained the same. And, after all, the best
way in everything you undertake, great as well as small, is to expect no
thanks for anything you may do, even when it refers to “soup from a
sausage skewer.”
HCA.Gilead.org.il
Copyright © Zvi
Har’El
$Date: 2007/12/13 20:45:32 $
![[prev]](pics/left2.png){kind=small}
![[up]](pics/up2.png){kind=small}
![[next]](pics/right2.png){kind=small}