the only remainder of the deep ditches; and here stood a magnificent
old tree with overhanging branches- that was the genealogical tree.
Here it stood, and showed how beautiful a willow can look if one
does not interfere with it. The trunk, it is true, was cleft in the
middle from the root to the crown; the storms had bent it a little,
but it still stood there, and out of every crevice and cleft, in which
wind and weather had carried mould, blades of grass and flowers sprang
forth. Especially above, where the large boughs parted, there was
quite a hanging garden, in which wild raspberries and hart's-tongue
ferns throve, and even a little mistletoe had taken root, and grew
gracefully in the old willow branches, which were reflected in the
dark water beneath when the wind blew the chickweed into the corner of
the pool. A footpath which led across the fields passed close by the
old tree. High up, on the woody hillside, stood the new mansion. It
had a splendid view, and was large and magnificent; its window panes
were so clear that one might have thought there were none there at
all. The large flight of steps which led to the entrance looked like a
bower covered with roses and broad-leaved plants. The lawn was as
green as if each blade of grass was cleaned separately morning and
evening. Inside, in the hall, valuable oil paintings were hanging on
the walls. Here stood chairs and sofas covered with silk and velvet,
which could be easily rolled about on castors; there were tables
with polished marble tops, and books bound in morocco with gilt edges.
Indeed, well-to-do and distinguished people lived here; it was the
dwelling of the baron and his family. Each article was in keeping with
its surroundings. "Everything in the right place" was the motto
according to which they also acted here, and therefore all the
paintings which had once been the honour and glory of the old
mansion were now hung up in the passage which led to the servants'
rooms. It was all old lumber, especially two portraits- one
representing a man in a scarlet coat with a wig, and the other a
lady with powdered and curled hair holding a rose in her hand, each of
them being surrounded by a large wreath of willow branches. Both
portraits had many holes in them, because the baron's sons used the
two old people as targets for their crossbows. They represented the
counsellor and his wife, from whom the whole family descended. "But
they did not properly belong to our family," said one of the boys; "he
was a pedlar and she kept the geese. They were not like papa and
mamma." The portraits were old lumber, and "everything in its right
place." That was why the great-grandparents had been hung up in the
passage leading to the servants' rooms.
The son of the village pastor was tutor at the mansion. One day he
went for a walk across the fields with his young pupils and their
elder sister, who had lately been confirmed. They walked along the
road which passed by the old willow tree, and while they were on the
road she picked a bunch of field-flowers. "Everything in the right
place," and indeed the bunch looked very beautiful. At the same time
she listened to all that was said, and she very much liked to hear the
pastor's son speak about the elements and of the great men and women
in history. She had a healthy mind, noble in thought and deed, and
with a heart full of love for everything that God had created. They
stopped at the old willow tree, as the youngest of the baron's sons
wished very much to have a flute from it, such as had been cut for him
from other willow trees; the pastor's son broke a branch off. "Oh,
pray do not do it!" said the young lady; but it was already done.
"That is our famous old tree. I love it very much. They often laugh at
me at home about it, but that does not matter. There is a story
attached to this tree." And now she told him all that we already
know about the tree- the old mansion, the pedlar and the goose-girl
who had met there for the first time, and had become the ancestors
of the noble family to which the young lady belonged.
"They did not like to be knighted, the good old people," she said;
"their motto was 'everything in the right place,' and it would not
be right, they thought, to purchase a title for money. My grandfather,
the first baron, was their son. They say he was a very learned man,
a great favourite with the princes and princesses, and was invited
to all court festivities. The others at home love him best; but, I
do not know why, there seemed to me to be something about the old
couple that attracts my heart! How homely, how patriarchal, it must
have been in the old mansion, where the mistress sat at the
spinning-wheel with her maids, while her husband read aloud out of the
Bible!"
"They must have been excellent, sensible people," said the
pastor's son. And with this the conversation turned naturally to
noblemen and commoners; from the manner in which the tutor spoke about
the significance of being noble, it seemed almost as if he did not
belong to a commoner's family.
"It is good fortune to be of a family who have distinguished
themselves, and to possess as it were a spur in oneself to advance
to all that is good. It is a splendid thing to belong to a noble
family, whose name serves as a card of admission to the highest
circles. Nobility is a distinction; it is a gold coin that bears the
stamp of its own value. It is the fallacy of the time, and many
poets express it, to say that all that is noble is bad and stupid, and
that, on the contrary, the lower one goes among the poor, the more
brilliant virtues one finds. I do not share this opinion, for it is
wrong. In the upper classes one sees many touchingly beautiful traits;
my own mother has told me of such, and I could mention several. One
day she was visiting a nobleman's house in town; my grandmother, I
believe, had been the lady's nurse when she was a child. My mother and
the nobleman were alone in the room, when he suddenly noticed an old
woman on crutches come limping into the courtyard; she came every
Sunday to carry a gift away with her.
"'There is the poor old woman,' said the nobleman; 'it is so
difficult for her to walk.'
"My mother had hardly understood what he said before he
disappeared from the room, and went downstairs, in order to save her
the troublesome walk for the gift she came to fetch. Of course this is
only a little incident, but it has its good sound like the poor
widow's two mites in the Bible, the sound which echoes in the depth of
every human heart; and this is what the poet ought to show and point
out- more especially in our own time he ought to sing of this; it does
good, it mitigates and reconciles! But when a man, simply because he
is of noble birth and possesses a genealogy, stands on his hind legs
and neighs in the street like an Arabian horse, and says when a
commoner has been in a room: 'Some people from the street have been
here,' there nobility is decaying; it has become a mask of the kind
that Thespis created, and it is amusing when such a person is
exposed in satire."
Such was the tutor's speech; it was a little long, but while he
delivered it he had finished cutting the flute.
There was a large party at the mansion; many guests from the
neighbourhood and from the capital had arrived. There were ladies with
tasteful and with tasteless dresses; the big hall was quite crowded
with people. The clergymen stood humbly together in a corner, and
looked as if they were preparing for a funeral, but it was a festival-
only the amusement had not yet begun. A great concert was to take
place, and that is why the baron's young son had brought his willow
flute with him; but he could not make it sound, nor could his
father, and therefore the flute was good for nothing.
There was music and songs of the kind which delight most those
that perform them; otherwise quite charming!
"Are you an artist?" said a cavalier, the son of his father;
"you play on the flute, you have made it yourself; it is genius that
rules- the place of honour is due to you."
"Certainly not! I only advance with the time, and that of course
one can't help."
"I hope you will delight us all with the little instrument- will
you not?" Thus saying he handed to the tutor the flute which had
been cut from the willow tree by the pool; and then announced in a
loud voice that the tutor wished to perform a solo on the flute.
They wished to tease him- that was evident, and therefore the tutor
declined to play, although he could do so very well. They urged and
requested him, however, so long, that at last he took up the flute and
placed it to his lips.
That was a marvellous flute! Its sound was as thrilling as the
whistle of a steam engine; in fact it was much stronger, for it
sounded and was heard in the yard, in the garden, in the wood, and
many miles round in the country; at the same time a storm rose and
roared; "Everything in the right place." And with this the baron, as
if carried by the wind, flew out of the hall straight into the
shepherd's cottage, and the shepherd flew- not into the hall,
thither he could not come- but into the servants' hall, among the
smart footmen who were striding about in silk stockings; these haughty
menials looked horror-struck that such a person ventured to sit at
table with them. But in the hall the baron's daughter flew to the
place of honour at the end of the table- she was worthy to sit
there; the pastor's son had the seat next to her; the two sat there as
if they were a bridal pair. An old Count, belonging to one of the
oldest families of the country, remained untouched in his place of
honour; the flute was just, and it is one's duty to be so. The
sharp-tongued cavalier who had caused the flute to be played, and
who was the child of his parents, flew headlong into the fowl-house,
but not he alone.
The flute was heard at the distance of a mile, and strange
events took place. A rich banker's family, who were driving in a coach
and four, were blown out of it, and could not even find room behind it
with their footmen. Two rich farmers who had in our days shot up
higher than their own corn-fields, were flung into the ditch; it was a
dangerous flute. Fortunately it burst at the first sound, and that was
a good thing, for then it was put back into its owner's pocket- "its
right place."
The next day, nobody spoke a word about what had taken place; thus
originated the phrase, "to pocket the flute." Everything was again
in its usual order, except that the two old pictures of the peddlar
and the goose-girl were hanging in the banqueting-hall. There they
were on the wall as if blown up there; and as a real expert said
that they were painted by a master's hand, they remained there and
were restored. "Everything in the right place," and to this it will
come. Eternity is long, much longer indeed than this story.
THE END
.
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
GRANDMOTHER
by Hans Christian Andersen
GRANDMOTHER
GRANDMOTHER is very old, her face is wrinkled, and her hair is
quite white; but her eyes are like two stars, and they have a mild,
gentle expression in them when they look at you, which does you
good. She wears a dress of heavy, rich silk, with large flowers worked
on it; and it rustles when she moves. And then she can tell the most
wonderful stories. Grandmother knows a great deal, for she was alive
before father and mother- that's quite certain. She has a hymn-book
with large silver clasps, in which she often reads; and in the book,
between the leaves, lies a rose, quite flat and dry; it is not so
pretty as the roses which are standing in the glass, and yet she
smiles at it most pleasantly, and tears even come into her eyes. "I
wonder why grandmother looks at the withered flower in the old book
that way? Do you know?" Why, when grandmother's tears fall upon the
rose, and she is looking at it, the rose revives, and fills the room
with its fragrance; the walls vanish as in a mist, and all around
her is the glorious green wood, where in summer the sunlight streams
through thick foliage; and grandmother, why she is young again, a
charming maiden, fresh as a rose, with round, rosy cheeks, fair,
bright ringlets, and a figure pretty and graceful; but the eyes, those
mild, saintly eyes, are the same,- they have been left to grandmother.
At her side sits a young man, tall and strong; he gives her a rose and
she smiles. Grandmother cannot smile like that now. Yes, she is
smiling at the memory of that day, and many thoughts and recollections
of the past; but the handsome young man is gone, and the rose has
withered in the old book, and grandmother is sitting there, again an
old woman, looking down upon the withered rose in the book.
Grandmother is dead now. She had been sitting in her arm-chair,
telling us a long, beautiful tale; and when it was finished, she
said she was tired, and leaned her head back to sleep awhile. We could
hear her gentle breathing as she slept; gradually it became quieter
and calmer, and on her countenance beamed happiness and peace. It
was as if lighted up with a ray of sunshine. She smiled once more, and
then people said she was dead. She was laid in a black coffin, looking
mild and beautiful in the white folds of the shrouded linen, though
her eyes were closed; but every wrinkle had vanished, her hair
looked white and silvery, and around her mouth lingered a sweet smile.
We did not feel at all afraid to look at the corpse of her who had
been such a dear, good grandmother. The hymn-book, in which the rose
