Right across from the old house stood a new house; it was of the same opinion as all the other houses in the street. But behind one of its windows sat a little boy, a little red-cheeked child with bright, shining eyes who preferred the old house, and that both in the daytime when the sun shone and at night in the moonlight. When he looked at the walls of the old house, with its cracks and bare spots where the mortar had fallen off, then he could imagine how the street once had looked: in olden times, when all the houses had had broad steps leading up to their doors, and bay windows, and gables with tall pointed roofs. He could see the soldiers marching through the streets armed with halberds. Oh, he found the old house worth looking at and dreaming about.
Its owner was an old man who wore the strangest old-fashioned pants, a coat with brass buttons, and a wig that you could see was a wig. Every morning an old servant arrived to clean and run errands for the old gentleman; otherwise, he was all alone. Sometimes he came to the window and looked out into the street; then the little boy nodded to him and the old man nodded back. In this manner they became acquainted; no, more than that, they were friends, although they had never spoken to each other.
The little boy heard his parents say, “Our neighbor, across the street, must be terribly lonely.”
Next Sunday the boy made a little package and, when he saw the servant going by in the street, he hurried down and gave it to him. “Would you please give this to your master?” he asked. “I have two tin soldiers, and I would like your master to have one of them, for I have heard that he is so terribly lonely.”
The old servant smiled and nodded and took the little package, with the tin soldier inside it, to his master. Later that day a message arrived, inviting the boy to come and visit the old man. The child’s parents gave their permission; and thus he finally entered the old house.
The brass knobs on the iron railing seemed to shine so brightly that one might believe that they had been newly polished in honor of the boy’s visit. The little carved trumpeters in the oak doorway seemed to be blowing especially hard on their instruments, for their cheeks were all puffed up. It was a fanfare! “Tra … tra … trattalala! The boy is coming! Tra … tra … trattalala!” The door was opened and he stood in the hall. All the walls were covered with paintings portraying ladies in long silk gowns and knights in armor. The boy thought that he could hear the silk gowns rustle and the armor clang. Then there were the stairs; first they went up a goodish way, and then down a little bit, and ended in a balcony. It was wooden and a bit rickety, grass and weeds grew out of every crack, making it look more like a garden than a balcony. Antique flowerpots with human faces and donkey ears stood ranged in a row; the plants grew to suit themselves. One of them was filled with carnations that spread out over the rim in all directions; that is, the green leaves and the stems, the flowers hadn’t come yet. One could almost hear the plant saying: “The breeze has caressed me and the sun has kissed me and promised me a flower next Sunday, a little flower next Sunday.”
The old servant led the boy into a chamber where the walls did not have paper on them; no, they were covered with leather, which had gilded flowers stamped upon it.
“Gilding fades all too fast.
Leather, that is meant to last,”
said the walls.
In the room were high-backed armchairs with carvings all over them. “Sit down, sit down!” they cried. And when you sat down in them they mumbled. “Ugh, how it cracks inside me! I think I got rheumatism like the old cabinet. Ugh, how it creaks and cracks.”
At last the little boy entered the room with the bow windows. Here the old master of the house greeted him. “Thank you for the tin soldier, my little friend,” said he. “And thank you for coming.”
“Thanks, thanks,” said all the furniture, although it sounded a little more like: “Crack … Crack.” There were so many chairs, tables, and cabinets in the room that they stood in each other’s way, for they all wanted to see the little boy at once.
In the center of one of the walls hung a picture of a beautiful young girl. She was laughing and dressed in clothes from a bygone time. She did not say “thank you” or “crack” as the furniture had, but she looked down so kindly at the little boy that he could not help asking, “Where did you get her?”
“From the pawnbroker’s,” replied the old gentleman. “His shop is filled with pictures that no one cares about any more. The people they portray have been dead so long that no one remembers them. But though she has been dead and gone for fifty years, I knew her once.”
Under the portrait hung a bouquet of faded flowers, carefully preserved behind glass. They looked old enough to have been picked half a century ago. The pendulum of the grandfather clock swung back and forth, and the hands moved slowly around, telling everything in the room that time was passing and that they were getting older; but that did not disturb the furniture.
“My parents say that you are terribly lonely,” said the little boy.
“Oh,” the old man smiled, “that is not altogether true. Old thoughts, old dreams, old memories come and visit me and now you are here. I am not unhappy.”
Then from a shelf he took down a book that was filled with wonderful pictures. There were processions in which there were golden carriages, knights, and kings who looked like the ones in a deck of cards; and then came the citizens carrying the banners of their trades: the tailors’ emblem was a pair of scissors held by a lion; the shoemakers had an eagle with two heads above their banner—for, as you know, shoemakers do everything in pairs. What a picture book that was!
The old man left for a moment to fetch some comfits, apples, and nuts; it was certainly nice to be visiting in the old house.
“But I can’t stand it here!” wailed the tin soldier, who was standing on the lid of a chest. “It is so lonely and sad here; once you have lived with a family one cannot get accustomed to being alone. I can’t stand it! The days are ever so long and the evenings feel even longer. It is not the same here as in your home, where your parents talked so pleasantly and you sweet children made such a lot of lovely noise. No, that poor old man really is lonely. Do you think anybody ever gives him a kiss? Or looks kindly at him? Here there is no Christmas tree ever, or gifts! The only thing he will ever get will be a funeral! … I can’t stand it!”
“You mustn’t take it so to heart,” said the little boy. “I think it is very nice here. All the old thoughts and dreams come to visit, so he said.”
“I see none of them and I don’t want to either,” screamed the tin soldier. “I can’t stand it!”
“You will have to,” said the little boy just as the old man returned with the comfits, apples, and nuts; and at the sight of them the boy forgot all about the soldier.
Happy and content, the little boy returned home. Days and weeks went by. The boy nodded to the old man from his window, and from the funny bow window of the old house the greeting was returned. Finally the little boy was asked to come visiting again.
The carved trumpeters blew, “Tra … tra … tratralala.… The boy is here! … Tra tra!” The knights in armor clanged with their swords and the silk gowns of the ladies rustled, the leather on the wall said its little verse, and the old chairs that had rheumatism creaked. Nothing had changed, for in the old house every day and hour were exactly alike.
“I can’t stand it!” screamed the tin soldier as soon as he saw the boy. “I have wept tin tears! It is much too mournful and sad here. Please, let me go to the wars and lose my arms and legs, that at least will be a change. I can’t stand it, for I know what it is like to have old thoughts and old memories come visiting. Mine have been here and that is not amusing. Why, I almost jumped right off the lid of the chest. I saw all of you and my own home as plainly as if I had been there. It was Sunday morning and all you children were standing around the big table singing hymns, as you always do on Sunday. Your parents were nearby, looking solemn. Suddenly the door opened and little Maria, who is only two years old, entered. She a
lways dances whenever she hears music, and she tried to dance to the tune you were singing, but hymns are not made for dancing they are too slow. She stood first on one leg and flung her head forward, and then on the other and flung her head forward, but it didn’t work out. You looked grave, all of you, but I found it too difficult not to laugh—at least inside myself. I laughed so hard that I fell off the table and hit my head so hard that I got a lump on it. I know it was wrong of me to laugh and the lump was punishment for it. That is what the old man meant by old thoughts and memories: everything that has ever happened to you comes back inside you.… Tell me, do you still sing your hymns on Sunday? Tell me something about little Maria and about my comrade, the other tin soldier. He must be happy. Oh, I can’t stand it!”
“I have given you away,” said the little boy. “You will have to stay, can’t you understand that?”
The old man brought him a drawer in which lay many wonderful things. There were old playing cards with gilded edges, a little silver piggy bank, and a fish with a wiggly tail. Other drawers were opened and all the curiosities were looked at and examined. Finally the old man opened the harpsichord; on the inside of the lid was a painting of a landscape. The instrument was out of tune but the old man played on it anyway, and hummed a melody.
“Ah yes, she used to sing that,” he sighed, and looked up toward the painting he had bought from the pawnbroker and his eyes shone like a young man’s.
“I am going to the wars! I am going to the wars!” screamed the tin soldier as loudly as he could, and fell off the chest.
“What could have happened to him?” said the old man. Together he and the boy were searching for the little soldier on the floor. “Never mind, I will find him later,” said the old man, but he never did. There were so many cracks in the floor and the tin soldier had fallen right down through one of them; there he lay buried alive.
The day passed and the little boy returned home. Many weeks went by, winter had come. All the windows were frozen over. The little boy had to breathe on the glass until he could thaw a little hole so that he could see out. Across the street the old house looked quite deserted; the snow lay in drifts on the steps. They had not been swept; one would think no one was at home. And no one was. The kind old man had died.
That evening a hearse drew up in front of the old house and a coffin was carried down the steps. The old man was not to be buried in the town cemetery but somewhere out in the country, where he had been born. The hearse drove away. No one followed it, for all his friends and family had died long ago. The little boy kissed his fingers and threw a kiss after the hearse as it disappeared down the street.
A few days afterward an auction was held; the furniture in the old house was sold. The boy watched from the window. He saw the knights in armor and the ladies with their silken gowns being carried out of the house. The old high-backed chairs, the funny flowerpots with faces and donkey ears were bought by strangers. Only the portrait of the lady found no buyer; it was returned to the pawnbroker. There it hung; no one remembered her and no one cared for the old picture.
Next spring the house itself was torn down, “It was a monstrosity,” said the people as they went by. One could see right into the room with the leather-covered walls; the leather was torn and hung flapping like banners in the wind. The grass and weeds on the balcony clung tenaciously to the broken beams. But at last all was cleared away.
“That was good,” said the neighboring houses.
A new house was built, with straight walls and big windows but not quite where the old house had stood; it was a little farther back from the street. On the site of the old house a little garden was planted, and up the walls of the houses on either side grew vines. A fine iron fence with a gate enclosed it, and people would stop in the street to look in, for it was most attractive. The sparrows would sit in the vines and talk and talk as sparrows do, but not about the old house, for they were too young to remember it.
Years went by and the little boy had become a grown man, a good and clever man of whom his parents could be justly proud. He had just got married and had moved into the new house. His young wife was planting a little wild flower in the front garden. He was watching her with a smile. Just as she finished, and was patting the earth around the little plant, she pricked her little hand. Something sharp was sticking out of the soft earth. What could it be?
It was—imagine it!—the tin soldier! The one that had fallen off the chest and down through a crack in the flooring. It had survived the wrecking of the old house, falling hither and thither as beams and floors disappeared, until at last it had been buried in the earth and there it had lain for many years.
The young woman cleaned the soldier off with a green leaf and then with her own handkerchief. It had perfume on it and smelled so delicious that the soldier felt as though he were awakening from a deep sleep.
“Let me have a look at him,” said the young man; then he laughed and shook his head. “I don’t believe it can be him, but he reminds me of a tin soldier that I once had.” Then he told his wife about the old house and its old master and about the tin soldier that he had sent over to keep the old man company, when he had been a boy, because he had known that the old man was so terribly alone.
He told the story so well that his young wife’s eyes filled with tears as she heard about the old house and the old man. “It could be the same soldier,” she said. “I will keep it so that I shall not forget the story you have told me. But you must show me the old man’s grave.”
“I do not know where it is,” her husband replied. “No one does; all those who knew him were dead. You must remember that I was a very small boy then.”
“How terribly lonesome he must have been,” sighed the young woman.
“Yes, terribly lonesome,” echoed the tin soldier. “But it is truly good to find that one is not forgotten.”
“Good,” screamed something nearby in a so weak a voice that only the tin soldier heard it. It was a little piece of leather from the walls of the old house. The gilding had gone long ago, and it looked like a little clod of wet earth. But it still had an opinion, and it expressed it.
“Gilding fades all too fast,
But leather, that is meant to last.”
But the tin soldier did not believe that.
47
A Drop of Water
Surely you know what a magnifying glass is. It looks like one of the round glasses in a pair of spectacles; but it is much stronger, and can make things appear a hundred times larger than they are. If you look at a drop of water from a pond through it, a thousand tiny animals appear that you cannot see with the naked eye; but they are there and they are real. They look like a plate of live shrimps jumping and crowding each other. They are all so ferocious that they tear each other’s arms and legs off, without seeming to care. I suppose that is their way of life, and they are happy and content with it.
Now there once was an old man whom everybody called Wiggle-waggle, because that happened to be his name. He always made the best of things; and when he couldn’t, he used magic.
One day when he looked through his magnifying glass at a drop of ditch water he was shocked at what he saw. How those creatures wiggled and waggled: hopping, jumping, pulling, pushing, and eating each other up—yes, they were cannibals.
“It is a revolting sight!” exclaimed old Wiggle-waggle. “Can’t one do anything to make them live in peace, and each mind his own business?” He thought and thought, and when he couldn’t find an answer, he decided to use magic.
“I’ll give them a bit of color; then they will be easier to study,” he decided. He let a drop of something that looked like red wine fall into the ditch water—but it wasn’t red wine, it was witch’s blood of the very finest type, the one that costs two shillings a drop. All the little creatures immediately turned pink. Now they looked like a whole town of naked savages.
“What have you got there?” asked an old troll who had come visiting. He had no name, which
among trolls is distinguished.
“If you can guess what it is,” replied Wiggle-waggle, “then I will make you a present of it. But it isn’t easy, unless you know it.”
The troll who had no name looked through the magnifying glass. What he saw looked like a city with all the inhabitants running around naked. It was a disgusting sight, but even more disgusting to see was the way people behaved. They kicked and cuffed each other; they beat and bit and shoved; those who were on the bottom strove to get to the top, and those on the top struggled to be on the bottom.
“Look, his leg is longer than mine! I will bite it off! Away with you!”
“Look, he has a lump behind his ear. It is small but it embarrasses him and gives him pain. We will really make him suffer!” And they pushed and pulled him; and finally they ate him up, all because he had had a little lump behind his ear.
One little creature sat still, all by herself in a corner, like a modest, sensitive little maiden. She wanted peace and quiet. But she was dragged out of her corner, mistreated, and finally she was eaten up.
“It is most instructive and amusing,” said the troll.
“But what do you think it is?” asked Wiggle-waggle. “Have you figured it out?”
“That is easy,” answered the troll. “It’s Copenhagen or some other big city, they are all alike.”
“It’s ditch water,” said Wiggle-waggle.
48
The Happy Family
The largest leaves here in Denmark are the burdock leaves. If a little girl holds one in front of her tummy, then it will serve as an apron. If it should rain, one can use one as an umbrella; it is big enough. The burdock plant never grows alone; it is fond of company. Where you find one you will find more, and sometimes a whole forest of them. They look beautiful; and all this beauty is snail food. Those large white snails that the aristocrats and other grand people used to make into fricassee in the old times, and exclaim enthusiastically about how delicious they were—“What a flavor!” they used to cry—well, those white snails live on burdock leaves. And, as a matter of fact, it was for their sake that the burdock was originally planted.
The Complete Fairy Tales and Stories Page 41