"Where are you coming?" said the tall thistles whose leaves were
all armed with thorns. "It is stupid nonsense to allow yourself to
shoot out in this way; we are not here to support you."
Winter came, and the plant was covered with snow, but the snow
glittered over it as if it had sunshine beneath as well as above.
When spring came, the plant appeared in full bloom: a more
beautiful object than any other plant in the forest. And now the
professor of botany presented himself, one who could explain his
knowledge in black and white. He examined and tested the plant, but it
did not belong to his system of botany, nor could he possibly find out
to what class it did belong. "It must be some degenerate species,"
said he; "I do not know it, and it is not mentioned in any system."
"Not known in any system!" repeated the thistles and the nettles.
The large trees which grew round it saw the plant and heard the
remarks, but they said not a word either good or bad, which is the
wisest plan for those who are ignorant.
There passed through the forest a poor innocent girl; her heart
was pure, and her understanding increased by her faith. Her chief
inheritance had been an old Bible, which she read and valued. From its
pages she heard the voice of God speaking to her, and telling her to
remember what was said of Joseph's brethren when persons wished to
injure her. "They imagined evil in their hearts, but God turned it
to good." If we suffer wrongfully, if we are misunderstood or
despised, we must think of Him who was pure and holy, and who prayed
for those who nailed Him to the cross, "Father forgive them, for
they know not what they do."
The girl stood still before the wonderful plant, for the green
leaves exhaled a sweet and refreshing fragrance, and the flowers
glittered and sparkled in the sunshine like colored flames, and the
harmony of sweet sounds lingered round them as if each concealed
within itself a deep fount of melody, which thousands of years could
not exhaust. With pious gratitude the girl looked upon this glorious
work of God, and bent down over one of the branches, that she might
examine the flower and inhale the sweet perfume. Then a light broke in
on her mind, and her heart expanded. Gladly would she have plucked a
flower, but she could not overcome her reluctance to break one off.
She knew it would so soon fade; so she took only a single green
leaf, carried it home, and laid it in her Bible, where it remained
ever green, fresh, and unfading. Between the pages of the Bible it
still lay when, a few weeks afterwards, that Bible was laid under
the young girl's head in her coffin. A holy calm rested on her face,
as if the earthly remains bore the impress of the truth that she now
stood in the presence of God.
In the forest the wonderful plant still continued to bloom till it
grew and became almost a tree, and all the birds of passage bowed
themselves before it.
"That plant is a foreigner, no doubt," said the thistles and the
burdocks. "We can never conduct ourselves like that in this
country." And the black forest snails actually spat at the flower.
Then came the swineherd; he was collecting thistles and shrubs
to burn them for the ashes. He pulled up the wonderful plant, roots
and all, and placed it in his bundle. "This will be as useful as any,"
he said; so the plant was carried away.
Not long after, the king of the country suffered from the
deepest melancholy. He was diligent and industrious, but employment
did him no good. They read deep and learned books to him, and then the
lightest and most trifling that could be found, but all to no purpose.
Then they applied for advice to one of the wise men of the world,
and he sent them a message to say that there was one remedy which
would relieve and cure him, and that it was a plant of heavenly origin
which grew in the forest in the king's own dominions. The messenger
described the flower so that is appearance could not be mistaken.
Then said the swineherd, "I am afraid I carried this plant away
from the forest in my bundle, and it has been burnt to ashes long ago.
But I did not know any better."
"You did not know, any better! Ignorance upon ignorance indeed!"
The poor swineherd took these words to heart, for they were
addressed to him; he knew not that there were others who were
equally ignorant. Not even a leaf of the plant could be found. There
was one, but it lay in the coffin of the dead; no one knew anything
about it.
Then the king, in his melancholy, wandered out to the spot in
the wood. "Here is where the plant stood," he said; "it is a sacred
place." Then he ordered that the place should be surrounded with a
golden railing, and a sentry stationed near it.
The botanical professor wrote a long treatise about the heavenly
plant, and for this he was loaded with gold, which improved the
position of himself and his family.
And this part is really the most pleasant part of the story. For
the plant had disappeared, and the king remained as melancholy and sad
as ever, but the sentry said he had always been so.
THE END
.
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
A ROSE FROM HOMER'S GRAVE
by Hans Christian Andersen
ALL the songs of the east speak of the love of the nightingale for
the rose in the silent starlight night. The winged songster
serenades the fragrant flowers.
Not far from Smyrna, where the merchant drives his loaded
camels, proudly arching their long necks as they journey beneath the
lofty pines over holy ground, I saw a hedge of roses. The
turtle-dove flew among the branches of the tall trees, and as the
sunbeams fell upon her wings, they glistened as if they were
mother-of-pearl. On the rose-bush grew a flower, more beautiful than
them all, and to her the nightingale sung of his woes; but the rose
remained silent, not even a dewdrop lay like a tear of sympathy on her
leaves. At last she bowed her head over a heap of stones, and said,
"Here rests the greatest singer in the world; over his tomb will I
spread my fragrance, and on it I will let my leaves fall when the
storm scatters them. He who sung of Troy became earth, and from that
earth I have sprung. I, a rose from the grave of Homer, am too lofty
to bloom for a nightingale." Then the nightingale sung himself to
death. A camel-driver came by, with his loaded camels and his black
slaves; his little son found the dead bird, and buried the lovely
songster in the grave of the great Homer, while the rose trembled in
the wind.
The evening came, and the rose wrapped her leaves more closely
round her, and dreamed: and this was her dream.
It was a fair sunshiny day; a crowd of strangers drew near who had
undertaken a pilgrimage to the grave of Homer. Among the strangers was
a minstrel from the north, the home of the clouds and the brilliant
lights of the aurora borealis. He plucked the rose and placed it in
a book, and carried it away into a distant part of the world, his
fatherland. The rose faded with grief, and lay between the leaves of
the book, which he opened in his own home, saying, "Here is a rose
from the grave of Homer."
Then the flower awoke from her dream, and trembled in the wind.
A drop of dew fell from the leaves upon the singer's grave. The sun
rose, and the flower bloomed more beautiful than ever. The day was
hot, and she was still in her own warm Asia. Then footsteps
approached, strangers, such as the rose had seen in her dream, came
by, and among them was a poet from the north; he plucked the rose,
pressed a kiss upon her fresh mouth, and carried her away to the
home of the clouds and the northern lights. Like a mummy, the flower
now rests in his "Iliad," and, as in her dream, she hears him say,
as he opens the book, "Here is a rose from the grave of Homer."
THE END
.
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
A STORY
by Hans Christian Andersen
IN the garden all the apple-trees were in blossom. They had
hastened to bring forth flowers before they got green leaves, and in
the yard all the ducklings walked up and down, and the cat too: it
basked in the sun and licked the sunshine from its own paws. And
when one looked at the fields, how beautifully the corn stood and
how green it shone, without comparison! and there was a twittering and
a fluttering of all the little birds, as if the day were a great
festival; and so it was, for it was Sunday. All the bells were
ringing, and all the people went to church, looking cheerful, and
dressed in their best clothes. There was a look of cheerfulness on
everything. The day was so warm and beautiful that one might well have
said: "God's kindness to us men is beyond all limits." But inside
the church the pastor stood in the pulpit, and spoke very loudly and
angrily. He said that all men were wicked, and God would punish them
for their sins, and that the wicked, when they died, would be cast
into hell, to burn for ever and ever. He spoke very excitedly,
saying that their evil propensities would not be destroyed, nor
would the fire be extinguished, and they should never find rest.
That was terrible to hear, and he said it in such a tone of
conviction; he described hell to them as a miserable hole where all
the refuse of the world gathers. There was no air beside the hot
burning sulphur flame, and there was no ground under their feet; they,
the wicked ones, sank deeper and deeper, while eternal silence
surrounded them! It was dreadful to hear all that, for the preacher
spoke from his heart, and all the people in the church were terrified.
Meanwhile, the birds sang merrily outside, and the sun was shining
so beautifully warm, it seemed as though every little flower said:
"God, Thy kindness towards us all is without limits." Indeed,
outside it was not at all like the pastor's sermon.
The same evening, upon going to bed, the pastor noticed his wife
sitting there quiet and pensive.
"What is the matter with you?" he asked her.
"Well, the matter with me is," she said, "that I cannot collect my
thoughts, and am unable to grasp the meaning of what you said to-day
in church- that there are so many wicked people, and that they
should burn eternally. Alas! eternally- how long! I am only a woman
and a sinner before God, but I should not have the heart to let even
the worst sinner burn for ever, and how could our Lord to do so, who
is so infinitely good, and who knows how the wickedness comes from
without and within? No, I am unable to imagine that, although you
say so."
It was autumn; the trees dropped their leaves, the earnest and
severe pastor sat at the bedside of a dying person. A pious,
faithful soul closed her eyes for ever; she was the pastor's wife.
..."If any one shall find rest in the grave and mercy before our
Lord you shall certainly do so," said the pastor. He folded her
hands and read a psalm over the dead woman.
She was buried; two large tears rolled over the cheeks of the
earnest man, and in the parsonage it was empty and still, for its
sun had set for ever. She had gone home.
It was night. A cold wind swept over the pastor's head; he
opened his eyes, and it seemed to him as if the moon was shining
into his room. It was not so, however; there was a being standing
before his bed, and looking like the ghost of his deceased wife. She
fixed her eyes upon him with such a kind and sad expression, just as
if she wished to say something to him. The pastor raised himself in
bed and stretched his arms towards her, saying, "Not even you can find
eternal rest! You suffer, you best and most pious woman?"
The dead woman nodded her head as if to say "Yes," and put her
hand on her breast.
"And can I not obtain rest in the grave for you?"
"Yes," was the answer.
"And how?"
"Give me one hair- only one single hair- from the head of the
sinner for whom the fire shall never be extinguished, of the sinner
whom God will condemn to eternal punishment in hell."
"Yes, one ought to be able to redeem you so easily, you pure,
pious woman," he said.
"Follow me," said the dead woman. "It is thus granted to us. By my
side you will be able to fly wherever your thoughts wish to go.
Invisible to men, we shall penetrate into their most secret
chambers; but with sure hand you must find out him who is destined
to eternal torture, and before the cock crows he must be found!" As
quickly as if carried by the winged thoughts they were in the great
city, and from the walls the names of the deadly sins shone in flaming
letters: pride, avarice, drunkenness, wantonness- in short, the
whole seven-coloured bow of sin.
"Yes, therein, as I believed, as I knew it," said the pastor, "are
living those who are abandoned to the eternal fire." And they were
standing before the magnificently illuminated gate; the broad steps
were adorned with carpets and flowers, and dance music was sounding
through the festive halls. A footman dressed in silk and velvet
stood with a large silver-mounted rod near the entrance.
"Our ball can compare favourably with the king's," he said, and
turned with contempt towards the gazing crowd in the street. What he
thought was sufficiently expressed in his features and movements:
"Miserable beggars, who are looking in, you are nothing in
comparison to me."
"Pride," said the dead woman; "do you see him?"
