The Nutcracker and the Mouse King

On Christmas Eve, Dr. Stahlbaum’s children were not allowed into the parlour all day long. Seven-year-old Marie and her brother Fritz sat in the dusky nursery and listened. Behind the door, something rustled, tapped and tinkled softly.

"It’s Godfather Drosselmeier," whispered Fritz. "I saw him carry in a box this big!"

Godfather Drosselmeier was no ordinary man. He was small and wiry, with a black patch over one eye and a shiny wig made of glass. He could mend any clock, even one that had forgotten how to tick. And every Christmas he made the children some wonderfully clever toy.

Then — ting-a-ling-a-ling! — a little silver bell rang. The doors flew open, and the children froze on the threshold.

In the middle of the parlour the Christmas tree was glowing. Golden apples, sugared nuts and lollipops hung from its branches, and hundreds of little candles twinkled like stars. With a shout of joy, Fritz rushed to a new troop of hussars on white horses. Under the tree Marie found a doll in a silk dress and gazed at it until she quite forgot to breathe.

Godfather, meanwhile, had brought a whole castle with towers. Tiny ladies and gentlemen strolled past its little windows and bowed to one another, and a small boy in green ran out onto the balcony and hid again.

"Can he come out on the other side?" asked Fritz.

"He cannot," sniffed Godfather. "That’s how the clockwork is made."

"Then it’s boring," said Fritz with a shrug, and he went back to his hussars.

Godfather was a little put out. Meanwhile, Marie noticed someone else by the tree. A small wooden man stood there quietly. His head was too big and his legs were too thin, but his violet uniform with white buttons fitted him beautifully. He had a little white beard like cotton wool, and his eyes were green, kind and a little sad.

"Papa, whose is this?" Marie asked softly.

"He belongs to you both," Father smiled. "This is the Nutcracker. He cracks nuts. Look."

Father put a nut in the little man’s mouth and pulled his wooden cloak — crunch! — the shell split, and the kernel dropped into Marie’s palm.

Marie picked out the smallest nuts for the Nutcracker and fed him gently, as if he were a baby bird. But Fritz wanted a turn too. He pushed the biggest, hardest nut into the Nutcracker’s mouth and pressed with all his might — crunch, crack! — and three little wooden teeth fell to the floor, while the jaw hung down helplessly.

"Well, he’s a useless soldier," grumbled Fritz.

"It’s your own fault!" cried Marie, and she hugged the Nutcracker close.

She untied a white ribbon from her dress and carefully bound up his jaw.

"Never mind," she whispered. "Godfather will mend you. And until then, I’ll look after you."

Late that evening everyone went to bed, but Marie begged Mama to let her stay in the parlour a tiny bit longer. She settled the Nutcracker in the glass toy cabinet, on her doll’s softest little bed, and was just about to go.

Suddenly the clock on the wall began to hiss and wheeze. A gilded owl sat on top of it. It lowered its wings and bent its head — and it seemed to Marie that this was not an owl at all, but Godfather Drosselmeier peering at her with his one eye.

Bong! Bong! The clock struck twelve.

And then from every corner came scratching and squeaking and pattering. Hundreds of shiny little eyes peeped out of the cracks in the floor. Mice ran out row after row and lined up like a real army. And in the middle of the room the floor suddenly heaved up, and with a great crack out climbed an enormous mouse with seven heads. On every head glittered a golden crown.

"Squeak-squeak-squeak!" squeaked all seven heads at once.

Marie cried out and backed towards the cabinet. Her elbow knocked the glass — clink! And behind the glass, something stirred.

The Nutcracker rose from the little bed, drew a tiny sabre and shouted:

"Drummer, beat the alarm! Forward, my friends!"

Rat-a-tat-tat! went the drum. The toys came to life. Fritz’s hussars, the gingerbread men, a clown with jingling bells, even the china shepherd boy — they all tumbled off the shelves. The Nutcracker leapt down and took his place at the head of the army.

A battle began such as that room had never seen. The toy cannons fired peas and sweets — boom! boom! Mice darted in from every side, nibbled the raisin buttons off the gingerbread men and tugged the hussars' horses by their tails. The clown fought back with his bells — jingle-jingle! — while the shepherd boy hid behind a chair leg and shook his crook at the mice.

But there were far too many mice. Step by step the toys fell back, until the Nutcracker was pressed right up against the cabinet. The Mouse King squeaked in seven voices and reached for him with all seven snouts.

"A horse! My kingdom for a horse!" cried the Nutcracker.

Marie forgot all about being afraid. She pulled off her slipper and flung it as hard as she could, straight at the Mouse King.

Bang!

And everything vanished. No mice, no king, no battle. Only her arm stung, because Marie had cut it on the broken glass. Her head spun, and the girl sank quietly to the floor.

Marie woke up in her own bed. Snow was falling outside the window, and Mama was sitting beside her.

"You gave us such a fright," said Mama. "We found you by the cabinet in the night with a cut on your arm. You must have stayed up playing far too late."

"Mama, there was a battle! A Mouse King with seven heads! And the Nutcracker..."

"Oh, my darling," sighed Mama, stroking her hair. "You dreamed it all."

Nobody believed her. Not Mama, not Papa, and Fritz just laughed and laughed. Only Godfather Drosselmeier, who came to visit the patient, listened carefully and said nothing. He brought the Nutcracker with his jaw already mended and sat down beside the bed.

"Would you like me to tell you the tale of the hard nut?" he asked.

And he told it. Long ago, in a certain kingdom, there lived a princess called Pirlipat. Dame Mouserinks, the queen of the mice, grew angry with the king and put a spell on his daughter: the princess became ugly, with a huge head and a wide mouth. Only the marvellous nut Krakatuk could break the spell, and only if it was cracked by a young man who had never once shaved or worn boots. Such a young man was found — the nephew of the court clockmaker. He cracked the nut — crunch! — and the princess was pretty again. But as he stepped back, the young man accidentally trod on Dame Mouserinks’s tail. She squeaked and put a spell on him instead. The young man turned into a wooden Nutcracker, and the princess turned away from him, because he had become clumsy and funny-looking.

"But can he be saved?" whispered Marie.

"He can," nodded Godfather. "If he defeats Dame Mouserinks’s seven-headed son. And if a kind heart loves him, even though he is not handsome."

Marie looked at the Nutcracker. She thought his green eyes flashed.

From then on, every night Marie heard a thin squeak under her bed:

"Give me your sweets, little girl! Or I’ll gnaw your Nutcracker to bits!"

Marie would sigh and put all her marzipan on the shelf. By morning only crumbs were left. The next night the king demanded her sugar dolls, then her picture books and her brand-new dress. Marie gave him everything. But one evening the Nutcracker spoke to her himself:

"Give him nothing more. Just give me a sword, a real sword. I’ll do the rest myself."

Marie went to her brother. Fritz scratched his head, then unbuckled the sabre from an old tin colonel who had long been resting on the shelf.

"Here," he said. "Let your Nutcracker show what kind of soldier he is."

That night Marie lay awake for a long time. At midnight something in the parlour clanged, rumbled, squeaked... and went still. Then someone knocked softly at the door.

"Open the door, please," said a familiar little voice. "It’s all over."

There in the doorway stood the Nutcracker. In one hand he held a sabre, in the other seven little golden crowns.

"The Mouse King has fled," he said, "and he was in such a hurry that he lost all his crowns. He will not trouble you again. Please accept them from me. And now... may I show you something wonderful?"

He led Marie to the big wardrobe in the hall where Papa’s fur travelling coat hung. The Nutcracker pulled the tassel on its sleeve, and down came a little cedarwood staircase, as if from a magic passage.

"After you," he said with a bow.

Marie climbed up — and found herself in a meadow that sparkled as if it had been dusted with icing sugar. It smelled of vanilla and oranges.

"This is Candy Meadow," explained the Nutcracker. "And here is the gate."

The gate was built of almonds and raisins. Beyond it rustled the Christmas Wood: gold and silver fruit hung on the trees, the branches tinkled like little bells, and sugar flowers peeped out from under the bushes. Further on flowed the Lemonade River — swish-swish, gurgle-gurgle — with silver fish circling above it. By Honey Lake stood Gingerbread Village, where the people baked cakes right in the street and offered them to everyone who passed.

Marie hardly knew where to look first.

"How beautiful!" she whispered.

At last, beyond Rose Lake, where white swans were gliding, a castle came into view. It was made entirely of marzipan, with towers like sugarloaves, and it shone so brightly that you had to squint.

Four of the Nutcracker’s sisters came running to meet them — little princesses in lace dresses.

"Brother! You’re back!" they chirped, and rushed to hug him.

"This girl saved my life," said the Nutcracker, and he bowed low to Marie.

The princesses held a feast for her. Baskets of fruit appeared on the table, and cakes that sang in tiny voices, and little cups of hot chocolate. Marie listened to the music and watched the twinkling lights, and her eyelids grew heavier and heavier...

When she opened her eyes, she was at home again, in her own bed. Outside the window a winter morning was turning pink.

"Mama! I’ve been to the Kingdom of Dolls!" And Marie told her everything: about the meadow, the wood and the marzipan castle.

Mama smiled and shook her head. Then Marie pulled seven tiny golden crowns from under her pillow. Mama looked at them for a long time and never could work out where they had come from.

That same day Marie went up to the cabinet where the Nutcracker stood and said quietly:

"I don’t mind that you’re wooden and clumsy. I will never leave you."

At that very moment something gave a soft click. An hour later Godfather Drosselmeier came to visit — and he was not alone. Beside him stood a young man in a red coat embroidered with gold. He was not very tall, he was smiling, and his eyes were green, kind and very familiar.

"Meet my nephew," said Godfather.

The young man went up to Marie and bowed as low as one bows only to a princess.

"Thank you," he said softly. "You threw your slipper when things were hardest for me. And today you spoke the words that broke my spell."

Marie blushed. Fritz’s mouth fell open, and he forgot to shut it.

From then on, young Drosselmeier often came to visit. He cracked nuts for the whole family, mended Fritz’s hussars and played chess with Marie. And when Marie grew up, he came for her in a golden carriage drawn by silver horses and took her away to the marzipan castle. At the wedding twenty-two thousand dolls danced, all dressed in pearls and diamonds.

They say Marie is still the queen of the Kingdom of Dolls. There the Christmas Woods glow, the clear marzipan castles shine and the Lemonade River babbles. And anyone can see it all, if they know how to look the way Marie did.