Out in the forest stood a pretty little Fir Tree. It had a good place;
it could have sunlight, air there was in plenty, and all around grew
many larger comrades--pines as well as firs. But the little Fir Tree
wished ardently to become greater. It did not care for the warm sun
and the fresh air; it took no notice of the peasant children, who
went about talking together, when they had come out to look for
strawberries and raspberries. Often they came with a whole pot-full,
or had strung berries on a straw; then they would sit down by the
little Fir Tree and say, "How pretty and small that one is!" and the
Fir Tree did not like to hear that at all.
Next year he had grown a great joint, and the following year he was
longer still, for in fir trees one can always tell by the number of
rings they have how many years they have been growing.
"Oh, if I were only as great a tree as the other!" sighed the little
Fir, "then I would spread my branches far around, and look out from
my crown into the wide world. The birds would then build nests in
my boughs, and when the wind blew I could nod just as grandly as the
others yonder."
It took no pleasure in the sunshine, in the birds, and in the red
clouds that went sailing over him morning and evening.
When it was winter, and the snow lay all around, white and sparkling,
a hare would often come jumping along, and spring right over the
little Fir Tree. Oh! this made him so angry. But two winters went by,
and when the third came the little Tree had grown so tall that the
hare was obliged to run round it.
"Oh! to grow, to grow, and become old; that's the only fine thing in
the world," thought the Tree.
In the autumn woodcutters always came and felled a few of the largest
trees; that was done this year too, and the little Fir Tree, that was
now quite well grown, shuddered with fear, for the great stately trees
fell to the ground with a crash, and their branches were cut off,
so that the trees looked quite naked, long, and slender--they could
hardly be recognized. But then they were laid upon wagons, and horses
dragged them away out of the wood. Where were they going? What destiny
awaited them?
In the spring, when the Swallows and the Stork came, the Tree asked
them, "Do you know where they were taken? Did you not meet them?"
The Swallows knew nothing about it, but the Stork looked thoughtful,
nodded his head, and said:
"Yes, I think so. I met many new ships when I flew out of Egypt; on
the ships were stately masts; I fancy these were the trees. They smelt
like fir. I can assure you they're stately--very stately."
"Oh that I were only big enough to go over the sea! What kind of thing
is this sea, and how does it look?"
"It would take too long to explain all that," said the Stork, and he
went away.
"Rejoice in thy youth," said the Sunbeams; "rejoice in thy fresh
growth, and in the young life that is within thee."
And the Wind kissed the Tree, and the Dew wept tears upon it; but the
Fir Tree did not understand that.
When Christmas-time approached, quite young trees were felled,
sometimes trees which were neither so old nor so large as this Fir
Tree, that never rested, but always wanted to go away. These young
trees, which were always the most beautiful, kept all their branches;
they were put upon wagons, and horses dragged them away out of the
wood.
"Where are they all going?" asked the Fir Tree. "They are not greater
than I--indeed, one of them was much smaller. Why do they keep all
their branches? Whither are they taken?"
"We know that! We know that!" chirped the Sparrows. "Yonder in the
town we looked in at the windows. We know where they go. Oh! they are
dressed up in the greatest pomp and splendor that can be imagined.
We have looked in at the windows, and have perceived that they are
planted in the middle of a warm room, and adorned with the most
beautiful things--gilt apples, honey-cakes, playthings, and many
hundred of candles."
"And then?" asked the Fir Tree, and trembled through all its branches.
"And then? What happens then?"
"Why, we have not seen anything more. But it was incomparable."
"Perhaps I may be destined to tread this glorious path one day!" cried
the Fir Tree, rejoicingly. "That is even better than traveling across
the sea. How painfully I long for it! If it were only Christmas now!
Now I am great and grown up, like the rest who were led away last
year. Oh, if I were only on the carriage! If I were only in the warm
room, among all the pomp and splendor! And then? Yes, then something
even better will come, something far more charming, or else why should
they adorn me so? There must be something grander, something greater
still to come; but what? Oh! I'm suffering, I'm longing! I don't know
myself what is the matter with me!"
"Rejoice in us," said Air and Sunshine. "Rejoice in thy fresh youth
here in the woodland."
But the Fir Tree did not rejoice at all, but it grew and grew; winter
and summer it stood there, green, dark green. The people who saw it
said, "That's a handsome tree!" and at Christmas time it was felled
before any one of the others. The axe cut deep into its marrow, and
the tree fell to the ground with a sigh; it felt a pain, a sensation
of faintness, and could not think at all of happiness, for it was sad
at parting from its home, from the place where it had grown up; it
knew that it should never again see the dear old companions, the
little bushes and flowers all around--perhaps not even the birds. The
parting was not at all agreeable.
The Tree only came to itself when it was unloaded in a yard, with
other trees, and heard a man say:
"This one is famous; we only want this one!"
Now two servants came in gay liveries, and carried the Fir Tree into
a large, beautiful parlor. All around the walls hung pictures, and by
the great stove stood large Chinese vases with lions on the covers;
there were rocking-chairs, silken sofas, great tables covered with
picture books, and toys worth a hundred times a hundred dollars, at
least the children said so. And the Fir Tree was put into a great tub
filled with sand; but no one could see that it was a tub, for it
was hung round with green cloth, and stood on a large, many-colored
carpet. Oh, how the Tree trembled! What was to happen now? The
servants, and the young ladies also, decked it out. On one branch they
hung little nets, cut out of colored paper; every net was filled
with sweetmeats; golden apples and walnuts hung down, as if they grew
there, and more than a hundred little candles, red, white, and blue,
were fastened to the different boughs. Dolls that looked exactly like
real people--the tree had never seen such before--swung among the
foliage, and high on the summit of the tree was fixed a tinsel star.
It was splendid, particularly splendid.
"This evening," said all, "this evening it will shine."
"Oh," thought the Tree, "that it were evening already! Oh, that the
lights may be soon lit up! When may that be done? I wonder if trees
will come out of the forest to look at me? Will the sparrows fly
against the panes? Shall I grow fast here, and stand adorned in
summer and winter?"
Yes, he did not guess badly. But he had a complete backache from
mere longing, and the backache is just as bad for a Tree as the
headache for a person.
At last the candles were lighted. What a brilliance, what splendor!
The Tree trembled so in all its branches that one of the candles set
fire to a green twig, and it was scorched.
"Heaven preserve us!" cried the young ladies; and they hastily put the
fire out.
Now the Tree might not even tremble. Oh, that was terrible! It was
so afraid of setting fire to some of its ornaments, and it was quite
bewildered with all the brilliance. And now the folding doors were
thrown open, and a number of children rushed in as if they would
have overturned the whole Tree; the older people followed more
deliberately. The little ones stood quite silent, but only for a
minute; then they shouted till the room rang: they danced gleefully
round the Tree, and one present after another was plucked from it.
"What are they about?" thought the Tree. "What's going to be done?"
And the candles burned down to the twigs, and as they burned down
they were extinguished, and then the children received permission to
plunder the Tree. Oh! they rushed in upon it, so that every branch
cracked again: if it had not been fastened by the top and by the
golden star to the ceiling, it would have fallen down.
The children danced about with their pretty toys. No one looked at the
Tree except one old man, who came up and peeped among the branches,
but only to see if a fig or an apple had been forgotten.
"A story! A story!" shouted the children; and they drew a little fat
man toward the tree; and he sat down just beneath it--"for then we
shall be in the green wood," said he, "and the tree may have the
advantage of listening to my tale. But I can only tell one. Will
you hear the story of Ivede-Avede, or of Klumpey-Dumpey, who
fell downstairs, and still was raised up to honor and married the
Princess?"
"Ivede-Avede!" cried some, "Klumpey-Dumpey!" cried others, and there
was a great crying and shouting. Only the Fir Tree was quite silent,
and thought, "Shall I not be in it? Shall I have nothing to do in
it?" But he had been in the evening's amusement, and had done what was
required of him.
And the fat man told about Klumpey-Dumpey who fell downstairs, and yet
was raised to honor and married the Princess. And the children clapped
their hands, and cried, "Tell another! tell another!" for they
wanted to hear about Ivede-Avede; but they only got the story of
Klumpey-Dumpey. The Fir Tree stood quite silent and thoughtful; never
had the birds in the wood told such a story as that. Klumpey-Dumpey
fell downstairs and yet came to honor and married the Princess!
"Yes, so it happens in the world!" thought the Fir Tree, and believed
it must be true, because that was such a nice man who told it. "Well,
who can know? Perhaps I shall fall downstairs, too, and marry a
Princess!" And it looked forward with pleasure to being adorned again,
the next evening, with candles and toys, gold and fruit. "To-morrow I
shall not tremble," it thought.
"I will rejoice in all my splendor. To-morrow I shall hear the story
of Klumpey-Dumpey again, and perhaps that of Ivede-Avede, too."
And the Tree stood all night quiet and thoughtful.
In the morning the servants and the chambermaid came in.
"Now my splendor will begin afresh," thought the Tree. But they
dragged him out of the room, and upstairs to the garret, and here they
put him in a dark corner where no daylight shone.
"What's the meaning of this?" thought the Tree. "What am I to do here?
What is to happen?"
And he leaned against the wall, and thought, and thought. And he had
time enough, for days and nights went by, and nobody came up; and
when at length some one came, it was only to put some great boxes in
a corner. Now the Tree stood quite hidden away, and the supposition is
that it was quite forgotten.
"Now it's winter outside," thought the Tree. "The earth is hard and
covered with snow, and people cannot plant me; therefore I suppose I'm
to be sheltered here until spring comes. How considerate that is! How
good people are! If it were only not so dark here, and so terribly
solitary!--not even a little hare? That was pretty out there in the
wood, when the snow lay thick and the hare sprang past; yes, even when
he jumped over me; but then I did not like it. It is terribly lonely
up here!"
"Piep! piep!" said a little Mouse, and crept forward, and then came
another little one. They smelt at the Fir Tree, and then slipped among
the branches.
"It's horribly cold," said the two little Mice, "or else it would be
comfortable here. Don't you think so, you old Fir Tree?"
"I'm not old at all," said the Fir Tree. "There are many much older
than I."
"Where do you come from?" asked the Mice. "And what do you know?" They
were dreadfully inquisitive. "Tell us about the most beautiful spot
on earth. Have you been there? Have you been in the store room, where
cheeses lie on the shelves, and hams hang from the ceiling, where one
dances on tallow candles, and goes in thin and comes out fat?"
"I don't know that," replied the Tree; "but I know the wood, where the
sun shines and the birds sing."
And then it told all about its youth.
And the little Mice had never heard anything of the kind; and they
listened and said:
"What a number of things you have seen! How happy you must have been!"
"I?" replied the Fir Tree; and it thought about what it had told.
"Yes, those were really quite happy times." But then he told of the
Christmas Eve, when he had been hung with sweetmeats and candles.
"Oh!" said the little Mice, "how happy you have been, you old Fir
Tree!"
"I'm not old at all," said the Tree. "I only came out of the wood this
winter. I'm only rather backward in my growth."
"What splendid stories you can tell!" said the little Mice.
And next night they came with four other little Mice, to hear what
the Tree had to relate; and the more it said, the more clearly did it
remember everything, and thought, "Those were quite merry days! But
they may come again. Klumpey-Dumpey fell downstairs and yet he married
the Princess. Perhaps I may marry a Princess too?" And then the
Fir Tree thought of a pretty little Birch Tree that grew out in the
forest: for the Fir Tree, that Birch was a real Princess.
"Who's Klumpey-Dumpey?" asked the little Mice.
And then the Fir Tree told the whole story. It could remember every
single word; and the little Mice were ready to leap to the very top of
the tree with pleasure. Next night a great many more Mice came, and
on Sunday two Rats even appeared; but these thought the story was not
pretty, and the little Mice were sorry for that, for now they also did
not like it so much as before.
"Do you only know one story?" asked the Rats.
"Only that one," replied the Tree. "I heard that on the happiest
evening of my life; I did not think then how happy I was."
"That's a very miserable story. Don't you know any about bacon and
tallow candles--a store-room story?"
"No," said the Tree.
"Then we'd rather not hear you," said the Rats.
And they went back to their own people. The little Mice at last stayed
away also; and then the Tree sighed and said:
"It was very nice when they sat round me, the merry little Mice,
and listened when I spoke to them. Now that's past too. But I shall
remember to be pleased when they take me out."
But when did that happen? Why, it was one morning that people came and
rummaged in the garret; the boxes were put away, and the Tree brought
out; they certainly threw him rather roughly on the floor, but a
servant dragged him away at once to the stairs, where the daylight
shone.
"Now life is beginning again!" thought the Tree.
It felt the fresh air and the first sunbeams, and now it was out in
the courtyard. Everything passed so quickly that the Tree quite
forgot to look at itself, there was so much to look at all round. The
courtyard was close to a garden, and here everything was blooming; the
roses hung fresh and fragrant over the little paling, the linden trees
were in blossom, and the swallows cried, "Quinze-wit! quinze-wit! my
husband's come!" But it was not the Fir Tree that they meant.
"Now I shall live!" said the Tree, rejoicingly, and spread its
branches far out; but, alas! they were all withered and yellow; and it
lay in the corner among nettles and weeds. The tinsel star was still
upon it, and shone in the bright sunshine.
In the courtyard a couple of the merry children were playing who had
danced round the tree at Christmas time, and had rejoiced over it. One
of the youngest ran up and tore off the golden star.
"Look what is sticking to the ugly old fir tree!" said the child, and
he trod upon the branches till they cracked again under his boots.
And the Tree looked at all the blooming flowers and the splendor of
the garden, and then looked at itself, and wished it had remained in
the dark corner of the garret; it thought of its fresh youth in the
wood, of the merry Christmas Eve, and of the little Mice which had
listened so pleasantly to the story of Klumpey-Dumpey.
"Past! past!" said the old Tree. "Had I but rejoiced when I could have
done so! Past! past!"
And the servant came and chopped the Tree into little pieces; a whole
bundle lay there; it blazed brightly under the great brewing kettle,
and it sighed deeply, and each sigh was like a little shot; and the
children who were at play there ran up and seated themselves at the
fire, looked into it, and cried "Puff! puff!" But at each explosion,
which was a deep sigh, the Tree thought of a summer day in the woods,
or of a winter night there, when the stars beamed; he thought of
Christmas Eve and of Klumpey-Dumpey, the only story he had ever heard
or knew how to tell; and then the Tree was burned.
The boys played in the garden, and the youngest had on his breast a
golden star, which the Tree had worn on its happiest evening. Now that
was past, and the Tree's life was past, and the story is past too:
past! past!--and that's the way with all stories.