in the little lonely chamber of the wooden house in the "Small Houses'
Street," in Copenhagen, whither his rich master had sent him, having
stipulated that he was not to marry.
"_He_ marry!" He laughed a strange and hollow laugh.
The winter had commenced early. There was a sharp frost, and without
there was a heavy snow storm, so that all who could do so kept within
doors. Therefore it was that Anthon's neighbours did not observe that
his booth had not been opened for two whole days, and that he had not
shown himself during that time. But who would go out in such weather
when he could stay at home?
These were dark, dismal days; and in the booth, where the window was
not of glass, it looked like twilight, if not sombre night. Old Anthon
had scarcely left his bed for two days. He had not strength to get up.
The intensely cold weather had brought on a severe fit of rheumatism
in his limbs, and the old bachelor lay forsaken and helpless, almost
too feeble to stretch out his hand to the pitcher of water which he
had placed near his bed; and if he could have done so, it would have
been of no avail, for the last drop had been drained from it. It was
not the fever, not illness alone that had thus prostrated him; it was
also old age that had crept upon him. It seemed to be constant night
up yonder where he lay. A little spider, which he could not see, spun
contentedly its gossamer web over his face. It was soon to stretch
like a crepe veil across the features, when the old man closed his
eyes.
He dozed a good deal; yet time seemed long and weary. He shed no
tears, and had but little suffering. Molly was scarcely ever in his
thoughts. He had a conviction that this world and its bustle were no
more for him. At one time he seemed to feel hunger and thirst. He did
feel them; but no one came to give him nourishment or drink--no one
would come. He thought of those who might be fainting or dying of
want. He remembered how the pious Elizabeth, while living on this
earth--she who had been the favourite heroine of his childish days at
home, the magnanimous Duchess of Thueringia--had herself entered the
most miserable abodes, and brought to the sick and wretched
refreshments and hope. His thoughts dwelt with pleasure on her good
deeds. He remembered how she went to feed the hungry, to speak words
of comfort to those who were suffering, and to bind up their wounds,
although her austere husband was angry at these works of mercy. He
recalled to memory the legend about her, that, as she was going on one
of her charitable errands, with a basket well filled with food and
wine, her husband, who had watched her steps, rushed out on her, and
demanded in high wrath what she was carrying; that, in her fear of
him, she replied, "Roses which I have plucked in the garden;"
whereupon he dragged the cover off of her basket, and lo! a miracle
was worked in favour of the charitable lady, for the wine and bread,
and everything in the basket, lay turned into roses.
Thus old Anthon's thoughts wandered to the heroine in history whom he
had always so much admired, until her image seemed to stand before his
dimming sight, close to his humble pallet in the poor wooden hut in a
foreign land. He uncovered his head, looked in fancy into her mild
eyes, and all around him seemed a mingling of lustre and of roses
redolent with sweet perfume. Then he felt the charming scent of the
apple blossom, and he beheld an apple tree spreading its blooming
branches above him. Yes, it was the very tree, the seeds of which he
and Molly had planted together.
And the tree swept its fragrant leaves over his hot brow, and cooled
it; they touched his parched lips, and they were like refreshing wine
and bread; they fell upon his breast, and he felt himself softly
sinking into a calm slumber.
"I shall sleep now," he whispered feebly to himself. "Sleep restores
strength--to-morrow I shall be well and up again. Beautiful,
beautiful! The apple tree planted in love I see again in glory."
And he slept.
The following day--it was the third day the booth had been shut
up--the snow drifted no longer, and the neighbours went to see about
Anthon, who had not yet shown himself. They found him lying stiff and
dead, with his old nightcap pressed between his hands. They did not
put it upon him in his coffin--he had also another which was clean and
white.
Where now were the tears he had wept? Where were these pearls? They
remained in the nightcap. Such precious things do not pass away in the
washing. They were preserved and forgotten with the nightcap. The old
thoughts, the old dreams--yes, they remained still in _the old
bachelor's nightcap_. Wish not for that. It will make your brow too
hot, make your pulses beat too violently, bring dreams that seem
reality. This was proved by the first person who put it on--and that
was not till fifty years after--by the burgomaster himself, who was
blessed with a wife and eleven children. He dreamt of unhappy love,
bankruptcy, and short commons.
"How warm this nightcap is!" he exclaimed, as he dragged it off. Then
pearl after pearl began to fall from it, and they jingled and
glittered. "I must have got the rheumatism in my head," said the
burgomaster. "Sparks seem falling from my eyes."
They were tears wept half a century before--wept by old Anthon from
Eisenach.
Whoever has since worn that nightcap has sure enough had visions and
dreams; his own history has been turned into Anthon's; his dream has
become quite a tale, and there were many of them. Let others relate
the rest. We have now told the first, and with it our last words
are--Never covet AN OLD BACHELOR'S NIGHTCAP.
_Something._
"I will be something," said the oldest of five brothers. "I will be of
use in the world, let the position be ever so insignificant which I
may fill. If it be only respectable, it will be something. I will make
bricks--people can't do without these--and then I shall have done
something."
"But something too trifling," said the second brother. "What you
propose to do is much the same as doing nothing; it is no better than
a hodman's work, and can be done by machinery. You had much better
become a mason. _That_ is something, and that is what I will be. Yes,
that is a good trade. A mason can get into a trade's corporation,
become a burgher, have his own colours and his own club. Indeed, if I
prosper, I may have workmen under me, and be called 'Master,' and my
wife 'Mistress;' and that would be something."
"That is next to nothing," said the third. "There are many classes in
a town, and that is about the lowest. It is nothing to be called
'Master.' You might be very superior yourself; but as a master mason
you would be only what is called 'a common man.' I know of something
better. I will be an architect; enter upon the confines of science;
work myself up to a high place in the kingdom of mind. I know I must
begin at the foot of the ladder. I can hardly bear to say it--I must
begin as a carpenter's apprentice, and wear a cap, though I have been
accustomed to go about in a silk hat. I must run to fetch beer and
spirits for the common workmen, and let them be 'hail fellow well met'
with me. This will be disagreeable; but I will fancy that it is all a
masquerade and the freedom of maskers. To-morrow--that is to say, when
I am a journeyman--I will go my own way. The others will not join me.
I shall go to the academy, and learn to draw and design; then I shall
be called an architect. That is something! That is much! I may become
'honourable,' or even 'noble'--perhaps both. I shall build and build,
as others have done before me. _There_ is something to look forward
to--something worth being!"
"But that something I should not care about," said the fourth. "I will
not march in the wake of anybody. I will not be a copyist; I will be a
genius--will be cleverer than you all put together. I shall create a
new style, furnish ideas for a building adapted to the climate and
materials of the country--something which shall be a nationality, a
development of the resources of our age, and, at the same time, an
exhibition of my own genius."
"But if by chance the climate and the materials did not suit each
other," said the fifth, "that would be unfortunate for the result.
Nationalities may be so amplified as to become affectation. The
discoveries of the age, like youth, may leave you far behind. I
perceive right well that none of you will, in reality, become
anything, whatever may be your expectations. But do all of you what
you please; I shall not follow your examples. I shall keep myself
disengaged, and shall reason upon what you perform. There is something
wrong in everything. I will pick that out, and reason upon it. That
will be something."
And so he did; and people said of the fifth, "He has not settled to
anything. He has a good head, but he does nothing."
Even this, however, made him something.
This is but a short history; yet it is one which will not end as long
as the world stands.
But is there nothing more about the five brothers? What has been told
is absolutely nothing. Hear further; it is quite a romance.
The eldest brother, who made bricks, perceived that from every stone,
when it was finished, rolled a small coin; and though these little
coins were but of copper, many of them heaped together became a silver
dollar; and when one knocks with such at the baker's, the butcher's,
and other shops, the doors fly open, and one gets what one wants. The
bricks produced all this. The damaged and broken bricks were also made
good use of.
Yonder, above the embankment, Mother Margrethe, a poor old woman,
wanted to build a small house for herself. She got all the broken
bricks, and some whole ones to boot; for the eldest brother had a good
heart. The poor woman built her house herself. It was very small; the
only window was put in awry, the door was very low, and the thatched
roof might have been laid better; but it was at least a shelter and a
cover for her. There was a fine view from it of the sea, which broke
in its might against the embankment. The salt spray often dashed over
the whole tiny house, which still stood there when he was dead and
gone who had given the bricks:--
The second brother could build in another way. He was also clever in
his business. When his apprenticeship was over he strapped on his
knapsack, and sang the mechanic's song:--
"While young, far-distant lands I'll tread.
Away from home to build,
My handiwork shall win my bread,
My heart with hope be filled.
And when my fatherland I see,
And meet my bride--hurra!
An active workman I shall be:
Then who so happy and gay?"
And he _was_ that. When he returned to his native town, and became a
master, he built house after house--a whole street. It was a very
handsome one, and a great ornament to the town. These houses built for
him a small house, which was to be his own. But how could the houses
build? Ay, ask them that, and they will not answer you; but people
will answer for them, and tell you, "It certainly was that street
which built him a house." It was only a small one, to be sure, and
with a clay floor; but when he and his bride danced on it the floor
became polished and bright, and from every stone in the wall sprang a
flower which was quite as good as any costly tapestry. It was a
pleasant house, and they were a happy couple. The colours of the
masons' company floated outside, and the journeymen and apprentices
shouted "Hurra!" Yes, that was something; and so he died--and that was
also something.
Then came the architect, the third brother, who had been first a
carpenter's apprentice, wearing a cap and going on errands; but, on
leaving the academy, rose to be an architect, and he became a man of
consequence. Yes, if the houses in the street built by his brother,
the master mason, had provided him with a house, a street was called
after the architect, and the handsomest house in it was his own. That
was something; and he was somebody, with a long, high-sounding title
besides. His children were called people of quality, and when he died
his widow was a widow of rank--that was something. And his name stood
as a fixture at the corner of the street, and was often in folks'
mouths, being the name of a street--and that was certainly something.
Next came the genius--the fourth brother--who was to devote himself to
new inventions. In one of his ambitious attempts he fell, and broke
his neck; but he had a splendid funeral, with a procession, and flags,
and music. He was noticed in the newspapers, and three funeral
orations were pronounced over him, the one longer than the others; and
much delighted he would have been with them if he had heard them, for
he was fond of being talked about. A monument was erected over his
grave. It was not very grand, but a monument is always something.
He now was dead, as well as the three other brothers; but the
fifth--he who was fond of reasoning or arguing--out-lived them all;
and that was quite right, for he had thus the last word. And he
thought it a matter of great importance to have the last word. It was
he who, folks said, "had a good head." At length his last hour also
struck. He died, and he arrived at the gate of the kingdom of heaven.
Spirits always come there two and two, and along with him stood there
another soul, which wanted also to get in, and this was no other than
the old Mother Margrethe, from the house on the embankment.
"It must surely be for the sake of contrast that I and yon paltry soul
should come here at the same moment," said the reasoner. "Why, who are
you, old one? Do you also expect to enter here?" he asked.
And the old woman courtesied as well as she could. She thought it was
St. Peter himself who spoke.
"I am a miserable old creature without any family. My name is
Margrethe."
"Well, now, what have you done and effected down yonder?"
"I have effected scarcely anything in yonder world--nothing that can
tell in my favour here. It will be a pure act of mercy if I am
permitted to enter this gate."
"How did you leave yon world?" he asked, merely for something to say.
He was tired of standing waiting there.
"Oh! how I left it I really do not know. I had been very poorly, often
quite ill, for some years past, and I was not able latterly to leave
my bed, and go out into the cold and frost. It was a very severe
winter; but I was getting through it. For a couple of days there was a
dead calm; but it was bitterly cold, as your honour may remember. The
ice had remained so long on the ground, that the sea was frozen over
as far as the eye could reach. The townspeople flocked in crowds to
the ice. I could hear it all as I lay in my poor room. The same scene
continued till late in the evening--till the moon rose. From my bed I
could see through the window far out beyond the seashore; and there
lay on the horizon, just where the sea and sky seemed to meet, a
singular-looking white cloud. I lay and looked at it; looked at the
black spot in the middle of it, which became larger and larger; and I
knew what that betokened, for I was old and experienced, though I had
not often seen that sign. I saw it and shuddered. Twice before in my
life had I seen that strange appearance in the sky, and I knew that
there would be a terrible storm at the springtide, which would burst
over the poor people out upon the ice, who were now drinking and
rushing about, and amusing themselves. Young and old--the whole town
in fact--were assembled yonder. Who was to warn them of coming danger,
if none of them observed or knew what I now perceived? I became so
alarmed, so anxious, that I got out of my bed, and crawled to the
window. I was incapable of going further; but I put up the window,
and, on looking out, I could see the people skating and sliding and
running on the ice. I could see the gay flags, and could hear the boys
shouting hurra, and the girls and the young men singing in chorus. All
was jollity and merriment there. But higher and higher arose the white
cloud with the black spot in it. I cried out as loud as I could, but
nobody heard me. I was too far away from them. The wind would soon
break loose, the ice give away, and all upon it sink, without any
chance of rescue. Hear me they could not, and for me to go to them was
impossible. Was there nothing that I could do to bring them back to
land? Then our Lord inspired me with the idea of setting fire to my
bed; it would be better that my house were to be burned down than that
the many should meet with such a miserable death. Then I kindled the
fire. I saw the red flames, and I gained the outside of the house; but
I remained lying there. I could do no more, for my strength was
exhausted. The blaze pursued me--it burst from the window, and out
upon the roof. The crowds on the ice perceived it, and they came
running as fast as they could to help me, a poor wretch, whom they
thought would be burned in my bed. It was not one or two only who
came--they all came. I heard them coming; but I also heard all at once
the shrill whistle, the loud roar of the wind. I heard it thunder like
the report of a cannon. The springtide lifted the ice, and suddenly it
broke asunder; but the crowd had reached the embankment, where the
sparks were flying over me. I had been the means of saving them all;
but I was not able to survive the cold and fright, and so I have come
up here to the gate of the kingdom of heaven; but I am told it is
locked against such poor creatures as I. And now I have no longer a
home down yonder on the embankment, though that does not insure me any
admittance here."
At that moment the gate of heaven was opened, and an angel took the
old woman in. She dropped a straw; it was one of the pieces of straw
which had stuffed the bed to which she had set fire to save the lives
of many, and it had turned to pure gold, but gold that was flexible,
and twisted itself into pretty shapes.
"See! the poor old woman brought this," said the angel. "What dost
thou bring? Ah! I know well; thou hast done nothing--not even so much
as making a brick. If thou couldst go back again, and bring only so
much as that, if done with good intentions, it would be something: as
thou wouldst do it, however, it would be of no avail. But thou canst
not go back, and I can do nothing for thee."
Then the poor soul, the old woman from the house on the embankment,
begged for him.
"His brother kindly gave me all the stones with which I built my
humble dwelling. They were a great gift to a poor creature like me.
May not all these stones and fragments be permitted to value as one
brick for him? It was a deed of mercy. He is now in want, and this is
Mercy's home."
"Thy brother whom thou didst think the most inferior to thyself--him
whose honest business thou didst despise--shares with thee his
heavenly portion. Thou shalt not be ordered away; thou shalt have
leave to remain outside here to think over and to repent thy life down
yonder; but within this gate thou shalt not enter until in good works
thou hast performed _something_."
"I could have expressed that sentence better," thought the conceited
logician; but he did not say this aloud, and that was surely
already--SOMETHING.
_The Old Oak Tree's Last Dream._
A CHRISTMAS TALE.
There stood in a wood, high up on the side of a sloping hill near the
open shore, a very old oak tree. It was about three hundred and
sixty-five years old, but those long years were not more than as many
single rotations of the earth for us men. We are awake during the day,
and sleep during the night, and have then our dreams: with the tree it
is otherwise. A tree is awake for three quarters of a year. It only
sleeps in winter--that is _its_ night--after the long day which is
called spring, summer, and autumn.
Many a warm summer day had the ephemeron insect frolicked round the
oak tree's head--lived, moved about, and found itself happy; and when
the little creature reposed for a moment in calm enjoyment on one of
the great fresh oak leaves, the tree always said,--
"Poor little thing! one day alone is the span of thy whole life. Ah,
how short! It is very sad."
"Sad!" the ephemeron always replied. "What dost thou mean by that?
Everything is so charming, so warm and delightful, that I am quite
happy."
"But for only one day; then all is over."
"All is over!" exclaimed the insect. "What is the meaning of 'all is
over?' Is all over with thee also?"
"No; I may live, perhaps, thousands of thy days, and my lifetime is
for centuries. It is so long a period that thou couldst not calculate
it."
"No, for I do not understand thee. Thou hast thousands of my days, but
I have thousands of moments to be happy in. Is all the beauty in the
world at an end when thou diest?"
"Oh! by no means," replied the tree. "It will last longer--much, much
longer than I can conceive."
"Well, I think we are much on a par, only that we reckon differently."
And the ephemeron danced and floated about in the sunshine, and
enjoyed itself with its pretty little delicate wings, like the most
minute flower--enjoyed itself in the warm air, which was so fragrant
with the sweet perfumes of the clover-fields, of the wild roses in the
hedges, and of the elder-flower, not to speak of the woodbine, the
primrose, and the wild mint. The scent was so strong that the
ephemeron was almost intoxicated by it. The day was long and pleasant,
full of gladness and sweet perceptions; and when the sun set, the
little insect felt a sort of pleasing languor creeping over it after
all its enjoyments. Its wings would no longer carry it, and very
gently it glided down upon the soft blade of grass that was slightly
waving in the evening breeze; there it drooped its tiny head, and fell
into a calm sleep--the sleep of death.
"Poor little insect!" exclaimed the oak tree, "thy life was far too
short."
And every summer's day were repeated a similar dance, a similar
conversation, and a similar death. This went on with the whole
generation of ephemera, and all were equally happy, equally gay. The
oak tree remained awake during its spring morning, its summer day, and
its autumn evening; now it was near its sleeping time, its night--the
winter was close at hand.
Already the tempests were singing, "Good night, good night! Thy leaves
are falling--we pluck them, we pluck them! Try if thou canst slumber;
we shall sing thee to sleep, we shall rock thee to sleep; and thy old
boughs like this--they are creaking in their joy! Softly, softly
sleep! It is thy three hundred and sixty-fifth night. Sleep calmly!
The snow is falling from the heavy clouds; it will soon be a wide
sheet, a warm coverlet for thy feet. Sleep calmly and dream
pleasantly!"
And the oak tree stood disrobed of all its leaves to go to rest for
the whole long winter, and during that time to dream many dreams,
often something stirring and exciting, like the dreams of human
beings.
It, too, had once been little. Yes, an acorn had been its cradle.
According to man's reckoning of time it was now living in its fourth
century. It was the strongest and loftiest tree in the wood, with its
venerable head reared high above all the other trees; and it was seen
far away at sea, and looked upon as a beacon by the navigators of the
passing ships. It little thought how many eyes looked out for it. High
up amidst its green coronal the wood-pigeons built their nests, and
the cuckoo's note was heard from thence; and in the autumn, when the
leaves looked like hammered plates of copper, came birds of passage,
and rested there before they flew far over the sea. But now it was
winter, and the tree stood leafless, and the bended and gnarled
branches were naked. Crows and jackdaws came and sat themselves there
alternately, and talked of the rigorous weather which was commencing,
and how difficult it was to find food in winter.
It was just at the holy Christmas time that the tree dreamt its most
charming dream. Let us listen to it.