bloomed in each garden; but they were not the right sort. The flower was
to be brought out of the garden of Love; but what rose was it there that
expressed the highest and purest love?
And the poets sang of the loveliest rose in the world, and each one
named his own; and intelligence was sent far round the land to every
heart that beat with love, to every class and condition, and to every
age.
"No one has till now named the flower," said the wise man. "No one has
pointed out the place where it bloomed in its splendor. They are not the
roses from the coffin of Romeo and Juliet, or from the Walburg's grave,
though these roses will be ever fragrant in song. They are not the roses
that sprouted forth from Winkelried's blood-stained lances, from the
blood that flows in a sacred cause from the breast of the hero who dies
for his country; though no death is sweeter than this, and no rose
redder than the blood that flows then. Nor is it that wondrous flower,
to cherish which man devotes, in a quiet chamber, many a sleepless
night, and much of his fresh life--the magic flower of science."
"I know where it blooms," said a happy mother, who came with her pretty
child to the bedside of the Queen. "I know where the loveliest rose of
the world is found! The rose that is the expression of the highest and
purest love springs from the blooming cheeks of my sweet child when,
strengthened by sleep, it opens its eyes and smiles at me with all its
affection!"
"Lovely is this rose; but there is still a lovelier," said the wise man.
"Yes, a far lovelier one," said one of the women. "I have seen it, and a
loftier, purer rose does not bloom. I saw it on the cheeks of the
Queen. She had taken off her golden crown, and in the long dreary night
she was carrying her sick child in her arms: she wept, kissed it, and
prayed for her child as a mother prays in the hour of her anguish."
"Holy and wonderful in its might is the white rose of grief; but it is
not the one we seek."
"No, the loveliest rose of the world I saw at the altar of the Lord,"
said the good old Bishop. "I saw it shine as if an angel's face had
appeared. The young maidens went to the Lord's Table, and renewed the
promise made at their baptism, and roses were blushing, and pale roses
shining on their fresh cheeks. A young girl stood there; she looked with
all the purity and love of her young spirit up to heaven: that was the
expression of the highest and purest love."
"May she be blessed," said the wise man; "but not one of you has yet
named to me the loveliest rose of the world."
Then there came into the room a child, the Queen's little son. Tears
stood in his eyes and glistened on his cheeks; he carried a great open
book, and the binding was of velvet, with great silver clasps.
"Mother!" cried the boy, "only hear what I have read."
And the child sat by the bedside, and read from the book of Him who
suffered death on the cross to save men, and even those who were not yet
born.
"Greater love there is not"--
And a roseate hue spread over the cheeks of the Queen, and her eyes
gleamed, for she saw that from the leaves of the book there bloomed the
loveliest rose, that sprang from the blood of Christ shed on the cross.
"I see it!" she said: "he who beholds this, the loveliest rose on earth,
shall never die."
A VISION OF THE LAST DAY
By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
Of all the days of our life the greatest and most solemn is the day on
which we die. Hast thou ever tried to realize that most sure, most
portentous hour, the last hour we shall spend on earth?
There was a certain man, an upholder of truth and justice, a Christian
man and orthodox, so the world esteemed him. And, in sooth, it may be
that some good thing was found in him, since in sleep, amid the visions
of the night, it pleased the Father of spirits to reveal him to himself,
making manifest to him what he was in truth, namely, one of those who
trust in themselves that they are righteous and despise others.
He went to rest, secure that his accounts were right with all men, that
he had paid his dues and wrought good works that day; of the secret
pride of his heart, of the harsh words that had passed his lips, he took
no account at all. And so he slept, and in his sleep Death stood by his
bedside, a glorious Angel, strong, spotless, beautiful, but unlike every
other angel, stern, unsmiling, pitiless of aspect.
"Thine hour is come, and thou must follow me!" spake Death. And Death's
cold finger touched the man's feet, whereupon they became like ice, then
touched his forehead, then his heart. And the chain that bound the
immortal soul to clay was riven asunder, and the soul was free to follow
the Angel of Death.
But during those brief seconds, while yet that awful touch thrilled
through feet, and head, and heart, there passed over the dying man, as
in great, heaving, ocean waves, the recollection of all that he had
wrought and felt in his whole life; just as one shuddering glance into a
whirlpool suffices to reveal in thought rapid as lightning, the entire
unfathomable depth; just as in one momentary glance at the starry
heavens we can conceive the infinite multitude of that glorious host of
unknown orbs.
In such a retrospect the terrified sinner shrinks back into himself, and
finding there no stay by which to cling, must feel shrinking into
infinite nothingness; while the devout soul raises its thoughts to the
Almighty, yielding itself up to Him in childlike trust, and praying,
"Thy will be done in me!"
But this man had not the childlike mind, neither did he tremble like the
sinner; his thoughts were still the self-praising thoughts in which he
had fallen asleep. His path, he believed, must lead straight heavenward,
and Mercy, the promised Mercy, would open to him the gates.
And, in his dream, the Soul followed the Angel of Death, though not
without first casting one wistful glance at the couch where lay, in its
white shroud, the lifeless image of clay, still, as it were, bearing the
impress of the soul's own individuality. And now they hovered through
the air, now glided along the ground. Was it a vast decorated hall they
were passing through, or a forest? It seemed hard to tell; Nature, it
appeared, was formally set out for show, as in the artificial old French
gardens, and amid its strange, carefully arranged scenes, passed and
repassed troops of men and women, all clad as for a masquerade.
"Such is human life!" said the Angel of Death.
The figures seemed more or less disguised; those who swept by in the
glories of velvet and gold were not all among the noblest or most
dignified-looking, neither were all those who wore the garb of poverty
insignificant or vulgar. It was a strange masquerade! But most strange
it was to see how one and all carefully concealed under their clothing
something they would not have others perceive, but in vain, for each was
bent upon discovering his neighbor's secret, and they tore and snatched
at one another till, now here, now there, some part of an animal was
revealed. In one was found the grinning head of an ape, in another the
cloven foot of a goat, in a third the poison-fang of a snake, in a
fourth the clammy fin of a fish.
All had in them some token of the animal--the animal which is fast
rooted in human nature, and which here was seen struggling to burst
forth. And, however closely a man might hold his garment over it, the
others would never rest till they had rent the hiding veil, and all kept
crying out, "Look here! look now! here he is! there she is!"--and every
one mockingly laid bare his fellow's shame.
"And what was the animal in me?" inquired the disembodied Soul; and the
Angel of Death pointed to a haughty form, around whose head shone a
bright, widespread glory of rainbow-colored rays, but at whose heart
might be seen lurking, half-hidden, the feet of the peacock; the glory
was, in fact, merely the peacock's gaudy tail.
And as they passed on, large, foul-looking birds shrieked out from the
boughs of the trees; with clear, intelligible, though harsh, human
voices they shrieked, "Thou that walkest with Death, dost remember me?"
All the evil thoughts and desires that had nestled within him from his
birth until his death now called after him, "Rememberest thou me?"
And the Soul shuddered, recognizing the voices; it could not deny
knowledge of the evil thoughts and desires that were now rising up in
witness against it.
"In our flesh, in our evil nature, dwelleth no good thing," cried the
Soul; "but, at least, thoughts never with me ripened into actions; the
world has not seen the evil fruit." And the Soul hurried on to get free
from the accusing voices; but the great black fowls swept in circles
round, and screamed out their scandalous words louder and louder, as
though they would be heard all over the world. And the Soul fled from
them like the hunted stag, and at every step stumbled against sharp
flint stones that lay in the path. "How came these sharp stones here?
They look like mere withered leaves lying on the ground."
"Every stone is for some incautious word thou hast spoken, which lay as
a stumbling-block in thy neighbor's path, which wounded thy neighbor's
heart far more sorely and deeply than these sharp flints now wound thy
feet."
"Alas! I never once thought of that," sighed the Soul.
And those words of the gospel rang through the air, "Judge not, that ye
be not judged."
"We have all sinned," said the Soul, recovering from its momentary
self-abasement. "I have kept the Law and the Gospel, I have done what I
could, I am not as others are!"
And in his dream this man now stood at the gates of heaven, and the
Angel who guarded the entrance inquired, "Who art thou? Tell me thy
faith, and show it to me in thy works."
"I have faithfully kept the Commandments, I have humbled myself in the
eyes of the world, I have preserved myself free from the pollution of
intercourse with sinners, I have hated and persecuted evil, and those
who practice it, and I would do so still, yea, with fire and sword, had
I the power."
"Then thou art one of Mohammed's followers?" said the Angel.
"I? a Mohammedan?--never!"
"'He who strikes with the sword shall perish by the sword,' thus spake
the Son; His religion thou knowest not. It may be that thou art one of
the children of Israel, whose maxim is, 'An eye for an eye, a tooth for
a tooth'--art thou such?"
"I am a Christian."
"I see it not in thy faith or in thine actions. The law of Christ is the
law of forgiveness, love, and mercy."
"Mercy!" The gracious echo of that sweet word thrilled through infinite
space, the gates of heaven opened, and the Soul hovered toward the
realms of endless bliss.
But the flood of light that streamed forth from within was so dazzlingly
bright, so transcendently white and pure, that the Soul shrank back as
from a two-edged sword, and the hymns and harp-tones of Angels mingled
in such exquisite celestial harmony as the earthly mind has not power
either to conceive or to endure. And the Soul trembled and bowed itself
deeper and deeper, and the heavenly light penetrated it through and
through, and it felt to the quick, as it had never truly felt before,
the burden of its own pride, cruelty, and sin.
"What I have done of good in the world, that did I because I could not
otherwise, but the evil that I did--that was of myself!"
The confession was wrung from him; more and more the man felt dazzled
and overpowered by the pure light of heaven; he seemed falling into a
measureless abyss, the abyss of his own nakedness and unworthiness.
Shrunk into himself, humbled, cast out, unripe for the kingdom of
heaven, shuddering at the thought of the just and holy God--hardly dared
he to gasp out, "Mercy!"
And the face of the Angel at the portal was turned toward him in
softening pity. "Mercy is for them who implore it, not claim it; there
is Mercy also for thee. Turn thee, child of man, turn thee back the way
thou camest to thy clayey tabernacle; in pity is it given thee to dwell
in dust yet a little while. Be no longer righteous in thine own eyes,
copy Him who with patience endured the contradiction of sinners, strive
and pray that thou mayest become poor in spirit, and so mayest thou yet
inherit the Kingdom."
"Holy, loving, glorious forever shalt thou be, O, erring human
spirit!"--thus rang the chorus of Angels. And again overpowered by those
transcendent melodies, dazzled and blinded by that excess of purest
light, the Soul again shrank back into itself. It seemed to be falling
an infinite depth; the celestial music grew fainter and fainter, till
common earthly sights and sounds dispelled the vision. The rays of the
early morning sun falling full on his face, the cheerful crow of the
vigilant cock, called the sleeper up to pray.
Inexpressibly humbled, yet thankful, he arose and knelt beside his bed.
"Thou, who hast shown me to myself, help me now, that I may not only do
justly, but love mercy, and walk humbly with my God. Thou, who hast
convicted me of sin, now purify me, strengthen me, that, though ever
unworthy of Thy presence, I may yet, supported by Thy Love, dare to
ascend into Thine ever lasting light!"
The Vision was his; be the lesson, the prayer, also ours.
THE OLD GRAVESTONE
By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
In one of our small trading towns, at that time of year when folk say
"The evenings grow long," a whole family was assembled together. The air
was still mild and warm; the lamp was lighted, the long curtains hung
down before the windows, and bright moonlight prevailed without. They
were talking about a big old stone that lay down in the yard, close by
the kitchen door, where the servants often placed the kitchen utensils,
after they had been cleaned, to dry in the sun, and where the children
were fond of playing; it was, in fact, an old gravestone.
"Yes," said the master of the house, "I believe it comes from the old
ruined convent chapel; pulpit and gravestones, with all their epitaphs,
were sold; my late father bought several of these; the others were
broken into paving-stones, but this one was left unused, lying in the
yard."
"It is easy to know it for a gravestone," said the eldest of the
children. "You can still see on it an mountain-sides and a piece of an
angel, but the inscription is almost quite worn out, except the name
'Preben,' and a capital 'S' a little further on, and underneath it
'Martha,' but it is impossible to make out any more, and that you can
only read after if has been raining, or when we have washed it."
"Why, then, it must be the gravestone of Preben Swan and his wife!"
exclaimed an old man, who by his age might appear the grandfather of
everybody in the room. "To be sure, they were among the last that were
buried in the old convent churchyard--the grand old couple! Everybody
knew them, everybody loved them; they were like king and queen in the
town. Folk said they had more than a barrelful of gold, and yet they
went about simply clad, in the coarsest cloth, only their linen was
always of dazzling whiteness. Yes, that was a charming old pair, Preben
and Martha. One was always so glad to see them, sitting together on the
bench at the top of their stone staircase, under the old lime-tree's
shade. They were so good to the poor! they feasted them, clothed them,
and there was good sense and a true Christian spirit in all their
benevolence.
"The wife died first; I remember the day quite well; I was then a little
boy, and went with my father to see old Preben: the old man was so
grieved, he cried like a child. The corpse still lay in her bedroom,
close to the chamber where we sat; she looked as if she had just fallen
asleep. And the old man told my father how he should now be so lonely,
and how many years, they had spent together, and how they had first made
acquaintance and came to love each other. As I said before, I was a
child, but it moved me strangely to listen to the old man, and watch how
he grew more animated as he went on speaking, a faint color coming into
his cheeks as he talked of their youthful days, how pretty she had been,
how many little innocent tricks he had played, in order to meet her. And
when he spoke of his wedding-day his eyes quite sparkled; he seemed to
be living his happy time over again--and all the while she was lying
dead in the next chamber, an old lady, and he was an old man--ah, how
time passes! I was a child then, and now I am as old as Preben Swan.
Yes, time and change come to all. I remember as well as possible the
funeral-day, and Preben Swan following the coffin. They had had their
gravestone carved with names and inscriptions, all except the dates of
their death, some years before; that same evening the stone was taken to
the grave, and put into its place. The next year the grave had to be
reopened, and old Preben rejoined his wife. They did not turn out to be
so rich as people had fancied, and what they did leave went to distant
relations very far off. The old wooden house, with the bench at the top
of the high stone staircase under the lime-tree, was ordered to be
pulled down, for it was too ruinous to stand any longer. And afterward,
when the convent chapel and cemetery were destroyed, the gravestone of
Preben and Martha was sold, like others, to whomsoever chose to buy it.
And so now it lies in the yard for the little ones to roll over, and to
make a shelf for the kitchen pots and pans. And the paved street now
covers the resting-place of old Preben and his wife, and nobody thinks
of them any more."
And the old man who related all this shook his head sadly. "Forgotten!
All things are forgotten!"
And the rest began to speak of other matters; but the youngest boy, a
child with large, grave eyes, crept up on a chair behind the curtains,
and looked out into the yard, where the moon shone brightly on the big
stone that before had seemed to him flat and uninteresting enough, but
now had become to him like a page of a large-sized story-book. For all
that the boy had heard concerning Preben and his wife, the stone seemed
to contain within it; and he looked first at the stone, and then at the
brilliant moon, which looked to him like a bright kind face looking down
through the pure still air upon the earth.
"Forgotten! all shall be forgotten!" these words came to his ears from
the room; but at that very moment an invisible angel kissed the boy's
forehead and softly whispered, "Keep the seed carefully, keep it till
the time for ripening. Through thee, child as thou art, shall the
half-erased inscription, the crumbling gravestone, stand out in clear,
legible characters for generations to come! Through thee shall the old
couple again walk arm-in-arm through the ancient gateways, and sit with
smiling faces on the bench under the lime tree, greeting rich and poor.
The good and the beautiful perish never; they live eternally in tale and
song."
"GOOD-FOR-NOTHING"
By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
The sheriff stood at the open window; he wore ruffles, and a dainty
breastpin decorated the front of his shirt; he was neatly shaven, and a
tiny little strip of sticking-plaster covered the little cut he had
given himself during the process. "Well, my little man?" quoth he.
The "little man" was no other than the laundress's son, who respectfully
took off his cap in passing. His cap was broken in the rim, and adapted
to be put into the pocket on occasion; his clothes were poor, but clean,
and very neatly mended, and he wore heavy wooden shoes. He stood still
when the sheriff spoke, as respectfully as though he stood before the
king.
"Ah, you're a good boy, a well-behaved boy!" said the sheriff. "And so
your mother is washing down at the river; _she_ isn't good for much. And
you're going to her, I see. Ah, poor child!--well, you may go."
And the boy passed on, still holding his cap in his hand, while the wind
tossed to and fro his waves of yellow hair. He went through the street,
down a little alley to the brook, where his mother stood in the water,
at her washing-stool, beating the heavy linen. The water-mill's sluices
were opened, and the current was strong; the washing-stool was nearly
carried away by it, and the laundress had hard work to strive against
it.
"I am very near taking a voyage," she said, "and it is so cold out in
the water; for six hours have I been standing here. Have you anything
for me?"--and the boy drew forth a phial, which his mother put to her
lips. "Ah, that is as good as warm meat, and it is not so dear. O, the
water is so cold--but if my strength will but last me out to bring you
up honestly, my sweet child!"
At that moment approached an elderly woman, poorly clad, blind of one
eye, lame on one leg, and with her hair brushed into one large curl to
hide the blind eye--but in vain, the defect was only the more
conspicuous. This was "Lame Maren," as the neighbors called her, a
friend of the washerwoman's. "Poor thing, slaving and toiling away in
the cold water! it is hard that you should be called names"--for Maren
had overheard the sheriff speaking to the child about his own mother--
"hard that your boy should be told you are good-for-nothing."
"What! did the sheriff really say so, child?" said the Laundress, and
her lips quivered. "So you have a mother who is good-for-nothing!
Perhaps he is right, only he should not say so to the child--but I must
not complain, for good things have come to me from that house."
"Why yes, you were in service there once, when the sheriff's parents
were alive, many years since. There is a grand dinner at the sheriff's
to-day," went on Maren; "it would have been put off, though, had not
everything been prepared. I heard it from the porter. News came in a
letter, an hour ago, that the sheriff's younger brother, at Copenhagen,
is dead."
"Dead!" repeated the Laundress, and she turned as white as a corpse.
"What do you care about it?" said Maren. "To be sure, you must have
known him, since you served in the house."
"Is he dead? he was the best, the kindest of creatures! indeed, there
are not many like him," and the tears rolled down her cheeks. "O, the
world is turning round, I feel so ill!" and she clung to the
washing-stool for support.
"You are ill, indeed!" cried Maren. "Take care, the stool will overturn.
I had better get you home at once."
"But the linen?"
"I will look after that--only lean on me. The boy can stay here and
watch it till I come back and wash what is left; it is not much."
The poor laundress's limbs trembled under her. "I have stood too long in
the cold water; I have had no food since yesterday. O, my poor child!"
and she wept.
The boy cried too, as he sat alone beside the brook, watching the wet
linen. Slowly the two women made their way up the little alley and
through the street, past the sheriff's house. Just as she reached her
humble home, the laundress fell down on the paving-stones, fainting.
She was carried upstairs and put to bed. Kind Maren hastened to prepare
a cup of warm ale--that was the best medicine in this case, she
thought--and then went back to the brook and did the best she could with
the linen.
In the evening she was again in the laundress's miserable room. She had
begged from the sheriff's cook a few roasted potatoes and a little bit
of bacon, for the sick woman. Maren and the boy feasted upon these, but
the patient was satisfied with the smell of them--that, she declared,
was very nourishing.
Supper over, the boy went to bed, lying crosswise at his mother's feet,
with a coverlet made of old carpet-ends, blue and red, sewed together.
The Laundress now felt a little better; the warm ale had strengthened
her, the smell of the meat had done her good.