Rozprávky Hansa Christiána Andersena v slovenčine a angličtine. Texty v slovenčine boli upravené do aktuálnej slovenčiny.

• Snežienka
• Sedmikráska
• Posledný sen starého dubu
• Poviedka o roku
• Lietajúci kufor
• The Emperor’s New Clothes
• Danish Legens -Legend About Poor Paul
• The Bell
• The Butterfly
• The Old House

SNEŽIENKA

Bola zima, studený vzduch, ostrý vietor; ale doma v teple bolo dobre, kvet ležal vo svojom vlastnom domčeku, driemal v svojej cibuľke pod zemou a pod snehom.
Jedného dňa pršalo; kropaje prenikli snehovou pokrývkou do zeme, dotkli sa kvetinovej cibuľky, hlásali ríšu svetla na povrchu. Skoro prenikol slnečný lúč, jemne snehom sa prevŕtajúc, až k cibuľke a pohladkal ju.
„Vojdi!“ povedal kvet.
„Nemôžem,“ odvetil slnečný lúč, „nemám ešte dosť síl, aby som si sám otvoril; až v lete zosilním.“
„Kedy je leto?“ pýtal sa kvet a opakoval túto otázku, kedykoľvek nový lúč k nej prenikol. Ale bolo dlho do leta; ešte ležal sneh a každú noc zamŕzala hladina vodná.
„Ako dlho to trvá! Ako dlho to trvá!“ povedal kvet. „Cítim v sebe čosi, musím sa vytiahnuť, musím vyraziť von, dať letu dobré ráno; bude to skvostný čas!“

A kvet sa preťahoval a vyťahoval pod tenkou šlupkou, ktorú voda zvonka zahrievala a do ktorej lúče bodali. Vypučala pod snehom, s bledozeleným pukom na stonku, s úzkymi, silnými lístkami, ktoré akoby okolo nej tvorili štít! Sneh bol studený, ale svetlom prežiarený, dal sa ľahko prelomiť a žiara slnečná sem vnikala mocnejšie než predtým.
„Vítaj! Vítaj! znel a spieval každý lúč; a kvet sa povzniesol nad sneh do sveta svetla. Lúče slnečné ju hladkali a bozkali, tak že sa roztvorila celkom, biela ako sneh, zdobená zelenkastými prúžkami. Sklonila hlavu radosťou a pokorou.
„Krásny kvet!“ spievali slnečné lúče. „Aký si svieži a žiarivý! Si prvý, si jediný, si naša láska! Pozývaš leto, utešené leto, cez lúky a mestá! Všetok sneh sa musí roztopiť, studené vetry budú zahnané! My budeme vládnuť, všetko sa zazelená! A potom budeš mať spoločnosť, orgován a akácie a naostatok ruže, ale ty si prvý, tak jemný a žiarivý!“

Bola to veľká rozkoš. Vzduch ako by zvučal a spieval, lúče slnečné ako by vnikali do jej stonky a listov. Kvetina tu stála jemná a krehká, a predsa silná v mladistvej láske a kráse. Stála v bielom rúchu so zelenými stuhami a velebila leto. Ale do leta bolo ešte dlho, mraky zaťahovali slnko, prenikavé vetry niesli sa nad ňou.
„Prišla si trochu priskoro!“ povedal vietor a nepohoda. „Moc máme ešte my a ty ju musíš pocítiť a prispôsobiť sa! Mala si zostať doma, nemala si vychádzať na parádu, nie je ešte k tomu doba.“

Bola mrazivá zima! Dni, ktoré nastali, nepriniesli ani jediného lúča. Pre kvet tak krehký bol to čas k zamrznutiu. Ale on rozvíňal v sebe viac sily, než sám tušil; bol silný radosťou a vierou v leto, ono iste príde, jeho hlboká túžba to hlásala a teplé lúče to potvrdili. A preto stál plný útechy v svojom bielom kroji, v hlbokom snehu, hlávku kloniac, a snehové vločky padali husto naň a ťažko a mrazivé vetry svišťali nad ním.
„Zlomíš sa!“ povedali. „Zvädni, zmrzni! Čo chceš tu vonku? Prečo si sa dal vylákať? Slnečný lúč si z teba robil len blázna! Teraz to máš!“
„Blázon!“ znelo to chladným ránom.

„Snežienka!“ jasalo niekoľko detí, ktoré zišli do záhrady, „hľa, tu je, rozkošná, krásna a jediná!“
A tieto slová pôsobili na kvetinu tak blaho, boli to slová ako teplé lúče. Kvetina ani necítila, že ju utrhli. Ležala v detskej rúčke, detské ústa ju bozkali, sladký zrak sa na ňu díval, priniesli ju do izby a dali ju do vody posilňujúcej, oživujúcej. Kvet sa domnieval, že jediným okamihom bol prenesený do najvyššieho leta.

Domáca dcérka, pôvabné dievčatko, šla k birmovke. Mala milého, mladého priateľa, ktorý tiež šiel k birmovke a chystal sa na dráhu úradnícku. „On bude mojím kvietkom!“ povedala, vzala potom nežný kvietok, vložila ho do vonného papiera, na ktorom boli napísané verše, počínajúce a končiace láskou.

Ba, to bolo všetko vo veršoch, a tieto vložila do listu, i kvet v ňom ležal, a okolo neho bola tma, teplo, ako vtedy, kedy ešte v cibuľke odpočíval.

Kvet šiel na cesty, ležal v poštovom vreci, bol tiesnený a trpel ústrky, nebolo to pekné. Ale malo to koniec.

Cesta minula a milý priateľ list otvoril a čítal. Bol tak veselý a šťastný, že kvet pobozkal. Potom ho položil, ovrúbený veršami, do zásuvky, kde už viac krásnych listov ležalo, ale všetky bez kvetov; on bol prvý, jediný, ako jediný ho lúče slnečné vyvolali, a mal z toho veľké potešenie, môcť o tom rozmýšľať.

A mohol o tom rozmýšľať veľmi dlho; rozmýšľal, a zatiaľ minulo leto a tu prišiel potom zase na svetlo. Ale teraz sa mladík rozhodne neradoval; chopil sa papierov veľmi kruto a zahodil verše, až kvet vypadol na zem. Bol vylisovaný a suchý, ale predsa len ho nemal hádzať na zem. Pravda, ležalo sa tam predsa lepšie, než v ohni, ktorý planúc, pohltil verše i listy.

Čo sa asi stalo? To, čo sa, bohužiaľ, často stáva. Kvetina dievčaťa si s ním len zahrala, bol to žart; dievča si s ním zahrávalo a to nebol žart. V júni, plnom radostného slnka, vyvolila si iného priateľa.

Zrána svietilo slnko na malú, na plocho vylisovanú snežienku, ktorá akoby na zemi bola namaľovaná. Dievča pri zametaní ju zdvihlo a vložilo do jednej z kníh na stole, domnievajúc sa, že z nej vypadla, keď upratúvala a knihy skladala.

A kvet ležal zase medzi veršami, tlačenými veršami, tie sú o mnoho cennejšie, než verše písané, aspoň sú spojené s väčším vydaním.

Leto prešlo, kniha stála v priečinku. Potom zasa bola vyňatá, otvorená a čítaná; bola to dobrá kniha, verše a piesne slávneho básnika. Muž, ktorý v knihe čítal, obrátil list. „Hľa, tu je kvietok!“ povedal. „Snežienka! Iste sem nebola vložená len tak náhodou. Zostaň v knihe na znamenie; iste sú s tebou spojené krásne spomienky!“
A potom položil snežienku zasa do knihy, a táto sa cítila veľmi poctená a potešená vedomím, že má v krásnej knihe básní zostať na znamenie.

To je rozprávka o snežienke, prvom jarnom kvietku.

SEDMIKRÁSKA

Na dedine hneď pri hradskej stál letohrádok; iste ste ho už raz videli! Je pred ním záhradka s pekne natretou mrežou. Hneď pri mreži nad priekopou v bujnej tráve rástla sedmikráska. Slnko na ňu svietilo práve tak teplo a krásne, ako na veľké, vzácne kvety v záhrade a preto rástla sedmikráska ku obdivu. Raz ráno rozvinula svoje snehobiele lístky, ktoré ako lúče obkľúčujú slniečko v ich strede. Ani jej nenapadlo, že ju tam človek ani nezbadá a že je len úbohý, nepatrný kvietok; nie, bolo jej príjemne, obracala sa priamo k teplému slnku a načúvala škovránkovi, spievajúcemu v blankyte.

Sedmikráska bola taká šťastná, akoby bol veľký sviatok, a predsa bol len pondelok; všetky deti boli v škole. A zatiaľ čo oni vo svojich laviciach sedeli a učili sa, sedela sedmikráska na svojej malej zelenej stonke a tiež sa učila a to od teplého slnka a od všetkého dookola a predstavovala si to tak, že škovránok jasne a krásne všetko to vyspieva, čo ona v tichu cíti. Sedmikráska sa dívala s akousi úctou k šťastnému vtákovi, ktorý vedel spievať a lietať, a ani ju nezarmútilo, že ona sama to nevie. „Veď predsa vidím a počujem!“ pomyslela si, „slnko ma ožiaruje a vetrík ma bozká! Aká som bohatá!“

Medzi tyčkami plotu stálo mnoho pyšných kvetov; čím menej voňali, tým viac sa vystatovali, tým pyšnejšie dvíhali hlavy. Pivonky sa nadýmali, aby boli väčšie než ruže, ale na veľkosti nezáleží. Tulipány hrali najkrajšími farbami, to vedeli a stáli tak vzpriamene, ako sviece, aby ich bolo vidieť. Sedmikrásku práve rozkvitnutú cele prezierali, tým viac však ona ich obdivovala a pomyslela si: „Aké sú bohaté a krásne! Ba iste že k ním zletí to krásné vtáča a navštívi ich. Vďaka Bohu, že stojím tak blízko, aspoň uvidím všetku tú krásu.“ A práve keď o tom rozmýšľala — „kvirevíť!“ — priletel škovránok, ale nie k pivonkám a k tulipánom, ale priamo dolu do trávy ku skromnej sedmikráske, ktorá sa radosťou tak naľakala, že ani nevedela, čo si má o tom mysleť.

Vtáčik zatancoval okolo nej a zaspieval: „Aká je mäkká tá trávička! Hľa, aký je to prekrásny kvietok, so zlatým srdcom a striebornými lístkami!“ Žltý stred sedmikrásky naozaj žiaril ako zlato a lístky okolo sa chveli striebrom.

Aká šťastná bola sedmikráska, ach, to bolo nad všetko pomyslenie. Vták ju pobozkal svojim zobáčkom, spieval o nej a potom zase vyletel v modrojas. Trvalo to dobrú štvrťhodinku, než sa kvietok spamätal. Zpoly zahanbená a predsa s vnútornou radosťou obzrela sa sedmikráska po kvetoch vnútri záhrady. Veď sa tiež oni dívali na česť a blaženosť, ktoré jej boli preukázané a pochopili snáď, aká je to radosť. Ale tulipány sa ešte viac vystatovali a tváre sa im stiahli a očerveneli, lebo mali zlosť. A privonky boli veľmi paličaté! Hú! Dobre, že nevedeli hovoriť, povedali by to sedmikráske dôkladne do pravdy! Úbohý ten kvietok pozoroval, že nie sú už tak dobrej vôle, a bolo mu to úprimne ľúto. V tej chvíli vstúpila do záhrady dievčina s ostrým, veľmi blýskavým nožom. Prechádzala sa medzi tulipánmi a rezala kvet za kvetom. „Ach!“ vzdychla si sedmikráska, „to bolo hrozné, teraz je po nich!“ Potom dievčina s tulipánmi odišla; sedmikráska sa zaradovala, že rastie vonku v tráve a že je len chudobný kvietok. Bola veľmi vďačná, a keď slnko zašlo, sklopila svoje lístky, zaspala a snívala celú noc o slnku a o škovránkovi.

Keď ráno opäť svoje biele lístky ako malé rúčky voľne rozpäla, spoznala vtákov hlas, ale čo spieval, bolo veľmi smutné. Ba, chúďa škovranok, mal pre to dôkladnú príčinu, bol chytený a sedel teraz v klietke pri otvorenom okne. Spieval, aká je to krása žiť voľne a slobodne, spieval o mladom, zelenom ovse na poli a o skvostnej ceste, ktorú na svojich krídlach vysoko k nebu mohol podnikať. Úbohý vták, bol zarmútený, sediac uväznený v klietke.

Sedmikráska by mu bola rada pomohla, ale čo mala robiť? Ba, bolo to ťažké, prísť na to pravé! Zabudla celkom na to, aká je to krása dookola, ako slnko krásne hreje a ako jej lístky krásne žiaria. Ach, myslela neprestajne len na zajatého vtáka, pre ktorého nemohla vôbec nič učiniť.

Vtom prichádzali do záhrady dvaja chlapci, jeden z nich mal v ruke nôž, veľký a ostrý ako ten, ktorým dievča tulipány odrezávalo. Išli priamo k sedmikráske, ktorá pravda nemohla rozumeť, čo zamýšľajú.

„Tu môžeme pre škovranka vyhĺbiť pekný kúsok drnu!“ povedal jeden chlapec a začal okolo sedmikrásky hlboko do zeme zarezávať, tak že ona stála práve v prostriedku drnu.

„Ten kvet vytrhni!“ vravel druhý chlapec a sedmikráska sa zhrozila, lebo byť vytrhnutý, to znamená prísť o život, a práve teraz žiadala si žiť, majúc s drnom prísť do klietky k zajatému škovrankovi.

„Nie, nechajme ju tam!“ vravel druhý chlapec, „pekne tam sedí!“ A tak zostala sedmikráska na mieste a dostala sa ku škovránkovi do klietky. Ale úbohý vták veľmi nariekal za svojou stratenou slobodou a bil krídlami o drótené pletivo klietky. Sedmikráska nevedela hovoriť, nemohla mu riecť ani slova útechy, akokoľvek rada by tak bola učinila. Tak prešlo predpoludnie.

„Nemám vodu!“ vravel zajatý škovránok. „Všetci odišli a zabudli mi sem dať aspoň kropaj vody! Hrdlo mi vyschlo a páli. Hneď som celý rozpálený, hneď sa chvejem zimou a vzduch je taký dusný! Musím zomreť, musím sa rozlúčiť s teplým slnkom, sviežou zeleňou, so všetkou krásou, ktorú Boh stvoril!“ A vhĺbil svoj zobáčik do vlhkého drnu, aby sa trochu osviežil. Pri tom padol jeho zrak na sedmikrásku, i pokynul jej a riekol: „Tiež ty tu zvädneš, úbohý kvietok! Teba a kúsok drnu mi dali za šíry svet, ktorý som mal vonku! Každá trávička mi má byť zeleným stromom, každý tvoj biely lístok vonným kvetom! Ach! Vy mi len pripomínate to, čo som stratil!“

„Chcela by som ho potešiť!“ myslela si sedmikráska, ale nemohla ani lístkom hnúť; ale vôňa, ktorú jej lístky vydávali, bola omnoho silnejšia, než tento kvet obyčajne máva. To vtáčikovi neušlo a hoci od smädu hynul a v úzkostiach trávičku šklbal, sedmikrásky sa ani nedotkol. — Nastal večer a nikto neprichádzal a nepriniesol trošku vody úbohému vtáčikovi. Vtedy rozopäl svoje krásne krídla, kŕčovite sa mu telo zachvelo, bôľne zapípal, sklonil hlávku a srdce mu puklo žiaľom a túžbou. Ani kvet nemohol ako včera zložiť svoje lístky a zaspať. Chorý a smutný skláňal sa k zemi.

Len ráno prišli chlapci a plakali, vidiac vtáča mŕtve, veľmi plakali a vykopali mu pekný hrobček, ktorý vykrášlili lupeňmi kvetov. Mŕtvola škovránkova bola vložená do krásnej červenej škatuľky a kráľovsky mal byť pochovaný, úbohý vták! Keď spieval a žil, zabúdali naň, nechali ho sedeť v klietke a hynúť biedou, teraz preň robili veľmi mnoho a plakali za ním. Ale drn so sedmikráskou bol vyhodený do prachu hradskej. Nikto si na kvet ani len nespomenul, a on predsa s vtáčikom najviac cítil a tak rád by ho bol potešil.

POSLEDNÝ SEN STARÉHO DUBU

Na vysokom svahu, hneď na brehu šíreho mora, stál dub, naozaj starý, práve tristošesťdesiatpäť rokov. Ale táto dlhá doba neznamenala pre starý strom nič viac, než pre nás práve toľko dní. Bdieme vo dne a spíme v noci a mávame potom svoje sny, ale so stromami je to ináč, strom bdeje po tri ročné doby, len na zimu upadá do spánku, zima je mu dobou spánku, je jeho nocou po dlhom dni, ktorý sa volá jar, leto a jeseň.

Okolo jeho koruny v tak po mnohé z teplých letných dní mnohá jepica tancovala, žila, vznášala sa a bola šťastná, a keď potom to stvorenie na okamžik v tichej blaženosti na niektorom z veľkých, sviežich listov dubu odpočívalo, hovorieval strom: „Úbohé stvorenie! Celý tvoj život trvá len okamžik! Je to krátke! Je to smutné!“

„Smutné?“ odvetila vždy jepica, „čo tým myslíš? Všade navôkol je nevylíčiteľný jas a svetlo, je tak teplo a krásne, a ja som tak šťastná!“

„Ale žiješ len deň a potom je po všetkom!“

„Po všetkom?“ riekla jepica. „Čo je po všetkom? Je tiež po tebe?“

„Nie, ja žijem tisíce tvojich dní a môj deň obsahuje celé ročné obdobie. To je čosi dlhého, čo si ty ani vypočítať nemôžeš!“

„Skutočne, lebo ti nerozumiem! Ty máš tisíce mojich dní, avšak ja mám tisíce okamžikov, kedy môžem byť šťastná a veselá! Zajde všetka krása sveta, až ty zomrieš?“

„Nie,“ riekol strom, „isteže potrvá ďalej, dlhšie, o mnoho dlhšie, než si myslím, a môžem pomyslieť.“

„Teda obidvaja máme rovnako dlhý život, lenže to obaja rozdielne počítame.“

A jepica tancovala a vyšinula sa vysoko do vzduchu, tešila sa zo svojich jemných, umelých krídel, tešila sa z ich priesvitnosti a zamatovej hebkosti, tešila sa z teplého vzduchu, ktorý bol korenený vôňou z ďateliny, planých ruží, bazy a bolerázu, nehľadiac ani k sladkému dychu fialiek a divej mäty poľnej. Vôňa bola taká silná, že sa jepica až domnievala, že je z nej spitá. Deň bol dlhý a skvostný, plný radosti a blahých pocitov, a keď slnko zapadlo, cítila malá tá muška sladké zamdlenie zo všetkej tej rozkoše a blaženosti. Krídelka nechceli ju už niesť a celá tíško skĺzla na mäkké, knísavé steblo trávy, kývkala hlávkou, ako to vedela a kľudne potom zaspala. To bola jej smrť.

„Chúďa, jepica malá!“ riekol dub, „bol to predsa len trochu krátky život!“

A denne opakoval sa ten tanec, ten rozhovor, tie odpovede a to zaspanie na veky; opakovalo sa to vo všetkých pokoleniach jepíc a všetky boli rovnako šťastné a veselé. Dub prebdel svoje jarné ráno, letné poludnie a podzimný večer, ale teraz sa mu priblížila doba spánku, jeho noc. Zima bola pred dverami.

Už spievali víchrice: „Dobrú noc! dobrú noc! Tu spadol list, tam spadol list! Hľaď, aby si spal! Uspievame ťa k spánku, ukolembáme ťa k spánku; všakže to svedčí tvojim starým konárom? Spi sladko, spi sladko! Je to tvoja tristošesťdesiatapiata noc; veď si vlastne len rok starý! Spi sladko! Mračno snehové mäkko ti postelie, mäkkou, teplou prikrývkou ťa pokryje celého! Spi v sladkom pokoji a sladko snívaj!“

Dub stál tam zbavený všetkých listov, na celú zimu mal sa oddať kľudu a pri tom mali ho obletovať mnohé príjemné sny. Ale tak ako ľuďom, i jemu predvádzali sny vždy niečo, čo už prežil.

Bol raz tiež malý, ba púhy žalud bol jeho kolískou, podľa ľudského počtu bol teraz už v štvrtom storočí. Bol najväčším a najkrajším stromom lesa, svojou korunou vysoko vyčnieval nad všetky ostatné stromy, a z mora bol už zďaleka viditeľným, bol lodiam znamením. On ani na to nepomyslel, koľko očí ho hľadá. Vysoko v zelenej jeho korune hniezdili diví holubi a kukučka volala jeho meno, a na jeseň, kedy sa jeho listy podobaly vytepaným doskám medeným, objavili sa ťažní vtáci a odpočívali na ňom, predtým, než sa rozleteli cez more. Vrany a kavky prilietali a v kŕdľoch sa naň spúšťali a tárali čosi o zlých časoch, ktoré práve nastávajú a ako je to ťažké, najsť v zime potravu.

Bolo to práve v svätý čas vianočný, kedy dub sníval najkrajší sen; počúvajme aj my.

Strom to cítil cele zreteľne, že je doba sviatočná; zdalo sa mu, že počuje zvoniť všetky zvony kostolné, a bolo mu pri tom ako o krásnej nedeli, mäkko a teplo. Sviežu a zelenú rozkladal svoju mocnú korunu, lúče slnečné hrali sa v jeho lístí a konároch, vzduch bol naplnený vôňou kvetín a krovín; pestré motýle sa hrali a jepice tancovali, akoby tu všetko bolo len kvôli tomu, aby sa veselili a tancovali. Všetko, čo strom po roky zažil a okolo seba videl, spelo okolo neho slávnostným sprievodom. Videl ako za starých dôb zasa rytierov a dámy na koňoch, s perami za klobúkmi a sokolmi na rukách, idúcich lesom. Lesný roh zaznieval a psi brechali radostne. Videl nepriateľské vojská s lesklými zbraňami, v pestrých rovnošatách, s oštepmi a halapartňami, rozbíjali tu šiatre a zase ich strhávali; strážné ohne plápolali a pod rozložitými konármi dubu spievali a spali. Videl, ako sa sem dostavila pri svite mesačnom dvojica milencov a svoje mená, ich počiatočné písmená, vyryla do šedozelenej jeho kôry. Citara a harfa Aeolova boli kedysi, ach, je tomu už mnoho, mnoho rokov, zavesené veselými cestujúcimi mladíkmi na konáre jeho; teraz tu zase viseli a zase tak ľúbo zneli. Vtáci spievali, holuby hrkútali, akoby chceli rozprávať, čo strom pri tom pociťoval a kukučka volala svoje meno toľkokráť, koľko letných dní bude ešte žiť.

I bolo mu, akoby nový prúd života od najjemnejších korienkov až hore k najvyšším vetvám, áno, až do listov, prúdil. Strom pociťoval, že prúd mu dáva sily, aby sa vypäl, koreňmi cítil, že i v zemi je živo a teplo; cítil, ako jeho sila rastie, pnul sa vyššie a vyššie. Kmeň vyrastal, nebolo tu zastavenia, rástol vždy viac a viac, koruna bola plnšia, rozšírovala sa, pnula sa do výšky — ale s tým vzrastom rástlo i blahé vedomie, túžba, naplňujúca ho nevýslovným šťastím, túžba, dostihnúť vždy vyššieho cieľa, dorásť až k žiarivému, teplému slnku.

Už vyrástol vysoko nad oblaky, kde tmavé čriedy ťažných vtákov alebo veľké, biele zástupy labutí pod ním tiahli.

A každý dubový lístok, akoby mal zvláštné oko, mohol všetko videť, na všetko sa spoludívať. Hviezdy stali sa za dňa viditeľnými, boli veľké a žiarili; každá z nich sa dívala milým, jasným pohľadom. Pripomínali známe milé oči, oči detské, oči milencov, ktorí sa pod stromom schádzali.

Bol to nekonečne blažený okamih, tak plný radostí a predsa vo všetkej tej rozkoši pociťoval túžbu, aby tiež ostatné lesné stromy tam dolu, všetky kroviny, rastliny a kvety sa s ním mohli vzniesť a tiež túto krásu a nádheru prežiť. Mohutný dub nebol v svojom sne tou všetkou skvelosťou predsa celkom šťastný, keď sa nemohol o svoje šťastie deliť so všetkými ostatnými, malými i veľkými, a tento pocit prechvieval jeho vetvy a listy práve tak prenikavo a mocne, ako sa to v prsiach ľudských zachvieva.

Koruna stromu sa kývala, akoby niečo hľadala, čoho pohrešovala, obzerala sa a pri tom prenikla k nej vôňa fialiek a snežienok. Domnieval sa, že počuje i spev kukučky.

Ba, mračnami vykukovali zelené vršky lesa, videl i ostatné stromy pod sebou rásť a dvihať sa, práve ako on. Kroviny a byliny vysoko vyrastali, mnohé vytrhli sa i s koreňami a leteli rýchlejšie. Breza prišla prvá; ako biely blesk sa rinul jej biely kmeň do výšky, jej ratolesti viali ako zelené zástavy a fábory. Všetko rastlinstvo lesné, dokonca i barnavá šašina, rástlo vyššie a vyššie, a vtáci nasledovali a spievali, a na steble, ktoré ako zelená stuha sa trepotalo a letelo, sedela kobylka a nôžkami hrala na krídelká. Chrobáci bzučali a včely tiež, každý vták spieval, ako mu zobák narástol, všetko bolo plno spevu a radosti, ako v nebi.

„Ach, to je neuveriteľne krásne,“ jasal starý dub. „Sú tu všetci: malí, veľkí, silní i slabí, nikto nebol zabudnutý. Ako je len možná taká nepochopiteľná blaženosť!“

„V nebesiach je to možné a pochopiteľné!“ znela odpoveď.

A strom, ktorý neprestajne rástol, cítil, že jeho korene sa vyprostili zo zeme.

„To je to najkrajšie!“ vravel strom, „teraz neviaže ma už žiadne puto! Môžem sa vyšinúť k najvyššiemu, v Jeho svetlo a žiaru! A všetkých svojich milých mám so sebou: malých, veľkých, všetkých!“

„Všetkých!“

To bol sen starého dubu, a keď sníval, zadula prudká víchrica cez more. More valilo ťažké vlny na breh, strom prašťal, zlomil sa a bol vyrvaný i s koreňom, práve keď sa mu zdalo, že sa korene jeho vyprosťujú. A padol. Jeho tristošesťdesiatšesť rokov nebolo teraz ničím iným, než len jeden deň jepice.

Ráno, na hody, keď slnko zasa sa zjavilo, utíšila sa búrka. Všetky zvony slávnostne zneli a zo všetkých komínov i z najmenšieho na streche domkárovej vystupoval modrastý obláčik dýmu ako z oltára o slávnosti druidov, dým z obetí vďaky. More sa ukľudňovalo a na veľkom korábe na šírom mori, ktorý nepohodu v noci šťastne prestál, rozvinuté boli všetky vlajky k slávnosti vianočnej.

„Náš strom zmizol! Starý dub, naše znamenie zeme!“ vraveli námorníci. „Bol vyvrátený počas tejto búrlivej noci! Kto nám ho nahradí! To nikto nevie!“

Takúto krátku, ale úprimnú pohrebnú reč mal strom, ležiaci na brehu na koberci snehovom. A nad ním sa niesol slávnostný chorál z lodi, vianočná radostná pieseň, ku chvále spásy ľudstva k večnému životu:

Tak znela stará pieseň, každý tou piesňou i modlitbou cítil sa tak povznesený, ako sa ním cítil starý dub v svojom poslednom, najkrajšom sne.

POVIEDKA O ROKU

Bol posledný deň v januári; nastala hrozná snehová fujavica; fujavice búrili ulicami; vonkajšie strany okien boli celé pokryté snehom a ako lavína padal sneh zo striech. Ľudia boli ako na úteku, ponáhľali sa, behali, padali si do náručia, na chvíľku sa zadržali a aspoň na tak dlho si zachovali rovnováhu. Kočiare a kone boli ako napudrované, sluhovia stáli chrbtom ku kočiarom, aby aspoň trochu boli pred vetrom ochránení, a chodci hľadeli vždy, aby sa kryli za vozmi, ktoré v hlbokom snehu len pomaly sa pohybovali. Keď sa konečne fujavica utíšila a pri domoch boli umetené úzke chodníčky, predsa sa ľudia pri stretnutí zastavovali. Nikto nemal chuti uhnúť sa skôr do hlbokých závejov a povoliť druhému priechod. Stáli vždy mlčky proti sebe, až konečne, akoby sa mlčky zhodli, dali každý jednu nohu v šanc a zaborili ju do snehu.

K večeru nastal úplný kľud, nebo bolo ako vymyté a akoby vyššie a priesvitnejšie, hviezdy boli ako nové a niektoré modravé a jasne sa trblietali. Pri tom mrzlo, až to prašťalo; skoro i najvyššia snehová vrstva bola tak tvrdá, že sa mohlo bez obavy po nej chodiť. Vrabčiaci poskakovali na umetených miestach sem i tam, mnoho potravy však nenašli a mráz im liezol za nechty.

„Čim!“ riekol vrabec vrabcovi, „tomuto sa vraví nový rok! — Veď je horší, než bol ten starý! To sme si ho tiež mohli nechať. Mrzí ma to a mám k tomu dosť príčin!“

„Ba, ľudia behali a nosili novoročné darčeky!“ vravel malý, napoly zmrznutý vrabec. „Rozbíjali hrnce pred dverami a boli celí bez seba radosťou, že je starý rok ten tam. Ja som sa z toho tiež tešil, lebo som predpokladal, že nastanú teplé dni, ale nebolo z toho nič. Mrzne ešte viac, než pred tým! Ľudia si to akosi poplietli s počítaním času!“

„To sa vie!“ vravel tretí, starý už a belohlavý. „Oni majú čosi, čomu hovoria kalendár, sami to vynašli a podľa toho sa má všetko riadiť — ale kdeže! Rok začína, keď jar nastane, to je beh prírody a podľa toho sa riadim ja!“

„Ale kedy nastane jar?“ pýtali sa všetci.

„Nastane, až prídu bociany, ale títo sú dosť nespoľahliví; tu v meste niet nikoho, kto by sa v tom vyznal, na vidieku to predsa vedia lepšie. Poleťme tam a vyčkávajme na dedine! Tam budeme jari bližšie!“

„Ba, to by bolo!“ vravel jeden, ktorý tu neprestajne okolo poskakoval a čimčaroval, bez toho, aby vlastne niečo povedal. „Avšak tu v meste požívam niektoré výhody, ktorých by sa mi vonku, ako sa obávam, iste nedostávalo. Na tejto strane ulice v istom dome býva ľudská rodina, ktorá mala múdry nápad: pripevňuje na stenu tri alebo štyri kvetináče a to veľkým otvorom do vnútra k stene, a dnom na vonok. V tom je tak veľká diera, že môžem ľahko sem i tam preletieť. Tam som svojmu mužovi upevnila hniezdo a tamodtiaľ sme vyviedli všetky naše mláďatá. Ľudská rodina upravila si to všetko len pre svoje vlastné potešenie, chtiac pozorovať náš život — ináč by to sotva boli urobili. Sypú nám tam chlebové odrobinky, tiež len pre svoju zábavu, avšak nám sa tým dostáva potravy; práve akoby tým o nás bolo postarané; preto myslím, že ja a môj muž tu zostaneme, ačkoľvek sme veľmi nespokojní, ale zostaneme predsa.“

„A my poletíme na vidiek, aby sme videli, či jar už prichádza,“ odpovedali ostatní vrabci a s tým odleteli.

Na vidieku panovala najtuhšia zima; bol tam mráz ešte o niekoľko stupňov väčší než v meste. Ostrý vietor fučal cez zasnežené polia. Sedliak s veľkými rukavicami sedel na svojich saniach a rozháňal sa rukami, aby mu nezamrzli. Bič mu ležal na lone, chudí koníci utekali, až sa z nich dymilo, sneh vržďal a vrabci poskakovali v koľajach a mrzli, „Čim! Kedy príde jar? Trvá to už tak dlho!“

„Tak dlho!“ zaznelo to do polí s najvyššieho zasneženého návršia. Bola to snáď ozvena, alebo to boli slová podivuhodného starého muža, ktorý v búrke a snehu sedel na vrcholku snehového kopca. Bol celý biely, oblečený po sedliacky v bielom kožúšteku, s dlhým bielym vlasom, celý bledý a s veľkými, jasnými očami.

„Kto je ten starček?“ pýtali sa vrabci.

„Ja viem!“ vravel starý havran, sediaci na plote a dosť blahosklonne uznávajúci, že pred stvoriteľom sme si všetci rovní, ako tie malé vtáčatá, ani jeho samého nevynímajúc; preto tiež bol k vrabcom vľúdny a podal im vysvetlenie. „Poznám toho starca. Je to Mráz, starec z minulého roku; nie je mrtvy, ako vraví kalendár, nie, je tútorom malého princa, Jari, ktorý príde čo nevideť. Ba, pán Mráz, ten vie vládnuť. Brrr, malí vtáčikovia, veď je to práve počuť možno, ako sa trasiete zimou!“

„Áno, to je to, čo ja vždy tvrdím!“ vravel najmenší vrabec; „kalendár nie je iné, ako púhy ľudský výmysel, ktorý s prírodou sa nezrovnáva. Mali by podobné veci prenechať nám, nám, ktorí sme bytosti jemnejšie.“

A minul týždeň, minuli dva. Les bol čierny a zamrznuté jazero ležalo tu ako zmeravená olovená ťarcha. Mraky — ba, to ani neboli mraky, bola to mokrá, mrazivá hmla, visiaca nad krajinou. Veľké čierne vrany lietaly v kŕdľoch, bez škrečania — bolo, akoby všetko spalo. — Zrazu skĺzol papršlek slnečný po jazere a jazero sa zaligotalo ako roztopený cín. Snehový príkrov na poliach a návršiach nebol už tak oslnivý, ako predtým, avšak biela postava, Mráz sám, sedel tam neprestajne s pohľadom na juh upretým. Ani nespozoroval, že pokrývka snehová zvoľna mizne do zeme, a že tu i tu sa objavuje kúštik zelene, a tam sa to potom len tak hemžilo vrabcami.

„Čim! Čim! Už ide jar?“

„Jar!“ Zaznelo to na lúkach i poliach a tmavohnedých lesoch, kde na pňoch hral mach sviežou zeleňou. — A od juhu prileteli dvaja prví bociani. Každému z nich sedelo na chrbte malé, krásné dieťa, chlapec a dievča. Pobozkali zem, a kamkoľvek vkročili, tam pod snehom vykľíčili biele kvety.

Ruka v ruke vystupovali k starému snehuliakovi, Mrazu, objali ho na pozdrav a v tej chvíli všetci traja zmizli a zmizol i celý kraj; všetko zahaľovala hustá, vlhká hmla, nepreniknuteľná a ťažká. Zvoľna však dvíhal sa vietor, rozprúdil sa a roztrhal a zahnal hmlu, slnko začalo hriať; — Mráz už zmizol a krásné deti jari sedeli na tróne roku.

„Toto je Nový rok!“ vraveli vrabci. „Teraz zase dostaneme čo sa patrí a okrem toho i náhradu za krutú zimu.“

Kamkoľvek tie dve deti vyšli, všade pučali na kroch a stromoch zelené pupence, tráva vyrastala, osenie sa zelenalo a bujnelo. A dievčatko sypalo všade dookola kvety; malo ich nadbytok v svojej sukničke, práve akoby sa tam rojili, vždy ich tam bolo plno, akokoľvek dievča veľmi horlivo kvety rozsypávalo — v horlivosti svojej nasypalo celé trsy kvetov na jablone a broskyne, tak že tu stáli v celej nádhere kvetnej ešte skôr, než im listy narástli.

Dievča zatľapkalo rúčičkami a chlapec zaspieval a na to prišli vtáci, stvoriteľ sám vie odkiaľ, a všetci štebotali a spievali: „Prišla jar!“

Bol to prekrásny pohľad. Starenky vyšly si pred dvere na slniečko, dýchaly ľúbovonný vzduch a pozorovaly žlté kvety, pokrývajúce všetky lúky práve tak, ako za ich mladých rokov. Svet zase omladol. „Dnes je vonku prekrásne,“ vravel každý.

Les bol ešte tmavý, ale pukov tam bolo, kvety už pučali, fialky boli v plnom kvete, sasanky a iskierniky sa rozvíjali, ba v každom steble trávy bola miazgra a sila, bol to naozaj skvostný koberec, ktorý pozýval na posedenie; a na ňom sedela jarná dvojica, držali sa za ruky a spievali a smiali sa a rástli a rástli.

Jemný dáždik padal na nich z nebies; nespozorovali to však, kropaje dažďové i slzy radosti splývali v jedno. Ženích s nevestou sa pobozkali a v tej chvíli rozvila sa zeleň lesná. Keď slnko vyšlo, zelenali sa už všetky lesy.

A ruku v ruke kráčali snúbenci pod sviežou klenbou listov, kde len slnečné lúče a vhodené tiene sa hrali so zeleňou. Panenskou čistotou a osviežujúcou vôňou planuli jemné tie listy; svižko a jasne prúdili potok i rieky v aksamitových šašinách a cez blýskavé kamene. „Vždy a na veky je a zostáva všetko plné života!“ hovorila celá príroda. A kukučka kukala a škovránok jasal, nádherná jar bola tu! Avšak vŕby mali všetky kvety v zimných rukaviciach, tak strašne boli opatrné.

Potom minuli dni a týždne, tiesnivo ležala horúčosť na celej prírode; vrelé prúdy vzduchu viali obilím, rýchlo žltnúcim. Biely kvet severného lotosu rozložil na lesných jazerách svoje veľké zelené listy po hladine vodnej a ryby vyhľadávali pod nimi tôňu. Za lesom, na strane pred vetrami chránenej, kde slnko hrialo steny obytnej budovy a hrialo i nádherne rozkvitnuté ruže, kde stromy boli plné šťavnatých, čiernych a slnkom skoro sčervenelých čerešní, sedela prekrásna žena leta, ktorú sme už videli, keď bola dieťaťom a nevestou. Dívala sa k vystupujúcim tmavým mrakom, ktoré ako rozvlnené pohorie modročierne a ťažké vždy vyššie a vyššie stúpali. Ako skamenelé, rozbúrené more blížili sa mraky vždy viac a viac k lesu, v ktorom, ako by čarovným prútikom zakliate, všetko zanemelo. Ani vánok sa nehýbal, i vtáci zamĺkli, celú prírodu ovládala vážnosť očakávania čohosi veľkého. Avšak na chodníčkoch i cestách náhlili sa ľudia v kočiaroch i jazdci i peší, aby sa včas dostali pod strechu. —

Zrazu sa zablýskalo, akoby slnko prenikalo, razom, oslnivši všetko zapaľujúc a v rachotivom dunení a hrmení všetko sa zase zahalilo v temnotu. Voda splývala v prúdoch; noc a deň a ticho a hrom sa striedaly. Mladé, hnedé steblá v šašine sa vlnili sem i tam, lesná klenba sa skryla v daždi, a zase striedali sa tma a svetlo, ticho a hrom. — Tráva a obilie ležali ako pobité, ako odplavené prívalom, akoby nikdy sa už nemali spamätať. — Dažď sa zmenil v drobné kvapkanie, slnko zasvietilo a so stebiel a listov žiarili kropaje vodné ako perly, vtáci spievali, ryby v potoku sa hádzali, komáre tancovali a vonku na skalách, nad rozbúreným morom sedel sám pán leta, silný muž plných svalov, s premoknutými vlasmi — omladnutý sviežim kúpeľom, sedel v teplej žiari slnečnej. Všetka príroda kolom dokola bola omladnutá, všetko stálo bujne a krásne; bolo leto, žiarivé, skvostné leto.

Milou a sladkou vôňou dýchala ďatelina, kde včely bzučali; tam zaletela kráľovná včiel so svojim rojom a včely začali znášať med a vosk. Nikto to nevidel, len obaja vládcovia leta.

Večerná obloha žiarila zlatom, že žiadna kopuľa kostolná sa neskveje takou nádherou, a mesiac svietil medzi večernými a rannými zorami. Bolo leto. —

A plynuli dni a uplynuli týždne. — Lesklé kosáky žencov zažiarili v žite, konáre jabloňové ohýbali sa pod ťarchou červených jabĺk; chmeľ dýchal nádhernou vôňou a pod lieskovcami, obťažkanými orieškami, sedel pán leta so svojou vážnou ženou.

„Aké to bohatstvo!“ vravela ona, „kolom dokola nič len požehnanie, dobro a krása — a predsa, sama neviem prečo, predsa sa mi stýska po kľude — ach, po pokoji! Nemám preto iných slov. — Už zase sa ore na poliach! Vždy viac a viac chcú ľudia získať! — Hľa bociany sa už zhromažďujú v kŕdle a kráčajú opodiaľ za pluhom, tí vtáci egyptskí, ktorí nás vzduchom sem priniesli. Pamätáš sa ešte, ako sme v tieto severné kraje sem prišli, keď sme ešte boli malými deťmi? — Priniesli sme kvety, skvelú žiaru slnka a zelené lesy; s tými teraz vietor už si zle zahral, barnavejú a sú vždy tmavšie a tmavšie, ako južné stromy, nenesú však takého zlatého ovocia!“

„Chceš ich videť?“ vravel pán leta. „Tak sa zase rozveseľ!“ A kynul rukou a lístie lesné sa zafarbilo do červena a do zlata; všetky lesy sa zaskveli bohatou nádherou farieb. Na ružových kroch sa skveli plamenné šípky, na baze viseli ťažké, tmavohnedé bazinky, plané gaštany vypadávaly zrelé z tmavozelených škrupín a v lesoch už po druhý raz rozkvitli fialky.

Kráľovná roku však tíchla a neprestajne bledla. „Aký je studený ten vietor!“ vravela, „noc bude hmlistá a vlhká! Túžim po kraji môjho detstva!“

Videla odlietať bocianov, po jednom, a vystierala svoje ruky za nimi. — Dívala sa na hniezda, teraz prázdné, a tam v jednom z nich týčila sa dlhá stonka nevädze a v inom žltá púpavka, ako by hniezdo len pre nich bolo ochranným plotom; tiež vrabce zvedavo sa tam dívali.

„Čim! Čo sa stalo s panstvom? Zjavne nemôžu zniesť trošku studenejší vietor a preto odišli? Šťastnú cestu!“

A lístie lesné bledlo a žltlo, list padal za listom, zabúrácali podzimné víchrice, rok sa chýlil ku koncu. Na zvädnutých listoch ležala panovníčka roku a miernym pohľadom pozerala na jasné hviezdy a jej manžel stál pri nej. Náraz vetru rozvíril listie — a keď sa zase utíšilo, bola preč, avšak posledné vtáča letné letelo studeným vzduchom.

A teraz nastali vlhké hmly, mrazivé vetry a dlhé zimné noci. Kráľ roku stál tu v snehobielych vlasoch, avšak sám o tom nevedel, domnieval sa, že sú to vločky snehové, ktoré z mrakov sa naň sypú. Ťažký príkrov snehový sa rozložil po zelených poliach.

A kostolné zvony vyzváňali sviatky vianočné.

„Zvony narodenia znejú!“ vravel panovník roku, „skoro sa zrodí nová panovnícka dvojica; a mne sa dostane pokoja, ako jej, pokoja medzi jasnými hviezdami.“

V jedľovom lese, svetlozelenom, kde bolo plno snehu, stál anjel vianočný a svätil mladé stromky, ktoré boli určené k slávnosti.

„Radosť v domoch i pod zelenými ratolesťami!“ zvolal starý vládca roku, zostarlý v posledných týždňoch na šedivého kmeťa; „Blíži sa doba môjho odpočinku, nová dvojica dostane teraz žezlo a korunu!“

„A predsa patrí moc ešte tebe!“ vravel anjel vianočný, „moc a nie odpočinok! Daj, nech sa sneh hrejivo položí na mladé osenie! Nauč sa znášať, že inému sa holduje, hoci ty si ešte pánom, nauč sa byť zabudnutý a predsa ešte žiť! Hodina tvojej slobody odbije, až príde jar!“

„A kedy príde jar?“ pýtal sa Mráz.

„Príde, až bociany prídu.“

S bielymi vlasmi a snehobielou bradou sedel Mráz ľadový, starý a zhrbený, avšak silný, ako búrka zimná a moc ľadová, sedel na hŕbe snehu na pahorku a díval sa na juh, ako keď minuloročný Mráz tam sedel a díval sa. Ľad prašťal, ľudia sa korčuľovali, havrany a vrany veľmi pekne sa vynímali na bielej pôde, nepohol sa ani vetríček. V tichom vzduchu zopäl Mráz ruky a ľad sa stal pevným mostom medzi zemami.

Tu prišli zasa z mesta vrabce a pýtali sa: „Kto je ten starý muž?“ A zasa tu sedel starý havran, či niektorý jeho syn, čo je konečne to isté, a riekol im: „To je Mráz! Starec z minulého roku. Nie je mrtvý, ako vraví kalendár, je to tútor jari, ktorá už skoro príde!“

„Kedy príde jar?“ pýtali sa vrabce. „Potom budeme mať lepšie časy a lepšiu vládu. Tá stará nestojí za nič.“

V tichom zamyslení pokynul Mráz holému, tmavému lesu, kde každý strom ukazoval krásné tvary a oblúky svojich haluzí; a so zimným spánkom znášali sa ľadové hmly z mrakov — vládca sníval o dobe svojej mladosti a o mužnom svojom veku, a za svitania stál tu celý krásne osrienený; bol to letný sen Mrazu; len lúčom slnečným bol ukončený krásny sen.

„Kedy príde jar?“ pýtali sa vrabčiaci.

„Jar!“ zaznelo to ozvenou od zasnežených kopcov. A slnko začalo hriať, sneh sa topil, vtáci štebotali: „Jar prichádza!“

A vysoko vzduchom priletel prvý bocian a za ním druhý; na každom sedelo krásne dieťa; zniesli sa na šíre pole, pobozkali zem a pobozkali starého, tichého muža a tento zmizol ako unesený mrakom.

Dejiny roku boli na  konci.

„To je všetko veľmi pekné!“ vraveli vrabce, „a je to tiež v poriadku, ale s kalendárom sa to nezhoduje a preto to nie je pravda.“

LIETAJÚCI KUFOR

Bol raz jeden kupec a ten bol taký bohatý, že mohol celú hlavnú ulicu a skoro ešte jednu bočnú uličku vydláždiť samými peniazmi. Ale neurobil to, vedel svoje peniaze využiť inak. Keď vydal halier, dostal zaň vždy dolár; ba, taký kupec bol — ale konečne musel tiež zomreť.

Teraz dostal všetky tie peniaze jeho syn. Tento žil nádherne v radovánkach, chodil každú noc na maškarné plesy, robil papierových šarkanov z bankoviek a bankovkami si i cigaru zapaľoval.

Týmto spôsobom peniaze pravda ubúdali. Konečne mal už len štyri groše a žiadne šaty okrem pár papučí a starého županu.

Teraz sa priatelia už o neho nestarali, keď sa nemohli ukazovať v jeho spoločnosti na ulici. Len jeden z nich, dobrák, poslal mu starý kufor s odkazom: „Spakuj!“ To bolo síce veľmi pekné, ale nebolo čo spakovať, a tak si sadol do kufra sám.

To bol zázračný kufor! Sotva že stisol zámok, mohol lietať. To kupec urobil a brnk! letel kufor s ním komínom hore a ďalej nad oblaky a vždy ďalej a ďalej. Chvíľami to povážlivo zaprašťalo, a kupec mal veľký strach, aby sa kufor nerozpadol, bol by urobil iste riadny skok! Ale chráň Boh, konečne prišiel cele zachovalý do Turecka. Kufor skryl v lese do suchého listia a vošiel do mesta. Tam sa mohol voľne prechádzať, lebo všetci Turci nosia len papuče a župany.

A stretol dojku s dieťaťom. „Počuj, dojka,“ povedal, „čo je to za veľký zámok hneď za mestom, ktorého okná sú také vysoké?“

„Tam býva dcéra cisárova!“ odpovedala, „bolo jej prorokované, že ju jeden milenec urobí veľmi nešťastnou, a preto nesmie ju nikto navštíviť, keď cisár alebo cisárovná nie sú prítomní.“

„Ďakujem!“ povedal syn kupcov. A šiel do lesa, sadol si do svojho kufra, letel v ňom na strechu zámku a vliezol oknom k princeznej.

Táto ležala na pohovke a spala a bola taká prekrásna, že ju musel pobozkať. Tu sa prebudila a veľmi sa podesila, ale on vravel, že je turecký pán boh, ktorý k nej prišiel vzduchom a to sa jej veľmi páčilo.

Potom si sadli vedľa seba, on chválil jej krásne oči a povedal, že sú to najnádhernejšie tmavé jazerá, v ktorých plávajú myšlienky ako sirény. O jej čele hovoril, že je to ľadovec s najnádhernejšími sieňami a obrazmi. A tiež jej rozprával o bocianovi, ktorý nosí pekné malé dietky. Ach, to boli veľmi krásne poviedky!

Potom požiadal o ruku princezninu a ona hovorila hneď „áno“!

„Ale musíte prísť zasa v nedeľu večer, vtedy pijú moji rodičia so mnou čaj. Budú veľmi pyšní na to, že dostanem tureckého boha za manžela. Ale postarajte sa o to, aby ste mohli rozprávať peknú rozprávku, lebo to je najmilšou zábavou mojich rodičov. Moja matka má rada rozprávky mravné a vznešené a môj otec veselé, pri ktorých sa človek môže zasmiať.“

„Dobre, nedonesiem nič iného darom, než rozprávku,“ povedal kupec a potom sa rozišli. Ale princezna darovala mu dýku dukátmi vykladanú, a tieto mu boli zvlášte vítané.

Potom odletel, kúpil si nový župan a sedel potom v lese, horlivo básniac o svojej rozprávke. Lebo do nedele večera musela byť hotová, a skladanie rozprávok nie je vec práve ľahká.

A keď bol konečne hotový, hľa, bola práve nedeľa a večer. U princezny čakal naň cisár a cisárovná a celý dvor s čajom.

Bol prijatý veľmi vľúdne.

„Chcete nám rozprávať rozprávku?“ začala cisárovná, „nejakú hlbokú a vzdelávajúcu?“

„A pri ktorej sa človek tiež môže zasmiať?“ dodal cisár.

„Isteže!“ odpovedal syn kupcov a rozprával. „A teraz dávajte pozor!“

„Bola raz jedna škatuľka zápaliek, ktoré boli veľmi pyšné na svoj vznešený pôvod. Ich rodokmeň, to je veľká borovica, ktorej každá zápalka bola malou čiastočkou, bol veľmi starý strom vonku v lese.

Zápalky ležali medzi kresadlom a starým železným hrncom na rímse v kuchyni a rozprávali o svojej mladosti.

„Áno, dokiaľ sme boli na sviežej vetvičke,“ povedali, „vtedy nám bolo maozaj dobre. Každé ráno a večer bol diamantový čaj, totiž rosa. Celý deň sme mali slnečnú žiaru, lebo slnko svietilo, a všetci vtáci nám museli rozprávať rozprávky. Mohli sme tiež vycítiť, že sme boli bohaté, lebo listnaté stromy boli ošatené len v lete, ale náš rod mal prostriedky, že mohol nosiť zelené šaty v lete i v zime. Potom prišli drevorubači a v lese vypukla veľká revolúcia. Náš rod bol roztrieštený.

Otec rodiny dostal miesto ako hlavný sťažeň nádherného korábu, ktorý mal obísť celý svet, keby chcel. Ostatné konáre našli iné postavenie a nám pripadla teraz úloha, aby sme zapaľovali svetlo nižším zástupom a preto sme sa dostali až sem do kuchyne k urodzeným ľuďom.“

„Ja som mal iný osud,“ povedal železný hrniec, vedľa ktorého zápaľky ležali. „Od tej doby, čo som videl svetlo sveta, mnoho sa podo mnou kúrilo a mnohokráť som bol rozžeravený. Ja sa starám o to, čo živí, a som preto vlastne prvý tu v dome. Mojou jedinou radosťou je ležať po obede čisto a pekne na svojom mieste a zabávať sa rozumne so svojimi súsedmi. Vynímajúc vedro na vodu, ktoré niekedy sa dostane až dolu na dvor, žijeme tu celé dni pri zavretých dverách. Jediným naším poslom noviniek je kôš, s ktorým sa chodí na trh, ale ten hovorí príliš rebelantsky o vláde a o ľude. Nedávno spadol jeden starý hrniec ľaknutím nad tým na zem a pukol. Áno, ten kôš je slobodomyseľný, o tom vás môžem uistiť!“

„Ty hovoríš až priveľa,“ povedalo kresadlo a oceľ naň bila, až iskry odletovali.

„Či si neurobíme veselý večierok?“

„Áno, hovorme o tom, kto je z nás najvznešenejší,“ povedali zápaľky.

„Nie, ja nehovorím rád o sebe,“ odpovedal hlinený hrniec, „ale navrhujem večernú zábavu. Urobím tiež začiatok a budem niečo rozprávať, čo každý sám raz zažil. Možno sa tak ľahko do toho vžiť a každý sa pri tom pobaví. Teda počúvajte: Pri východnom mori u starých dubov —“

„To je pekný začiatok,“ volali všetky taniere, „to bude iste rozprávka, ktorá sa bude páčiť všetkým.“

„Áno, tam som prežil svoju mladosť v jednej tichej rodine. Nábytok sa vyprášil, dlážka sa umývala a každých štrnásť dní boli povešané nové záclony.“

„Ako zaujímavo rozprávate,“ povedala metla, „človek hneď vycíti, že to ženská bytnosť rozpráva, všetkým tým vanie niečo čistého!“

„Áno, to sa vycíti,“ povedalo vedro na vodu a z radosti nad tým urobilo malý skok, až voda na zem vystriekla.

Hrniec pokračoval v svojej rozprávke a koniec sa celý rovnal začiatku.

Taniere cvendžali samou radosťou, metla však vytiahla z piesku zelený petržlen a ovenčila ňou hrniec, pretože vedela, že tým druhých nahnevá. A tiež i myslela: „Keď ja ho ovenčím dnes, ovenčí on mňa zajtra!“

„Teraz si zatancujeme,“ povedali kliešte pri kozúbku a začali sa točiť do kruhu. Milý Bože, ako vedeli dvíhať jednu nohu do výšky! Stará obliečka na stoličku sa roztrhla pri tomto pohľade.

„Budeme tiež ovenčené?“ pýtali sa kliešte a stalo sa tak.

„To je všetko len bedač, nič vznešeného,“ mysleli si zápalky.

Teraz mala spievať čajová konvička. Ale predstierala prechladnutie a povedala, že môže spievať len vtedy, keď varí. Boli to však len samé výhovorky, samé vykrúcanie, ona chcela spievať len na stole medzi panstvom.

Na rímse pri okne ležalo staré pero, ktorým slúžka niekedy písavala. Nebolo na ňom nič zvláštneho, snáď len to, že bolo pohrúžené príliš hlboko do kalamára; ale na tom si ono práve veľa zakladalo. „Keď čajová konvička nechce spievať, nech nechá tak,“ povedalo. „Vonku v klietke sedí slávík, ten spieva prekrásne; neučil sa síce nič nového, ale to dobré si dnešný večer vypočujeme.“

„Zdá sa mi to v najvyššej miere nevhodné,“ povedal samovar, ktorý zastával úrad kuchyňského speváka a nevlastným bratom čajovej konvičky bol, „aby sme cudzieho vtáka počúvali. Je to snáď vlastenecké? Vyzývam nákupný koš, aby sa o tom vyslovil.“

„Hnevám sa,“ povedal nákupný koš, „ba, hnevám sa, že si to nik ani predstaviť nevie. Či sa to sluší takto večer tráviť? Či by nebolo o mnoho rozumnejšie, keby sme mohli celý dom naraz usporiadať? Každý by potom dostal miesto, ktoré mu patrí a ja by som bol slávnostným usporiadateľom.“

Zrazu sa otvorili dvere a slúžka vstúpila. Teraz stálo všetko tíško a nikto sa neopovážil ani muknúť. V celej kuchyni nebolo hrnca, ktorý by citom svojej urodzenosti nebol hlboko preniknutý. „Hej, keby som len bol chcel,“ myslel si každý, „mohol to byť dobrý večer!“

Slúžka vzala zápalky a nakládla ohňa. Bože, ako ony zaiskrili a zaplanuli!

„Teraz môže každý videť, že sme my prvé,“ mysleli si. „Aký lesk, aký oheň my vydávame!“ A potom zhoreli…

„To bola skvostná rozprávka,“ povedala cisárovná, „cítila som v duchu, že som medzi zápalkami v kuchyni. Ba, dostaneš teraz našu dcéru!“

„Áno,“ povedal cisár, „v pondelok dostaneš našu dcéru. Teraz mu tykajte všetci, lebo tým bol prijatý do rodiny.“

Svadba bola teda ustanovená a večer predtým bolo osvetlenie mesta. Pečivo a cukríky sa rozdávali, ľudia sa tisli po uliciach a kričali „hurrá!“ a pískali na prsty. Bolo to prekrásné!

„Musím tiež pomýšľať na to, aby som nejako prispel k slávnosti,“ myslel si kupcov syn a šiel kúpiť si rakéty, praskacie hračky a iné všelijaké ohňostroje, položil to do svojho kufra a vyletel s tým do vzduchu. Prask! vzplanul ohňostroj, len to praskalo a fičalo. Všetci Turci tancovali a skákali, až im topánky okolo uší lietali. Také zjavy vo vzduchu ešte nevideli! Teraz len verili, že je to sám turecký pán boh, ktorý si berie princeznu.

Keď sa kupcov syn so svojím kufrom zase zniesol do lesa, pomyslel si: „Zídem a pozrem sa do mesta, aký dojem urobil môj ohňostroj.“ Bolo pochopiteľné, že sa mu toho zachcelo. Čo si ľudia všetko rozprávali! Každý, koho sa pýtal, videl to ináč, ale všetci to považpvali za krásné.

„Ja som videl sám tureckého boha,“ povedal mu jedon. „Mal oči ako žiarivé hviezdy a fúzy ako kypiace vlny.“

„Letel vo farebnom plášti,“ oznamoval druhý, „a najľúbeznejšie anjelské hlávky vykukovali spod záhybov jeho plášťa.“

Boli to skvostné veci, ktoré kupcov syn počul a na druhý deň mala byť svadba.

Na druhý deň išiel zasa do lesa, aby si sadol do svojho kufra — ale kde bol tento? Spálený. Z ohňostroja zostala jedna iskra a tá premenila kufor na popol. Teraz už nemohol kupcov syn lietať a nemohol sa dostať k svojej neveste.

Táto však stála celý deň na streche paláca a čakala naň. A čaká až do dneška. Ale on chodí svetom a rozpráva rozprávky, ktoré však už nie sú také veselé, ako o zápalkách.

THE EMPEROR’S NEW CLOTHES

Many years ago there was an Emperor so exceedingly fond of new clothes that he spent all his money on being well dressed. He cared nothing about reviewing his soldiers, going to the theatre, or going for a ride in his carriage, except to show off his new clothes. He had a coat for every hour of the day, and instead of saying, as one might, about any other ruler, “The King’s in council,” here they always said. “The Emperor’s in his dressing room.”

In the great city where he lived, life was always gay. Every day many strangers came to town, and among them one day came two swindlers. They let it be known they were weavers, and they said they could weave the most magnificent fabrics imaginable. Not only were their colors and patterns uncommonly fine, but clothes made of this cloth had a wonderful way of becoming invisible to anyone who was unfit for his office, or who was unusually stupid.

“Those would be just the clothes for me,” thought the Emperor. “If I wore them I would be able to discover which men in my empire are unfit for their posts. And I could tell the wise men from the fools. Yes, I certainly must get some of the stuff woven for me right away.” He paid the two swindlers a large sum of money to start work at once.

They set up two looms and pretended to weave, though there was nothing on the looms. All the finest silk and the purest old thread which they demanded went into their traveling bags, while they worked the empty looms far into the night.

“I’d like to know how those weavers are getting on with the cloth,” the Emperor thought, but he felt slightly uncomfortable when he remembered that those who were unfit for their position would not be able to see the fabric. It couldn’t have been that he doubted himself, yet he thought he’d rather send someone else to see how things were going. The whole town knew about the cloth’s peculiar power, and all were impatient to find out how stupid their neighbors were.

“I’ll send my honest old minister to the weavers,” the Emperor decided. “He’ll be the best one to tell me how the material looks, for he’s a sensible man and no one does his duty better.”

So the honest old minister went to the room where the two swindlers sat working away at their empty looms.

“Heaven help me,” he thought as his eyes flew wide open, “I can’t see anything at all”. But he did not say so.

Both the swindlers begged him to be so kind as to come near to approve the excellent pattern, the beautiful colors. They pointed to the empty looms, and the poor old minister stared as hard as he dared. He couldn’t see anything, because there was nothing to see. “Heaven have mercy,” he thought. “Can it be that I’m a fool? I’d have never guessed it, and not a soul must know. Am I unfit to be the minister? It would never do to let on that I can’t see the cloth.”

“Don’t hesitate to tell us what you think of it,” said one of the weavers.

“Oh, it’s beautiful -it’s enchanting.” The old minister peered through his spectacles. “Such a pattern, what colors!” I’ll be sure to tell the Emperor how delighted I am with it.”

“We’re pleased to hear that,” the swindlers said. They proceeded to name all the colors and to explain the intricate pattern. The old minister paid the closest attention, so that he could tell it all to the Emperor. And so he did.

The swindlers at once asked for more money, more silk and gold thread, to get on with the weaving. But it all went into their pockets. Not a thread went into the looms, though they worked at their weaving as hard as ever.

The Emperor presently sent another trustworthy official to see how the work progressed and how soon it would be ready. The same thing happened to him that had happened to the minister. He looked and he looked, but as there was nothing to see in the looms he couldn’t see anything.

“Isn’t it a beautiful piece of goods?” the swindlers asked him, as they displayed and described their imaginary pattern.

“I know I’m not stupid,” the man thought, “so it must be that I’m unworthy of my good office. That’s strange. I mustn’t let anyone find it out, though.” So he praised the material he did not see. He declared he was delighted with the beautiful colors and the exquisite pattern. To the Emperor he said, “It held me spellbound.”

All the town was talking of this splendid cloth, and the Emperor wanted to see it for himself while it was still in the looms. Attended by a band of chosen men, among whom were his two old trusted officials-the ones who had been to the weavers-he set out to see the two swindlers. He found them weaving with might and main, but without a thread in their looms.

“Magnificent,” said the two officials already duped. “Just look, Your Majesty, what colors! What a design!” They pointed to the empty looms, each supposing that the others could see the stuff.

“What’s this?” thought the Emperor. “I can’t see anything. This is terrible!

Am I a fool? Am I unfit to be the Emperor? What a thing to happen to me of all people! – Oh! It’s very pretty,” he said. “It has my highest approval.” And he nodded approbation at the empty loom. Nothing could make him say that he couldn’t see anything.

His whole retinue stared and stared. One saw no more than another, but they all joined the Emperor in exclaiming, “Oh! It’s very pretty,” and they advised him to wear clothes made of this wonderful cloth especially for the great procession he was soon to lead. “Magnificent! Excellent! Unsurpassed!” were bandied from mouth to mouth, and everyone did his best to seem well pleased. The Emperor gave each of the swindlers a cross to wear in his buttonhole, and the title of “Sir Weaver.”

Before the procession the swindlers sat up all night and burned more than six candles, to show how busy they were finishing the Emperor’s new clothes. They pretended to take the cloth off the loom. They made cuts in the air with huge scissors. And at last they said, “Now the Emperor’s new clothes are ready for him.”

Then the Emperor himself came with his noblest noblemen, and the swindlers each raised an arm as if they were holding something. They said, “These are the trousers, here’s the coat, and this is the mantle,” naming each garment. “All of them are as light as a spider web. One would almost think he had nothing on, but that’s what makes them so fine.”

“Exactly,” all the noblemen agreed, though they could see nothing, for there was nothing to see.

“If Your Imperial Majesty will condescend to take your clothes off,” said the swindlers, “we will help you on with your new ones here in front of the long mirror.”

The Emperor undressed, and the swindlers pretended to put his new clothes on him, one garment after another. They took him around the waist and seemed to be fastening something – that was his train-as the Emperor turned round and round before the looking glass.

“How well Your Majesty’s new clothes look. Aren’t they becoming!” He heard on all sides, “That pattern, so perfect! Those colors, so suitable! It is a magnificent outfit.”

Then the minister of public processions announced: “Your Majesty’s canopy is waiting outside.”

“Well, I’m supposed to be ready,” the Emperor said, and turned again for one last look in the mirror. “It is a remarkable fit, isn’t it?” He seemed to regard his costume with the greatest interest.

The noblemen who were to carry his train stooped low and reached for the floor as if they were picking up his mantle. Then they pretended to lift and hold it high. They didn’t dare admit they had nothing to hold.

So off went the Emperor in procession under his splendid canopy. Everyone in the streets and the windows said, “Oh, how fine are the Emperor’s new clothes! Don’t they fit him to perfection? And see his long train!” Nobody would confess that he couldn’t see anything, for that would prove him either unfit for his position, or a fool. No costume the Emperor had worn before was ever such a complete success.

“But he hasn’t got anything on,” a little child said.

“Did you ever hear such innocent prattle?” said its father. And one person whispered to another what the child had said, “He hasn’t anything on. A child says he hasn’t anything on.”

“But he hasn’t got anything on!” the whole town cried out at last.

The Emperor shivered, for he suspected they were right. But he thought, “This procession has got to go on.” So he walked more proudly than ever, as his noblemen held high the train that wasn’t there at all.

Translation from Danish to English by Jean Hersholt

DANISH LEGENDS

Legend About Poor Paul

This is a legend they tell about a poor young fellow, Paul Vendelbo, who came to be a great man, highly honored. He was born in Jutland. After he had struggled hard and studied so well that he got through his examination as a scholar, he felt a still greater ambition to be a soldier and to stroll about in far-away lands.

One day he was walking along the ramparts of Copenhagen, with two young prosperous comrades. As he was telling them of his ambition, all of a sudden he stopped, and looked up at the window of a house where the young daughter of a professor was sitting. They all found her astonishingly pretty. When Paul’s comrades saw how he blushed, they said as a joke:

“Paul, if you can get her to give you a kiss, in front of the window where we can see it, we will give the money you need to travel. Then you can see if fortune favors you better abroad than at home.”

Paul Vendelbo went into the house and knocked at the parlor door. “My father is not at home,” the young girl told him.

“Don’t be angry,” he begged her, as the blood rushed up into his cheeks, “but it’s not your father I want.” Then he told her frankly of his whole-hearted ambition to adventure out into the world and make an honorable name for himself. He told her of his two friends who were standing outside and how they had promised him his traveling expenses if, of her own free will, she would kiss him at the open window. He looked at her so bashfully, so honorably, and so frankly, that her anger died away.

“It is wrong for you to propose such a thing to a modest young girl,” she told him. “But you look so honest that I won’t stand in the way of your good fortune.” She led him to the window, and gave him a kiss.

His comrades kept their bargain, and gave him the money. He went into the service of the Tsar of Russia, made a name for himself in the battle of Pultawa, and honors were heaped upon him. Afterward, when Denmark stood in need of him, he came home to become a man of might in the army and in the council of the King. Lövenörn, they called him, which means Lion-Eagle.

One day he again entered the professor’s modest room. Again it was not the professor he wanted, but the professor’s daughter, Ingeborg Vinding – the girl who gave him the kiss with which his good fortune began. Fourteen days later Paul Vendelbo Lövenörn celebrated his wedding.

THE BELL

People said “The Evening Bell is sounding, the sun is setting.” For a strange wondrous tone was heard in the narrow streets of a large town. It was like the sound of a church-bell: but it was only heard for a moment, for the rolling of the carriages and the voices of the multitude made too great a noise.

Those persons who were walking outside the town, where the houses were farther apart, with gardens or little fields between them, could see the evening sky still better, and heard the sound of the bell much more distinctly. It was as if the tones came from a church in the still forest; people looked thitherward, and felt their minds attuned most solemnly.

A long time passed, and people said to each other—“I wonder if there is a church out in the wood? The bell has a tone that is wondrous sweet; let us stroll thither, and examine the matter nearer.” And the rich people drove out, and the poor walked, but the way seemed strangely long to them; and when they came to a clump of willows which grew on the skirts of the forest, they sat down, and looked up at the long branches, and fancied they were now in the depth of the green wood. The confectioner of the town came out, and set up his booth there; and soon after came another confectioner, who hung a bell over his stand, as a sign or ornament, but it had no clapper, and it was tarred over to preserve it from the rain. When all the people returned home, they said it had been very romantic, and that it was quite a different sort of thing to a pic-nic or tea-party. There were three persons who asserted they had penetrated to the end of the forest, and that they had always heard the wonderful sounds of the bell, but it had seemed to them as if it had come from the town. One wrote a whole poem about it, and said the bell sounded like the voice of a mother to a good dear child, and that no melody was sweeter than the tones of the bell. The king of the country was also observant of it, and vowed that he who could discover whence the sounds proceeded, should have the title of “Universal Bell-ringer,” even if it were not really a bell.

Many persons now went to the wood, for the sake of getting the place, but one only returned with a sort of explanation; for nobody went far enough, that one not further than the others. However, he said that the sound proceeded from a very large owl, in a hollow tree; a sort of learned owl, that continually knocked its head against the branches. But whether the sound came from his head or from the hollow tree, that no one could say with certainty. So now he got the place of “Universal Bell-ringer,” and wrote yearly a short treatise “On the Owl”; but everybody was just as wise as before.

It was the day of confirmation. The clergyman had spoken so touchingly, the children who were confirmed had been greatly moved; it was an eventful day for them; from children they become all at once grown-up-persons; it was as if their infant souls were now to fly all at once into persons with more understanding. The sun was shining gloriously; the children that had been confirmed went out of the town; and from the wood was borne towards them the sounds of the unknown bell with wonderful distinctness. They all immediately felt a wish to go thither; all except three. One of them had to go home to try on a ball-dress; for it was just the dress and the ball which had caused her to be confirmed this time, for otherwise she would not have come; the other was a poor boy, who had borrowed his coat and boots to be confirmed in from the innkeeper’s son, and he was to give them back by a certain hour; the third said that he never went to a strange place if his parents were not with him—that he had always been a good boy hitherto, and would still be so now that he was confirmed, and that one ought not to laugh at him for it: the others, however, did make fun of him, after all.

There were three, therefore, that did not go; the others hastened on. The sun shone, the birds sang, and the children sang too, and each held the other by the hand; for as yet they had none of them any high office, and were all of equal rank in the eye of God.

But two of the youngest soon grew tired, and both returned to town; two little girls sat down, and twined garlands, so they did not go either; and when the others reached the willow-tree, where the confectioner was, they said, “Now we are there! In reality the bell does not exist; it is only a fancy that people have taken into their heads!”

At the same moment the bell sounded deep in the wood, so clear and solemnly that five or six determined to penetrate somewhat further. It was so thick, and the foliage so dense, that it was quite fatiguing to proceed. Woodroof and anemonies grew almost too high; blooming convolvuluses and blackberry-bushes hung in long garlands from tree to tree, where the nightingale sang and the sunbeams were playing: it was very beautiful, but it was no place for girls to go; their clothes would get so torn. Large blocks of stone lay there, overgrown with moss of every color; the fresh spring bubbled forth, and made a strange gurgling sound.

“That surely cannot be the bell,” said one of the children, lying down and listening. “This must be looked to.” So he remained, and let the others go on without him.

They afterwards came to a little house, made of branches and the bark of trees; a large wild apple-tree bent over it, as if it would shower down all its blessings on the roof, where roses were blooming. The long stems twined round the gable, on which there hung a small bell.

Was it that which people had heard? Yes, everybody was unanimous on the subject, except one, who said that the bell was too small and too fine to be heard at so great a distance, and besides it was very different tones to those that could move a human heart in such a manner. It was a king’s son who spoke; whereon the others said, “Such people always want to be wiser than everybody else.”

They now let him go on alone; and as he went, his breast was filled more and more with the forest solitude; but he still heard the little bell with which the others were so satisfied, and now and then, when the wind blew, he could also hear the people singing who were sitting at tea where the confectioner had his tent; but the deep sound of the bell rose louder; it was almost as if an organ were accompanying it, and the tones came from the left hand, the side where the heart is placed. A rustling was heard in the bushes, and a little boy stood before the King’s Son, a boy in wooden shoes, and with so short a jacket that one could see what long wrists he had. Both knew each other: the boy was that one among the children who could not come because he had to go home and return his jacket and boots to the innkeeper’s son. This he had done, and was now going on in wooden shoes and in his humble dress, for the bell sounded with so deep a tone, and with such strange power, that proceed he must.

“Why, then, we can go together,” said the King’s Son. But the poor child that had been confirmed was quite ashamed; he looked at his wooden shoes, pulled at the short sleeves of his jacket, and said that he was afraid he could not walk so fast; besides, he thought that the bell must be looked for to the right; for that was the place where all sorts of beautiful things were to be found.

“But there we shall not meet,” said the King’s Son, nodding at the same time to the poor boy, who went into the darkest, thickest part of the wood, where thorns tore his humble dress, and scratched his face and hands and feet till they bled. The King’s Son got some scratches too; but the sun shone on his path, and it is him that we will follow, for he was an excellent and resolute youth.

“I must and will find the bell,” said he, “even if I am obliged to go to the end of the world.”

The ugly apes sat upon the trees, and grinned. “Shall we thrash him?” said they. “Shall we thrash him? He is the son of a king!”

But on he went, without being disheartened, deeper and deeper into the wood, where the most wonderful flowers were growing. There stood white lilies with blood-red stamina, skyblue tulips, which shone as they waved in the winds, and apple-trees, the apples of which looked exactly like large soapbubbles: so only think how the trees must have sparkled in the sunshine! Around the nicest green meads, where the deer were playing in the grass, grew magnificent oaks and beeches; and if the bark of one of the trees was cracked, there grass and long creeping plants grew in the crevices. And there were large calm lakes there too, in which white swans were swimming, and beat the air with their wings. The King’s Son often stood still and listened. He thought the bell sounded from the depths of these still lakes; but then he remarked again that the tone proceeded not from there, but farther off, from out the depths of the forest.

The sun now set: the atmosphere glowed like fire. It was still in the woods, so very still; and he fell on his knees, sung his evening hymn, and said: “I cannot find what I seek; the sun is going down, and night is coming—the dark, dark night. Yet perhaps I may be able once more to see the round red sun before he entirely disappears. I will climb up yonder rock.”

And he seized hold of the creeping-plants, and the roots of trees—climbed up the moist stones where the water-snakes were writhing and the toads were croaking—and he gained the summit before the sun had quite gone down. How magnificent was the sight from this height! The sea—the great, the glorious sea, that dashed its long waves against the coast—was stretched out before him. And yonder, where sea and sky meet, stood the sun, like a large shining altar, all melted together in the most glowing colors. And the wood and the sea sang a song of rejoicing, and his heart sang with the rest: all nature was a vast holy church, in which the trees and the buoyant clouds were the pillars, flowers and grass the velvet carpeting, and heaven itself the large cupola. The red colors above faded away as the sun vanished, but a million stars were lighted, a million lamps shone; and the King’s Son spread out his arms towards heaven, and wood, and sea; when at the same moment, coming by a path to the right, appeared, in his wooden shoes and jacket, the poor boy who had been confirmed with him. He had followed his own path, and had reached the spot just as soon as the son of the king had done. They ran towards each other, and stood together hand in hand in the vast church of nature and of poetry, while over them sounded the invisible holy bell: blessed spirits floated around them, and lifted up their voices in a rejoicing hallelujah!

THE BUTTERFLY

There was once a butterfly who wished for a bride, and, as may be supposed, he wanted to choose a very pretty one from among the flowers. He glanced, with a very critical eye, at all the flower-beds, and found that the flowers were seated quietly and demurely on their stalks, just as maidens should sit before they are engaged; but there was a great number of them, and it appeared as if his search would become very wearisome. The butterfly did not like to take too much trouble, so he flew off on a visit to the daisies. The French call this flower “Marguerite,” and they say that the little daisy can prophesy. Lovers pluck off the leaves, and as they pluck each leaf, they ask a question about their lovers; thus: “Does he or she love me?—Ardently? Distractedly? Very much? A little? Not at all?” and so on. Every one speaks these words in his own language. The butterfly came also to Marguerite to inquire, but he did not pluck off her leaves; he pressed a kiss on each of them, for he thought there was always more to be done by kindness.

“Darling Marguerite daisy,” he said to her, “you are the wisest woman of all the flowers. Pray tell me which of the flowers I shall choose for my wife. Which will be my bride? When I know, I will fly directly to her, and propose.”

But Marguerite did not answer him; she was offended that he should call her a woman when she was only a girl; and there is a great difference. He asked her a second time, and then a third; but she remained dumb, and answered not a word. Then he would wait no longer, but flew away, to commence his wooing at once. It was in the early spring, when the crocus and the snowdrop were in full bloom.

“They are very pretty,” thought the butterfly; “charming little lasses; but they are rather formal.”

Then, as the young lads often do, he looked out for the elder girls. He next flew to the anemones; these were rather sour to his taste. The violet, a little too sentimental. The lime-blossoms, too small, and besides, there was such a large family of them. The apple-blossoms, though they looked like roses, bloomed to-day, but might fall off to-morrow, with the first wind that blew; and he thought that a marriage with one of them might last too short a time. The pea-blossom pleased him most of all; she was white and red, graceful and slender, and belonged to those domestic maidens who have a pretty appearance, and can yet be useful in the kitchen. He was just about to make her an offer, when, close by the maiden, he saw a pod, with a withered flower hanging at the end.

“Who is that?” he asked.

“That is my sister,” replied the pea-blossom.

“Oh, indeed; and you will be like her some day,” said he; and he flew away directly, for he felt quite shocked.

A honeysuckle hung forth from the hedge, in full bloom; but there were so many girls like her, with long faces and sallow complexions. No; he did not like her. But which one did he like?

Spring went by, and summer drew towards its close; autumn came; but he had not decided. The flowers now appeared in their most gorgeous robes, but all in vain; they had not the fresh, fragrant air of youth. For the heart asks for fragrance, even when it is no longer young; and there is very little of that to be found in the dahlias or the dry chrysanthemums; therefore the butterfly turned to the mint on the ground. You know, this plant has no blossom; but it is sweetness all over,—full of fragrance from head to foot, with the scent of a flower in every leaf.

“I will take her,” said the butterfly; and he made her an offer. But the mint stood silent and stiff, as she listened to him. At last she said,—

“Friendship, if you please; nothing more. I am old, and you are old, but we may live for each other just the same; as to marrying—no; don’t let us appear ridiculous at our age.”

And so it happened that the butterfly got no wife at all. He had been too long choosing, which is always a bad plan. And the butterfly became what is called an old bachelor.

It was late in the autumn, with rainy and cloudy weather. The cold wind blew over the bowed backs of the willows, so that they creaked again. It was not the weather for flying about in summer clothes; but fortunately the butterfly was not out in it. He had got a shelter by chance. It was in a room heated by a stove, and as warm as summer. He could exist here, he said, well enough.

“But it is not enough merely to exist,” said he, “I need freedom, sunshine, and a little flower for a companion.”

Then he flew against the window-pane, and was seen and admired by those in the room, who caught him, and stuck him on a pin, in a box of curiosities. They could not do more for him.

“Now I am perched on a stalk, like the flowers,” said the butterfly. “It is not very pleasant, certainly; I should imagine it is something like being married; for here I am stuck fast.” And with this thought he consoled himself a little.

“That seems very poor consolation,” said one of the plants in the room, that grew in a pot.

“Ah,” thought the butterfly, “one can’t very well trust these plants in pots; they have too much to do with mankind.”

THE OLD HOUSE

In the street, up there, was an old, a very old house—it was almost three hundred years old, for that might be known by reading the great beam on which the date of the year was carved: together with tulips and hop-binds there were whole verses spelled as in former times, and over every window was a distorted face cut out in the beam. The one story stood forward a great way over the other; and directly under the eaves was a leaden spout with a dragon’s head; the rain-water should have run out of the mouth, but it ran out of the belly, for there was a hole in the spout.

All the other houses in the street were so new and so neat, with large window panes and smooth walls, one could easily see that they would have nothing to do with the old house: they certainly thought, “How long is that old decayed thing to stand here as a spectacle in the street? And then the projecting windows stand so far out, that no one can see from our windows what happens in that direction! The steps are as broad as those of a palace, and as high as to a church tower. The iron railings look just like the door to an old family vault, and then they have brass tops—that’s so stupid!”

On the other side of the street were also new and neat houses, and they thought just as the others did; but at the window opposite the old house there sat a little boy with fresh rosy cheeks and bright beaming eyes: he certainly liked the old house best, and that both in sunshine and moonshine. And when he looked across at the wall where the mortar had fallen out, he could sit and find out there the strangest figures imaginable; exactly as the street had appeared before, with steps, projecting windows, and pointed gables; he could see soldiers with halberds, and spouts where the water ran, like dragons and serpents. That was a house to look at; and there lived an old man, who wore plush breeches; and he had a coat with large brass buttons, and a wig that one could see was a real wig. Every morning there came an old fellow to him who put his rooms in order, and went on errands; otherwise, the old man in the plush breeches was quite alone in the old house. Now and then he came to the window and looked out, and the little boy nodded to him, and the old man nodded again, and so they became acquaintances, and then they were friends, although they had never spoken to each other—but that made no difference. The little boy heard his parents say, “The old man opposite is very well off, but he is so very, very lonely!”

The Sunday following, the little boy took something, and wrapped it up in a piece of paper, went downstairs, and stood in the doorway; and when the man who went on errands came past, he said to him—

“I say, master! will you give this to the old man over the way from me? I have two pewter soldiers—this is one of them, and he shall have it, for I know he is so very, very lonely.”

And the old errand man looked quite pleased, nodded, and took the pewter soldier over to the old house. Afterwards there came a message; it was to ask if the little boy himself had not a wish to come over and pay a visit; and so he got permission of his parents, and then went over to the old house.

And the brass balls on the iron railings shone much brighter than ever; one would have thought they were polished on account of the visit; and it was as if the carved-out trumpeters—for there were trumpeters, who stood in tulips, carved out on the door—blew with all their might, their cheeks appeared so much rounder than before. Yes, they blew—“Trateratra! The little boy comes! Trateratra!”—and then the door opened.

The whole passage was hung with portraits of knights in armor, and ladies in silken gowns; and the armor rattled, and the silken gowns rustled! And then there was a flight of stairs which went a good way upwards, and a little way downwards, and then one came on a balcony which was in a very dilapidated state, sure enough, with large holes and long crevices, but grass grew there and leaves out of them altogether, for the whole balcony outside, the yard, and the walls, were overgrown with so much green stuff, that it looked like a garden; only a balcony. Here stood old flower-pots with faces and asses’ ears, and the flowers grew just as they liked. One of the pots was quite overrun on all sides with pinks, that is to say, with the green part; shoot stood by shoot, and it said quite distinctly, “The air has cherished me, the sun has kissed me, and promised me a little flower on Sunday! a little flower on Sunday!”

And then they entered a chamber where the walls were covered with hog’s leather, and printed with gold flowers.

   “The gilding decays,
   But hog's leather stays!”

said the walls.

And there stood easy-chairs, with such high backs, and so carved out, and with arms on both sides. “Sit down! sit down!” said they. “Ugh! how I creak; now I shall certainly get the gout, like the old clothespress, ugh!”

And then the little boy came into the room where the projecting windows were, and where the old man sat.

“I thank you for the pewter soldier, my little friend!” said the old man. “And I thank you because you come over to me.”

“Thankee! thankee!” or “cranky! cranky!” sounded from all the furniture; there was so much of it, that each article stood in the other’s way, to get a look at the little boy.

In the middle of the wall hung a picture representing a beautiful lady, so young, so glad, but dressed quite as in former times, with clothes that stood quite stiff, and with powder in her hair; she neither said “thankee, thankee!” nor “cranky, cranky!” but looked with her mild eyes at the little boy, who directly asked the old man, “Where did you get her?”

“Yonder, at the broker’s,” said the old man, “where there are so many pictures hanging. No one knows or cares about them, for they are all of them buried; but I knew her in by-gone days, and now she has been dead and gone these fifty years!”

Under the picture, in a glazed frame, there hung a bouquet of withered flowers; they were almost fifty years old; they looked so very old!

The pendulum of the great clock went to and fro, and the hands turned, and everything in the room became still older; but they did not observe it.

“They say at home,” said the little boy, “that you are so very, very lonely!”

“Oh!” said he. “The old thoughts, with what they may bring with them, come and visit me, and now you also come! I am very well off!”

Then he took a book with pictures in it down from the shelf; there were whole long processions and pageants, with the strangest characters, which one never sees now-a-days; soldiers like the knave of clubs, and citizens with waving flags: the tailors had theirs, with a pair of shears held by two lions—and the shoemakers theirs, without boots, but with an eagle that had two heads, for the shoemakers must have everything so that they can say, it is a pair! Yes, that was a picture book!

The old man now went into the other room to fetch preserves, apples, and nuts—yes, it was delightful over there in the old house.

“I cannot bear it any longer!” said the pewter soldier, who sat on the drawers. “It is so lonely and melancholy here! But when one has been in a family circle one cannot accustom oneself to this life! I cannot bear it any longer! The whole day is so long, and the evenings are still longer! Here it is not at all as it is over the way at your home, where your father and mother spoke so pleasantly, and where you and all your sweet children made such a delightful noise. Nay, how lonely the old man is—do you think that he gets kisses? Do you think he gets mild eyes, or a Christmas tree? He will get nothing but a grave! I can bear it no longer!”

“You must not let it grieve you so much,” said the little boy. “I find it so very delightful here, and then all the old thoughts, with what they may bring with them, they come and visit here.”

“Yes, it’s all very well, but I see nothing of them, and I don’t know them!” said the pewter soldier. “I cannot bear it!”

“But you must!” said the little boy.

Then in came the old man with the most pleased and happy face, the most delicious preserves, apples, and nuts, and so the little boy thought no more about the pewter soldier.

The little boy returned home happy and pleased, and weeks and days passed away, and nods were made to the old house, and from the old house, and then the little boy went over there again.

The carved trumpeters blew, “Trateratra! There is the little boy! Trateratra!” and the swords and armor on the knights’ portraits rattled, and the silk gowns rustled; the hog’s leather spoke, and the old chairs had the gout in their legs and rheumatism in their backs: Ugh! it was exactly like the first time, for over there one day and hour was just like another.

“I cannot bear it!” said the pewter soldier. “I have shed pewter tears! It is too melancholy! Rather let me go to the wars and lose arms and legs! It would at least be a change. I cannot bear it longer! Now, I know what it is to have a visit from one’s old thoughts, with what they may bring with them! I have had a visit from mine, and you may be sure it is no pleasant thing in the end; I was at last about to jump down from the drawers.

“I saw you all over there at home so distinctly, as if you really were here; it was again that Sunday morning; all you children stood before the table and sung your Psalms, as you do every morning. You stood devoutly with folded hands; and father and mother were just as pious; and then the door was opened, and little sister Mary, who is not two years old yet, and who always dances when she hears music or singing, of whatever kind it may be, was put into the room—though she ought not to have been there—and then she began to dance, but could not keep time, because the tones were so long; and then she stood, first on the one leg, and bent her head forwards, and then on the other leg, and bent her head forwards—but all would not do. You stood very seriously all together, although it was difficult enough; but I laughed to myself, and then I fell off the table, and got a bump, which I have still—for it was not right of me to laugh. But the whole now passes before me again in thought, and everything that I have lived to see; and these are the old thoughts, with what they may bring with them.

“Tell me if you still sing on Sundays? Tell me something about little Mary! And how my comrade, the other pewter soldier, lives! Yes, he is happy enough, that’s sure! I cannot bear it any longer!”

“You are given away as a present!” said the little boy. “You must remain. Can you not understand that?”

The old man now came with a drawer, in which there was much to be seen, both “tin boxes” and “balsam boxes,” old cards, so large and so gilded, such as one never sees them now. And several drawers were opened, and the piano was opened; it had landscapes on the inside of the lid, and it was so hoarse when the old man played on it! and then he hummed a song.

“Yes, she could sing that!” said he, and nodded to the portrait, which he had bought at the broker’s, and the old man’s eyes shone so bright!

“I will go to the wars! I will go to the wars!” shouted the pewter soldier as loud as he could, and threw himself off the drawers right down on the floor. What became of him? The old man sought, and the little boy sought; he was away, and he stayed away.

“I shall find him!” said the old man; but he never found him. The floor was too open—the pewter soldier had fallen through a crevice, and there he lay as in an open tomb.

That day passed, and the little boy went home, and that week passed, and several weeks too. The windows were quite frozen, the little boy was obliged to sit and breathe on them to get a peep-hole over to the old house, and there the snow had been blown into all the carved work and inscriptions; it lay quite up over the steps, just as if there was no one at home—nor was there any one at home—the old man was dead!

In the evening there was a hearse seen before the door, and he was borne into it in his coffin: he was now to go out into the country, to lie in his grave. He was driven out there, but no one followed; all his friends were dead, and the little boy kissed his hand to the coffin as it was driven away.

Some days afterwards there was an auction at the old house, and the little boy saw from his window how they carried the old knights and the old ladies away, the flower-pots with the long ears, the old chairs, and the old clothes-presses. Something came here, and something came there; the portrait of her who had been found at the broker’s came to the broker’s again; and there it hung, for no one knew her more—no one cared about the old picture.

In the spring they pulled the house down, for, as people said, it was a ruin. One could see from the street right into the room with the hog’s-leather hanging, which was slashed and torn; and the green grass and leaves about the balcony hung quite wild about the falling beams. And then it was put to rights.

“That was a relief,” said the neighboring houses.

A fine house was built there, with large windows, and smooth white walls; but before it, where the old house had in fact stood, was a little garden laid out, and a wild grapevine ran up the wall of the neighboring house. Before the garden there was a large iron railing with an iron door, it looked quite splendid, and people stood still and peeped in, and the sparrows hung by scores in the vine, and chattered away at each other as well as they could, but it was not about the old house, for they could not remember it, so many years had passed—so many that the little boy had grown up to a whole man, yes, a clever man, and a pleasure to his parents; and he had just been married, and, together with his little wife, had come to live in the house here, where the garden was; and he stood by her there whilst she planted a field-flower that she found so pretty; she planted it with her little hand, and pressed the earth around it with her fingers. Oh! what was that? She had stuck herself. There sat something pointed, straight out of the soft mould.

It was—yes, guess! It was the pewter soldier, he that was lost up at the old man’s, and had tumbled and turned about amongst the timber and the rubbish, and had at last laid for many years in the ground.

The young wife wiped the dirt off the soldier, first with a green leaf, and then with her fine handkerchief—it had such a delightful smell, that it was to the pewter soldier just as if he had awaked from a trance.

“Let me see him,” said the young man. He laughed, and then shook his head. “Nay, it cannot be he; but he reminds me of a story about a pewter soldier which I had when I was a little boy!” And then he told his wife about the old house, and the old man, and about the pewter soldier that he sent over to him because he was so very, very lonely; and he told it as correctly as it had really been, so that the tears came into the eyes of his young wife, on account of the old house and the old man.

“It may possibly be, however, that it is the same pewter soldier!” said she. “I will take care of it, and remember all that you have told me; but you must show me the old man’s grave!”

“But I do not know it,” said he, “and no one knows it! All his friends were dead, no one took care of it, and I was then a little boy!”

“How very, very lonely he must have been!” said she.

“Very, very lonely!” said the pewter soldier. “But it is delightful not to be forgotten!”

“Delightful!” shouted something close by; but no one, except the pewter soldier, saw that it was a piece of the hog’s-leather hangings; it had lost all its gilding, it looked like a piece of wet clay, but it had an opinion, and it gave it:

   “The gilding decays,
   But hog's leather stays!”

This the pewter soldier did not believe.

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