The Steadfast Tin Soldier

Once upon a time there were twenty‑five tin soldiers. They were all brothers, for they had been cast out of the same old tin spoon. Each held his rifle against his shoulder, faces facing straight ahead; their uniforms—bright red and blue—were handsome indeed. The very first words they ever heard, the moment the lid was lifted from the box in which they lay, were: “Tin soldiers!” A little boy cried this and clapped his hands; he had just been given them for his birthday and now set them up on the table. Every soldier looked exactly like the next—except one. He had only a single leg. He had been poured last, and there hadn’t been enough tin. Still he stood just as firmly on one leg as the others did on two, and it is his tale that becomes remarkable.

On the table where the soldiers were arranged stood much other play‑thingery, but what caught the eye most was a pretty paper castle. Through its tiny windows you could see right into its halls. Outside grew small trees, and all around lay a little mirror meant to look like a lake; wax swans swam upon it, admiring their reflections. Everything was charming, yet the loveliest of all was a little maiden who stood in the castle’s open doorway. She too was cut from paper, but she wore a skirt of the sheerest muslin and over her shoulder a narrow blue ribbon like a sash; in the middle of it gleamed a spangle as big as her whole face. The little maiden stretched out both her arms—she was a dancer—and lifted one leg so high that the tin soldier could not see it at all and believed she, like him, had but one leg.

“She would be the wife for me!” he thought. “But she lives in a castle; I have only a box, and we are five‑and‑twenty who share it—no place for her! Still, I must make her acquaintance.” So he lay full length behind a snuffbox on the table; from there he could gaze properly at the dainty lady, who kept balancing on one leg without toppling.

When evening came, all the other tin soldiers were put back into their box and the people of the house went to bed. Now the toys began to play: they received guests, fought battles, and held balls. The tin soldiers rattled inside their box—they wanted to join in, but they could not lift the lid. The nutcracker turned somersaults, and the chalk danced jigs upon the slate; the noise was such that the canary awoke and started reciting poetry. The only two who never stirred were the tin soldier and the tiny dancer: she held herself erect on tiptoe, arms outstretched; he stood just as steadfast on his one leg, his eyes never leaving her.

At the stroke of midnight, click!—the lid of the snuffbox sprang open, but there was no tobacco inside; out popped a little black goblin—one of those trick contraptions.

“Tin soldier,” said the goblin, “keep your eyes to yourself!”

The soldier pretended not to hear.

“Just wait till tomorrow!” growled the goblin.

Next morning, when the children got up, the tin soldier was set on the window‑sill. Whether it was the goblin’s doing or a draft, all at once the window flew open and the soldier tumbled head‑first from the third floor. It was a terrifying fall; he stuck with one leg in the air, his bayonet wedged between the cobblestones, helmet downward.

The maid and the little boy came running to look, but although they nearly trod on him they could not see him. Had the tin soldier called, “Here I am!” they would have found him, but he felt it unseemly to shout while in uniform.

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Now it began to rain—drop after drop, heavier and heavier: a thorough downpour. When it ended, two street urchins came by.

“Look there!” said one. “A tin soldier! He shall go sailing.”

They folded a boat from an old newspaper, set the soldier in the middle, and off he sailed down the gutter; the two boys ran alongside, clapping their hands. Goodness, what waves surged in that gutter, and what a current—well, it had poured! The paper boat pitched up and down, sometimes spun so quickly it made the soldier tremble, yet he stood fast, expression unchanged, eyes forward, rifle at the ready.

Suddenly the boat shot beneath a long plank that covered part of the gutter; there it was as dark as his own box.

“Where am I going now?” thought he. “Yes, yes—this is the goblin’s fault! Oh, if only the little maiden were here with me—let it be twice as dark then!”

Just then a great water‑rat, who lived under the plank, appeared.

“Have you your passport?” asked the rat. “Show your passport!”

The soldier remained silent, gripping his rifle tighter. The boat sped on, the rat after it, gnashing its teeth and shouting to sticks and straws, “Stop him! Stop him! He hasn’t paid the toll, hasn’t shown his passport!” But the current grew stronger. Ahead the soldier could already see daylight where the plank ended—yet he also heard a roar fit to frighten any brave man: the gutter emptied, at that point, straight into a large canal—a drop as deadly to him as a great waterfall to us.

He was too close now to halt. Out shot the boat; the poor tin soldier stood as stiff as he could—no one should say he blinked. The boat whirled around three or four times and filled to the brim; it must sink. Water rose to the soldier’s neck, the paper softened more and more. Now it folded in, the water closed over his head—then he thought of the little graceful dancer, whom he would never see again, and in his ears rang:

“Fare, fare, man of war!

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To death you now are given.”

The paper parted, and the soldier fell—but at that very moment a great fish swallowed him.

Oh, how dark it was inside! Worse than under the plank, and so cramped. Yet the tin soldier was steadfast, lying full length with rifle in arm. The fish writhed wildly, made the most dreadful motions, then grew quite still; there flashed a sudden blaze of light, and someone cried aloud, “A tin soldier!”

The fish had been caught, taken to market, sold, and brought into a kitchen where the cook cut it open with a large knife. She lifted the soldier between finger and thumb and carried him into the parlor so that everyone could admire the remarkable man who had traveled inside a fish. But the tin soldier was not proud. They set him on the table—and there, wonder of wonders! he was in the very same room he had been in before, saw the very same children, and on the table stood the same toys: the lovely castle and the little dancer, still poised on one leg, the other high in the air—she too was steadfast. It moved the tin soldier; he was close to weeping tin tears, but that would not do. He looked at her, and she looked at him, yet not a word was spoken.

Just then one of the small boys, for no reason at all, snatched up the soldier and flung him straight into the stove; surely the fault lay with the goblin in the snuffbox.

The tin soldier stood bathed in flame and felt an awful heat—whether from real fire or from love he did not know. His colors were all gone—whether stripped away on his journey or by sorrow no one could tell. He gazed at the little maiden, she gazed at him; he felt himself melting, yet still he stood steadfast, rifle in arm. Then a door flew open, a gust caught the dancer, and like a sylph she fluttered into the stove to the tin soldier, flared bright, and was gone. The soldier melted into a lump, and when the maid cleaned the ashes next morning she found him shaped like a small tin heart. Of the dancer there remained only a spangle, and that was burned as black as coal.