THE OLD HOUSE

                                  1872

                 FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

                             THE OLD HOUSE

                       by Hans Christian Andersen



A VERY old house stood once in a street with several that were

quite new and clean. The date of its erection had been carved on one

of the beams, and surrounded by scrolls formed of tulips and

hop-tendrils; by this date it could be seen that the old house was

nearly three hundred years old. Verses too were written over the

windows in old-fashioned letters, and grotesque faces, curiously

carved, grinned at you from under the cornices. One story projected

a long way over the other, and under the roof ran a leaden gutter,

with a dragon's head at the end. The rain was intended to pour out

at the dragon's mouth, but it ran out of his body instead, for there

was a hole in the gutter. The other houses in the street were new

and well built, with large window panes and smooth walls. Any one

could see they had nothing to do with the old house. Perhaps they

thought, "How long will that heap of rubbish remain here to be a

disgrace to the whole street. The parapet projects so far forward that

no one can see out of our windows what is going on in that

direction. The stairs are as broad as the staircase of a castle, and

as steep as if they led to a church-tower. The iron railing looks like

the gate of a cemetery, and there are brass knobs upon it. It is

really too ridiculous."

Opposite to the old house were more nice new houses, which had

just the same opinion as their neighbors.

At the window of one of them sat a little boy with fresh rosy

cheeks, and clear sparkling eyes, who was very fond of the old

house, in sunshine or in moonlight. He would sit and look at the

wall from which the plaster had in some places fallen off, and fancy

all sorts of scenes which had been in former times. How the street

must have looked when the houses had all gable roofs, open staircases,

and gutters with dragons at the spout. He could even see soldiers

walking about with halberds. Certainly it was a very good house to

look at for amusement.

An old man lived in it, who wore knee-breeches, a coat with

large brass buttons, and a wig, which any one could see was a real

wig. Every morning an old man came to clean the rooms, and to wait

upon him, otherwise the old man in the knee-breeches would have been

quite alone in the house. Sometimes he came to one of the windows

and looked out; then the little boy nodded to him, and the old man

nodded back again, till they became acquainted, and were friends,

although they had never spoken to each other; but that was of no

consequence.

The little boy one day heard his parents say, "The old man

opposite is very well off, but is terribly lonely." The next Sunday

morning the little boy wrapped something in a piece of paper and

took it to the door of the old house, and said to the attendant who

waited upon the old man, "Will you please give this from me to the

gentleman who lives here; I have two tin soldiers, and this is one

of them, and he shall have it, because I know he is terribly lonely."

And the old attendant nodded and looked very pleased, and then

he carried the tin soldier into the house.

Afterwards he was sent over to ask the little boy if he would

not like to pay a visit himself. His parents gave him permission,

and so it was that he gained admission to the old house.

The brassy knobs on the railings shone more brightly than ever, as

if they had been polished on account of his visit; and on the door

were carved trumpeters standing in tulips, and it seemed as if they

were blowing with all their might, their cheeks were so puffed out.

"Tanta-ra-ra, the little boy is coming; Tanta-ra-ra, the little boy is

coming."

Then the door opened. All round the hall hung old portraits of

knights in armor, and ladies in silk gowns; and the armor rattled, and

the silk dresses rustled. Then came a staircase which went up a long

way, and then came down a little way and led to a balcony, which was

in a very ruinous state. There were large holes and long cracks, out

of which grew grass and leaves, indeed the whole balcony, the

courtyard, and the walls were so overgrown with green that they looked

like a garden. In the balcony stood flower-pots, on which were heads

having asses' ears, but the flowers in them grew just as they pleased.

In one pot pinks were growing all over the sides, at least the green

leaves were shooting forth stalk and stem, and saying as plainly as

they could speak, "The air has fanned me, the sun has kissed me, and I

am promised a little flower for next Sunday- really for next Sunday."

Then they entered a room in which the walls were covered with

leather, and the leather had golden flowers stamped upon it.

            "Gilding will fade in damp weather,

             To endure, there is nothing like leather,"

said the walls. Chairs handsomely carved, with elbows on each side,

and with very high backs, stood in the room, and as they creaked

they seemed to say, "Sit down. Oh dear, how I am creaking. I shall

certainly have the gout like the old cupboard. Gout in my back, ugh."

And then the little boy entered the room where the old man sat.

"Thank you for the tin soldier my little friend," said the old

man, "and thank you also for coming to see me."

"Thanks, thanks," or "Creak, creak," said all the furniture.

There was so much that the pieces of furniture stood in each

other's way to get a sight of the little boy.

On the wall near the centre of the room hung the picture of a

beautiful lady, young and gay, dressed in the fashion of the olden

times, with powdered hair, and a full, stiff skirt. She said neither

"thanks" nor "creak," but she looked down upon the little boy with her

mild eyes; and then he said to the old man,

"Where did you get that picture?"

"From the shop opposite," he replied. "Many portraits hang there

that none seem to trouble themselves about. The persons they represent

have been dead and buried long since. But I knew this lady many

years ago, and she has been dead nearly half a century."

Under a glass beneath the picture hung a nosegay of withered

flowers, which were no doubt half a century old too, at least they

appeared so.

And the pendulum of the old clock went to and fro, and the hands

turned round; and as time passed on, everything in the room grew

older, but no one seemed to notice it.

"They say at home," said the little boy, "that you are very

lonely."

"Oh," replied the old man, "I have pleasant thoughts of all that

has passed, recalled by memory; and now you are come to visit me,

and that is very pleasant."

Then he took from the book-case, a book full of pictures

representing long processions of wonderful coaches, such as are

never seen at the present time. Soldiers like the knave of clubs,

and citizens with waving banners. The tailors had a flag with a pair

of scissors supported by two lions, and on the shoemakers' flag

there were not boots, but an eagle with two heads, for the

shoemakers must have everything arranged so that they can say, "This

is a pair." What a picture-book it was; and then the old man went into

another room to fetch apples and nuts. It was very pleasant,

certainly, to be in that old house.

"I cannot endure it," said the tin soldier, who stood on a

shelf, "it is so lonely and dull here. I have been accustomed to

live in a family, and I cannot get used to this life. I cannot bear

it. The whole day is long enough, but the evening is longer. It is not

here like it was in your house opposite, when your father and mother

talked so cheerfully together, while you and all the dear children

made such a delightful noise. No, it is all lonely in the old man's

house. Do you think he gets any kisses? Do you think he ever has

friendly looks, or a Christmas tree? He will have nothing now but

the grave. Oh, I cannot bear it."

"You must not look only on the sorrowful side," said the little

boy; "I think everything in this house is beautiful, and all the old

pleasant thoughts come back here to pay visits."

"Ah, but I never see any, and I don't know them," said the tin

soldier, "and I cannot bear it."

"You must bear it," said the little boy. Then the old man came

back with a pleasant face; and brought with him beautiful preserved

fruits, as well as apples and nuts; and the little boy thought no more

of the tin soldier. How happy and delighted the little boy was; and

after he returned home, and while days and weeks passed, a great

deal of nodding took place from one house to the other, and then the

little boy went to pay another visit. The carved trumpeters blew

"Tanta-ra-ra. There is the little boy. Tanta-ra-ra." The swords and

armor on the old knight's pictures rattled. The silk dresses

rustled, the leather repeated its rhyme, and the old chairs had the

gout in their backs, and cried, "Creak;" it was all exactly like the

first time; for in that house, one day and one hour were just like

another. "I cannot bear it any longer," said the tin soldier; "I

have wept tears of tin, it is so melancholy here. Let me go to the

wars, and lose an arm or a leg, that would be some change; I cannot

bear it. Now I know what it is to have visits from one's old

recollections, and all they bring with them. I have had visits from

mine, and you may believe me it is not altogether pleasant. I was very

nearly jumping from the shelf. I saw you all in your house opposite,

as if you were really present. It was Sunday morning, and you children

stood round the table, singing the hymn that you sing every morning.

You were standing quietly, with your hands folded, and your father and

mother. You were standing quietly, with your hands folded, and your

father and mother were looking just as serious, when the door

opened, and your little sister Maria, who is not two years old, was

brought into the room. You know she always dances when she hears music

and singing of any sort; so she began to dance immediately, although

she ought not to have done so, but she could not get into the right

time because the tune was so slow; so she stood first on one leg and

then on the other, and bent her head very low, but it would not suit

the music. You all stood looking very grave, although it was very

difficult to do so, but I laughed so to myself that I fell down from

the table, and got a bruise, which is there still; I know it was not

right to laugh. So all this, and everything else that I have seen,

keeps running in my head, and these must be the old recollections that

bring so many thoughts with them. Tell me whether you still sing on

Sundays, and tell me about your little sister Maria, and how my old

comrade is, the other tin soldier. Ah, really he must be very happy; I

cannot endure this life."

"You are given away," said the little boy; "you must stay. Don't

you see that?" Then the old man came in, with a box containing many

curious things to show him. Rouge-pots, scent-boxes, and old cards, so

large and so richly gilded, that none are ever seen like them in these

days. And there were smaller boxes to look at, and the piano was

opened, and inside the lid were painted landscapes. But when the old

man played, the piano sounded quite out of tune. Then he looked at the

picture he had bought at the broker's, and his eyes sparkled

brightly as he nodded at it, and said, "Ah, she could sing that tune."

"I will go to the wars! I will go to the wars!" cried the tin

soldier as loud as he could, and threw himself down on the floor.

Where could he have fallen? The old man searched, and the little boy

searched, but he was gone, and could not be found. "I shall find him

again," said the old man, but he did not find him. The boards of the

floor were open and full of holes. The tin soldier had fallen

through a crack between the boards, and lay there now in an open

grave. The day went by, and the little boy returned home; the week

passed, and many more weeks. It was winter, and the windows were quite

frozen, so the little boy was obliged to breathe on the panes, and rub

a hole to peep through at the old house. Snow drifts were lying in all

the scrolls and on the inscriptions, and the steps were covered with

snow as if no one were at home. And indeed nobody was home, for the

old man was dead. In the evening, a hearse stopped at the door, and

the old man in his coffin was placed in it. He was to be taken to

the country to be buried there in his own grave; so they carried him

away; no one followed him, for all his friends were dead; and the

little boy kissed his hand to the coffin as the hearse moved away with

it. A few days after, there was an auction at the old house, and

from his window the little boy saw the people carrying away the

pictures of old knights and ladies, the flower-pots with the long

ears, the old chairs, and the cup-boards. Some were taken one way,

some another. Her portrait, which had been bought at the picture

dealer's, went back again to his shop, and there it remained, for no

one seemed to know her, or to care for the old picture. In the spring;

they began to pull the house itself down; people called it complete

rubbish. From the street could be seen the room in which the walls

were covered with leather, ragged and torn, and the green in the

balcony hung straggling over the beams; they pulled it down quickly,

for it looked ready to fall, and at last it was cleared away

altogether. "What a good riddance," said the neighbors' houses. Very

shortly, a fine new house was built farther back from the road; it had

lofty windows and smooth walls, but in front, on the spot where the

old house really stood, a little garden was planted, and wild vines

grew up over the neighboring walls; in front of the garden were

large iron railings and a great gate, which looked very stately.

People used to stop and peep through the railings. The sparrows

assembled in dozens upon the wild vines, and chattered all together as

loud as they could, but not about the old house; none of them could

remember it, for many years had passed by, so many indeed, that the

little boy was now a man, and a really good man too, and his parents

were very proud of him. He was just married, and had come, with his

young wife, to reside in the new house with the garden in front of it,

and now he stood there by her side while she planted a field flower

that she thought very pretty. She was planting it herself with her

little hands, and pressing down the earth with her fingers. "Oh

dear, what was that?" she exclaimed, as something pricked her. Out

of the soft earth something was sticking up. It was- only think!- it

was really the tin soldier, the very same which had been lost up in

the old man's room, and had been hidden among old wood and rubbish for

a long time, till it sunk into the earth, where it must have been

for many years. And the young wife wiped the soldier, first with a

green leaf, and then with her fine pocket-handkerchief, that smelt

of such beautiful perfume. And the tin soldier felt as if he was

recovering from a fainting fit. "Let me see him," said the young

man, and then he smiled and shook his head, and said, "It can scarcely

be the same, but it reminds me of something that happened to one of my

tin soldiers when I was a little boy." And then he told his wife about

the old house and the old man, and of the tin soldier which he had

sent across, because he thought the old man was lonely; and he related

the story so clearly that tears came into the eyes of the young wife

for the old house and the old man. "It is very likely that this is

really the same soldier," said she, and I will take care of him, and

always remember what you have told me; but some day you must show me

the old man's grave."

"I don't know where it is," he replied; "no one knows. All his

friends are dead; no one took care of him, and I was only a little

boy."

"Oh, how dreadfully lonely he must have been," said she.

"Yes, terribly lonely," cried the tin soldier; "still it is

delightful not to be forgotten."

"Delightful indeed," cried a voice quite near to them; no one

but the tin soldier saw that it came from a rag of the leather which

hung in tatters; it had lost all its gilding, and looked like wet

earth, but it had an opinion, and it spoke it thus:-

             "Gilding will fade in damp weather,

              To endure, there is nothing like leather."



But the tin soldier did not believe any such thing.





                        THE END

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