A ray from the setting sun penetrates the naked cell, for the sun shines upon the evil as well as upon the good. The prisoner looks with hatred upon the sunbeam that is too weak to give off any warmth. A little bird flies down and perches upon the iron bars of the grating. Birds do sing for the evil man as well as for the good. It sings only a short little song but does not fly away; instead it preens itself, flutters its wings, and finally picks one little feather off. The prisoner in his chains looks at it, and his face, so filled with hate, for a moment changes its expression. A thought, a feeling has passed through him without his being aware why or how. And this feeling is kin to the sunbeam, to the violets that in springtime bloom outside the prison and whose fragrance penetrates its walls. From far away a hunter’s horn is heard, so full of life is the music. The bird flies away from the prison bars and the sun rays disappear. Now the cell is as dark as the prisoner’s heart and yet the sun has shone into both and the bird has sung there.
Play on, so gay is the hunter’s tune. The evening is warm and the sea is as calm as a mirror.
41
From a Window in Vartov
Right next to the green embankment that surrounds Copenhagen and once was part of its defenses stands a large building with many windows; in each is a potted plant. Poverty has stamped its mark both on the outside and the inside of the building; this is Vartov, a home for the aged poor.
An old maid is leaning out of the window; she picks a dead leaf from the balsam plant that stands on the window sill, and looks out at the children who are playing on the embankment.
What is she thinking about? She is reliving the drama of a life.
How happily the poor children are playing. They have healthy red cheeks and shiny eyes but are wearing neither stockings nor shoes. They are dancing on the green grass, at the very place where, according to an old legend, a child was offered. In ancient times, when the first embankment was being built here, for the defense of the city, the ramparts sank as fast as they were constructed. An innocent child was lured with flowers, cakes, and toys into an open tomb; and while the little one ate and played, he was sealed in. From then on the ramparts stood on solid ground and the embankment was soon covered by grass. The little children playing there now do not know the legend; if they did they would be able to hear the little child crying from under the ground, and the dew in the morning would seem to them like tears. They do not even know the story of the King of Denmark who rode on that very embankment when the enemy had surrounded the city and swore that he would die in his nest. It was the dead of winter when the enemy attacked, and the foreign soldiers put white shirts over their uniforms. The men and women of the city poured boiling water down over them, as they crawled over the snow-covered ramparts.
Gaily do the children of the poor play.
Play, little girl, play, the years will pass: the blessed years. Soon you will be fourteen and confirmed; then you will walk, hand in hand, with the other little girls, here on the green embankment. Your white dress will have cost your mother more than she can spare; and that even though it will be made out of an old dress she has bought cheaply. You will be given a red shawl which, like your other clothes, will be too big. It will hang almost to the ground. But then people can see that it is a proper grown-up shawl. You will be thinking about your pretty dress and about God, and what happened in church. It is lovely to walk here on the ramparts. The years will pass with many unhappy days to darken even a youthful heart.
At last you will have a friend; you will meet a young man. Together you now walk on the embankment in the green grass. It is early in the year; the violets are not blooming yet, but down at Rosenborg, the royal castle, you stop to admire a young tree that already has large buds. Yes, every year the trees have new, fresh leaves; but that is not true of the human heart. Through the hearts of men, more dark clouds drift than the sky of the north will ever know.
Poor young girl, your bridegroom’s bridal chamber was a coffin and you became an old maid. From your little room in Vartov with the green balsam plant on the window sill, you look out at the playing children and imagine that you see your own story repeated.
This was the life story that the old maid relived as she looked at the sun-filled ramparts where the red-cheeked, barefoot children shouted with joy, like all the other little birds of the heavens.
42
The Old Street Lamp
Have you ever heard the story of the old street lamp? It is not really very amusing, but one can bear to hear it once, anyway.
There was once a respectable old street lamp who had performed his duties faithfully and well for many years; but now had been declared to be too old-fashioned. This was the last evening that it would hang from the lamppost and illuminate the street; and he felt like a ballerina who was dancing for the last time and knew that tomorrow she would be a has-been. The lamp was very frightened of the coming day, for he had been told that he would be inspected by the six and thirty men of the town council. They were to decide whether the lamp was fit for further service and, if so, what kind. They might suggest that he be hung over one of the lesser bridges, or be sold to a factory, or condemned altogether, which meant that he would be melted down. Then he would be made into something else, of course; but what worried him was that he did not know whether he would then be able to recall that he had been a street lamp.
No matter what happened to him, one thing was certain: tomorrow he would be separated from the night watchman and his wife, and that was a tragedy, for he considered them to be his family. He had been hung on his lamppost the very year that the man became a night watchman. His wife had been young and snobbish. She would look at the street lamp at night but she wouldn’t so much as glance at it in daylight. During recent years, however, when all three of them—the night watchman, his wife, and the street lamp—had grown old, the wife had taken care of the lamp: polished it and filled it with oil. The old couple were an honest pair who had never cheated the lamp out of a single drop of oil.
This was to be the last night that the old lamp would shine down upon the pavement. Tomorrow it would be taken to a room in the town hall. These two facts made the lamp feel so sad that he flickered. Other thoughts came: memories of all he had seen. He had cast his light upon many a curious sight and had seen more than all the six and thirty men of the town council put together. But the old lamp would never have expressed such a thought out loud, for he had the greatest respect for the authorities.
It is always pleasant for the old to reminisce, and each time the lamp remembered something different, the flame inside him seemed to grow brighter. “They will remember me as I remember them,” thought the lamp. “Many years ago there was a young man who stood right under me and opened a letter. It had been written on pink stationery and the handwriting was a woman’s. He read it twice; then he kissed it. His eyes when he looked up at me said, ‘I am the happiest of all men.’ He had received a love letter from the girl he loved; and only he and I knew it.
“I remember another pair of eyes.—How strangely one’s thoughts can jump!—There had been a funeral. Someone who had lived in this street had died: a young, rich woman. The hearse had been drawn by four black horses and the coffin had been covered with flowers. The mourners had walked behind it carrying torches, which had outshone my light. But when the procession had passed and I thought the street was deserted once more, I suddenly noticed someone standing right under me and weeping. I shall never forget those sorrow-filled eyes that stared right into me.” Such were the thoughts—the memories—of the old street lamp as it shone for the last time. A sentry who is to be relieved of his duty is allowed to exchange at least a few words with the man who will take his place. But the lamp did not even know who his successor would be, so he would not be able to give him a bit of advice about the wind, and tell him from which corner it usually blew; or the moon, and explain how it shone upon the sidewalk.
Down in the gutter there were three who were ready to take over the jo
b of lighting up the street as soon as it became vacant; and thinking that the lamp could appoint his own successor, they presented themselves to him. The first was a rotten herring head, which can shine in the dark, as you know. It pointed out that his appointment would mean a great saving in oil. The second was an old piece of dry rotten wood. It can also glow and that a lot brighter than an old codfish, as it said itself. Besides, it was the last piece of a tree that had been the pride of a whole forest. The third was a glowworm. The old street lamp could not imagine where it could have come from, but there it was shining like the others. The herring head and the piece of old, dry, rotten wood claimed that the worm did not glow all the time but only when it had fits, which ought to disqualify it.
The old lamp tried to explain to them that none of them had sufficient light to become a street lamp. But none of the three would believe that; and when they were told that the lamp could not, in any case, appoint his own successor, they all declared that this was good news, for—as they all agreed—the old lamp was too senile to make such an important decision.
Just then the wind came around the corner and whistled through the cowl of the lamp. “What’s this I hear about your leaving us tomorrow? Will this be the last evening that I shall find you here? Well, let me give you a farewell present, since we must part. I shall blow your brain clean of all cobwebs, so that you will not only be able to remember everything you have ever heard or seen, but you will be able to see clearly anything that is told or read aloud in your presence, as well.”
“What a marvelous gift!” said the old lamp. “If only I am not melted down.”
“It hasn’t happened yet,” replied the wind. “And now I’ll blow on your memory. If you can get a few more presents like mine, your retirement and old age will be a pleasure.”
“But what if I am melted down?” sighed the lamp. “Can you ensure my memory then too?”
“Be reasonable, old lamp,” said the wind, and blew with all its might. Just then the moon came out from behind a cloud. “What will you give the old lamp?” asked the wind.
“Me? I will give him nothing,” said the moon. “I am on the decline; besides, the lamp has never shone for me, though I have shone for him.” And the moon hid behind the clouds because it hated anyone who made demands on it.
A drop of water fell upon the cowl. It announced that it had been sent by the gray clouds above and that it brought a valuable gift.
“Now that I am inside of you, you can rust into dust in one night—any night that you choose, even tonight.”
The lamp thought that a very poor present and the wind agreed with him. “Hasn’t anyone anything better to offer … anything better to offer?” screeched the wind as loudly as it could.
A shooting star fell from the sky, making an arch of fire.
“What was that?” shouted the herring head. “I think a star fell right down into the old lamp! Well, if the office is being sought by those of such high rank, the rest of us might as well go home.” And that was what all three of them did.
The old lamp shone more brightly than it ever had before. “That was a lovely gift!” exclaimed the lamp. “The brilliant stars above, whom I have always admired and who shine so much more clearly than I have ever done—even though I have striven, throughout my whole life, to do just that—have sent down to me—poor, dim street lamp that I am—a most wonderful gift! They have given me the power to make those whom I love see clearly anything that I can remember or imagine. What a marvelous present! For that happiness that cannot be shared with others is only half as valuable as the one that can.”
“A very respectable and decent sentiment, old lamp,” said the wind. “I am afraid, though, that they forgot to tell you that you need to have a lighted wax candle inside you in order for anything to happen. Without the burning candle, nobody will ever see anything. The stars probably didn’t think about telling you because they think that anything that shines down here has at least one wax candle inside it. But now I am tired. I think I’ll rest.” And the wind was gone.
The next day … Oh, we might as well skip the next day and jump to the next evening, when we find the lamp lying in an easy chair. But where? In the home of the old night watchman. He had petitioned the six and thirty men of the town council to reward his long and faithful service by giving him the old street lamp. Although they laughed, it had been good-naturedly, and the old man had been allowed to take the lamp home with him. Now the lamp lay in the easy chair next to the stove and looked twice as big as it had when it hung from the lamppost.
The old couple, who were having supper, looked fondly toward it. They would have given the lamp a seat at the table had there been a point to it. The room where they lived was in a cellar, two feet under the ground, which had to be entered through a stone-paved corridor. Around the door there was weather stripping, and the room was warm. It was also clean, neat, and cozy. Curtains concealed the bed and covered the two tiny windows. On the window ledges stood two strange-looking flowerpots which their neighbor, who was a sailor, had brought home from the Indies—whether it was the East or the West Indies, the old people didn’t know. They were two ceramic elephants whose backs had holes in them that could be filled with earth. In one there grew leeks, and that was the old couple’s vegetable garden. In the other a geranium bloomed, and that was their flower garden. On the wall hung a large colored print of The Congress of Vienna. In this picture, all the kings and emperors of Europe were portrayed, and you could see them all in one glance. In the corner an old grandfather clock ticked away. It was always fast but, as the old man said, that was better than if it had been slow.
While the old couple were eating dinner, the lamp lay in the easy chair—as we have already been told—near the old stove. The lamp felt a bit as if his world had been turned upside down. But as soon as the old man began reminiscing, talking about all the things that he and the lamp had experienced together—in rain and shine, during the clear summer nights and the long cold winter ones—the lamp realized how pleasant it was to be sitting by a warm stove in the cellar. The lamp remembered everything as vividly as if it had just happened. The wind had really done a good job of refreshing its memory.
The old people were very hard-working; they never wasted a moment. Sunday afternoon, the old watchman would take down a book and read aloud. He preferred travel books, especially ones about Africa. He liked to read about the great tropical forests where the elephants roamed. His wife would glance up at the window ledges where the two clay elephants were and say, “I can almost see it all.”
How much the old street lamp wished he had a lighted candle inside him! Then the old people would be able to see it all just as he envisioned it. He saw the tall trees growing so close together that their branches intertwined; the naked natives riding on horses; and herds of elephants tramping through the underbrush, crushing reeds and breaking saplings with their great broad feet.
“What is the good of my gift if they have no wax candles?” sighed the street lamp. “They cannot afford them; they are too poor to own anything but tallow candles or oil.”
But one day a whole handful of wax candle stumps arrived in the cellar. The old couple used the larger ones for light, but it never occurred to them to put one in the old street lamp. With the smaller pieces of candle the woman waxed her thread for sewing.
“Here I sit, possessing a rare gift,” complained the lamp. “I have a whole world within me, and I cannot share it with the old couple. They don’t know that I could decorate these whitewashed walls with the most splendid tapestries. They could see the richest forest.… They could see anything they desired; but alas! they do not know it.”
The lamp had been polished and cleaned and now stood in a corner where all the visitors could see it. Most of them thought it was a piece of old rubbish, but the night watchman and his wife truly loved the lamp.
It was the night watchman’s birthday. The old woman stood before the lamp and said with a smile, “I think that you
ought to be illuminated in his honor.”
Hopefully, the lamp thought, “A light has dawned on them. Now they will give me a wax candle.”
The old woman filled the lamp once more with oil and he burned all evening. And now he felt certain that the gift the stars had given him—the best present he had ever received—would remain a useless, hidden treasure during the rest of his life.
That night he dreamed—and anyone who possesses a talent as great as the lamp’s really can dream—that the old couple had died and that he had been sent to the foundry to be melted down. He was just as frightened as he had been on the day that the six and thirty men had inspected him. But even though he had the ability to rust and disappear into dust, he didn’t make use of it. When he had been melted down, the iron was used to make the most beautiful candlestick, which was cast in the shape of an angel holding a bouquet of flowers. In the center, among the flowers, there was a hole for a wax candle. The candlestick was placed on a green writing desk that stood in a very cozy room, which was filled with books and had many paintings hanging on the walls. It was the room of a poet. All that the poet thought, imagined, and wrote down seemed to exist within the room. The dark solemn woods, the sunlit meadows where the stork strode, even the deck of a ship sailing on the billowy sea.
“What a gift I have!” said the old lamp. “I could almost wish to be melted down. No! Not as long as the old couple are alive. They love me for myself. I am like a child to them; they have given me oil and polished me. They honor me as much as they do The Congress of Vienna and that picture is highborn.”