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The Last Dream of the Old Oak

Author: Andersen Hans Christian | Genre: Tale | Year: | Catalogue: Global database Все варианты сказки на сайте

In the forest, high up on the steep shore, and not far from the open seacoast,
stood a very old oak-tree. It was just three hundred and sixty-five years old,
but that long time was to the tree as the same number of days might be to us;
we wake by day and sleep by night, and then we have our dreams. It is different
with the tree; it is obliged to keep awake through three seasons of the year,
and does not get any sleep till winter comes. Winter is its time for rest; its
night after the long day of spring, summer, and autumn. On many a warm summer,
the Ephemera, the flies that exist for only a day, had fluttered about the old
oak, enjoyed life and felt happy and if, for a moment, one of the tiny creatures
rested on one of his large fresh leaves, the tree would always say, “Poor little
creature! your whole life consists only of a single day. How very short. It must
be quite melancholy.”

“Melancholy! what do you mean?” the little creature would always reply. “Everything
around me is so wonderfully bright and warm, and beautiful, that it makes me
joyous.”

“But only for one day, and then it is all over.”

“Over!” repeated the fly; “what is the meaning of all over? Are you all over
too?”

“No; I shall very likely live for thousands of your days, and my day is whole
seasons long; indeed it is so long that you could never reckon it out.”

“No? then I don’t understand you. You may have thousands of my days, but I
have thousands of moments in which I can be merry and happy. Does all the beauty
of the world cease when you die?”




  • “No,” replied the tree; “it will certainly last much longer,— infinitely longer
    than I can even think of.” “Well, then,” said the little fly, “we have the same
    time to live; only we reckon differently.” And the little creature danced and
    floated in the air, rejoicing in her delicate wings of gauze and velvet, rejoicing
    in the balmy breezes, laden with the fragrance of clover-fields and wild roses,
    elder-blossoms and honeysuckle, from the garden hedges, wild thyme, primroses,
    and mint, and the scent of all these was so strong that the perfume almost intoxicated
    the little fly. The long and beautiful day had been so full of joy and sweet
    delights, that when the sun sank low it felt tired of all its happiness and
    enjoyment. Its wings could sustain it no longer, and gently and slowly it glided
    down upon the soft waving blades of grass, nodded its little head as well as
    it could nod, and slept peacefully and sweetly. The fly was dead.

    “Poor little Ephemera!” said the oak; “what a terribly short life!” And so,
    on every summer day the dance was repeated, the same questions asked, and the
    same answers given. The same thing was continued through many generations of
    Ephemera; all of them felt equally merry and equally happy.

    The oak remained awake through the morning of spring, the noon of summer, and
    the evening of autumn; its time of rest, its night drew nigh—winter was coming.
    Already the storms were singing, “Good-night, good-night.” Here fell a leaf
    and there fell a leaf. “We will rock you and lull you. Go to sleep, go to sleep.
    We will sing you to sleep, and shake you to sleep, and it will do your old twigs
    good; they will even crackle with pleasure. Sleep sweetly, sleep sweetly, it
    is your three-hundred-and-sixty-fifth night. Correctly speaking, you are but
    a youngster in the world. Sleep sweetly, the clouds will drop snow upon you,
    which will be quite a cover-lid, warm and sheltering to your feet. Sweet sleep
    to you, and pleasant dreams.” And there stood the oak, stripped of all its leaves,
    left to rest during the whole of a long winter, and to dream many dreams of
    events that had happened in its life, as in the dreams of men. The great tree
    had once been small; indeed, in its cradle it had been an acorn. According to
    human computation, it was now in the fourth century of its existence. It was
    the largest and best tree in the forest. Its summit towered above all the other
    trees, and could be seen far out at sea, so that it served as a landmark to
    the sailors. It had no idea how many eyes looked eagerly for it. In its topmost
    branches the wood-pigeon built her nest, and the cuckoo carried out his usual
    vocal performances, and his well-known notes echoed amid the boughs; and in
    autumn, when the leaves looked like beaten copper plates, the birds of passage
    would come and rest upon the branches before taking their flight across the
    sea. But now it was winter, the tree stood leafless, so that every one could
    see how crooked and bent were the branches that sprang forth from the trunk.
    Crows and rooks came by turns and sat on them, and talked of the hard times
    which were beginning, and how difficult it was in winter to obtain food.

    It was just about holy Christmas time that the tree dreamed a dream. The tree
    had, doubtless, a kind of feeling that the festive time had arrived, and in
    his dream fancied he heard the bells ringing from all the churches round, and
    yet it seemed to him to be a beautiful summer’s day, mild and warm. His mighty
    summits was crowned with spreading fresh green foliage; the sunbeams played
    among the leaves and branches, and the air was full of fragrance from herb and
    blossom; painted butterflies chased each other; the summer flies danced around
    him, as if the world had been created merely for them to dance and be merry
    in. All that had happened to the tree during every year of his life seemed to
    pass before him, as in a festive procession. He saw the knights of olden times
    and noble ladies ride by through the wood on their gallant steeds, with plumes
    waving in their hats, and falcons on their wrists. The hunting horn sounded,
    and the dogs barked. He saw hostile warriors, in colored dresses and glittering
    armor, with spear and halberd, pitching their tents, and anon striking them.
    The watchfires again blazed, and men sang and slept under the hospitable shelter
    of the tree. He saw lovers meet in quiet happiness near him in the moonshine,
    and carve the initials of their names in the grayish-green bark on his trunk.
    Once, but long years had intervened since then, guitars and Eolian harps had
    been hung on his boughs by merry travellers; now they seemed to hang there again,
    and he could hear their marvellous tones. The wood-pigeons cooed as if to explain
    the feelings of the tree, and the cuckoo called out to tell him how many summer
    days he had yet to live. Then it seemed as if new life was thrilling through
    every fibre of root and stem and leaf, rising even to the highest branches.
    The tree felt itself stretching and spreading out, while through the root beneath
    the earth ran the warm vigor of life. As he grew higher and still higher, with
    increased strength, his topmost boughs became broader and fuller; and in proportion
    to his growth, so was his self-satisfaction increased, and with it arose a joyous
    longing to grow higher and higher, to reach even to the warm, bright sun itself.
    Already had his topmost branches pierced the clouds, which floated beneath them
    like troops of birds of passage, or large white swans; every leaf seemed gifted
    with sight, as if it possessed eyes to see. The stars became visible in broad
    daylight, large and sparkling, like clear and gentle eyes. They recalled to
    the memory the well-known look in the eyes of a child, or in the eyes of lovers
    who had once met beneath the branches of the old oak. These were wonderful and
    happy moments for the old tree, full of peace and joy; and yet, amidst all this
    happiness, the tree felt a yearning, longing desire that all the other trees,
    bushes, herbs, and flowers beneath him, might be able also to rise higher, as
    he had done, and to see all this splendor, and experience the same happiness.
    The grand, majestic oak could not be quite happy in the midst of his enjoyment,
    while all the rest, both great and small, were not with him. And this feeling
    of yearning trembled through every branch, through every leaf, as warmly and
    fervently as if they had been the fibres of a human heart. The summit of the
    tree waved to and fro, and bent downwards as if in his silent longing he sought
    for something. Then there came to him the fragrance of thyme, followed by the
    more powerful scent of honeysuckle and violets; and he fancied he heard the
    note of the cuckoo. At length his longing was satisfied. Up through the clouds
    came the green summits of the forest trees, and beneath him, the oak saw them
    rising, and growing higher and higher. Bush and herb shot upward, and some even
    tore themselves up by the roots to rise more quickly. The birch-tree was the
    quickest of all. Like a lightning flash the slender stem shot upwards in a zigzag
    line, the branches spreading around it like green gauze and banners. Every native
    of the wood, even to the brown and feathery rushes, grew with the rest, while
    the birds ascended with the melody of song. On a blade of grass, that fluttered
    in the air like a long, green ribbon, sat a grasshopper, cleaning his wings
    with his legs. May beetles hummed, the bees murmured, the birds sang, each in
    his own way; the air was filled with the sounds of song and gladness.

    “But where is the little blue flower that grows by the water?” asked the oak,
    “and the purple bell-flower, and the daisy?” You see the oak wanted to have
    them all with him.

    “Here we are, we are here,” sounded in voice and song.

    “But the beautiful thyme of last summer, where is that? and the lilies-of-the-valley,
    which last year covered the earth with their bloom? and the wild apple-tree
    with its lovely blossoms, and all the glory of the wood, which has flourished
    year after year? even what may have but now sprouted forth could be with us
    here.”

    “We are here, we are here,” sounded voices higher in the air, as if they had
    flown there beforehand.

    “Why this is beautiful, too beautiful to be believed,” said the oak in a joyful
    tone. “I have them all here, both great and small; not one has been forgotten.
    Can such happiness be imagined?” It seemed almost impossible.

    “In heaven with the Eternal God, it can be imagined, and it is possible,” sounded
    the reply through the air.

    And the old tree, as it still grew upwards and onwards, felt that his roots
    were loosening themselves from the earth.

    “It is right so, it is best,” said the tree, “no fetters hold me now. I can
    fly up to the very highest point in light and glory. And all I love are with
    me, both small and great. All—all are here.”

    Such was the dream of the old oak: and while he dreamed, a mighty storm came
    rushing over land and sea, at the holy Christmas time. The sea rolled in great
    billows towards the shore. There was a cracking and crushing heard in the tree.
    The root was torn from the ground just at the moment when in his dream he fancied
    it was being loosened from the earth. He fell—his three hundred and sixty-five
    years were passed as the single day of the Ephemera. On the morning of Christmas-day,
    when the sun rose, the storm had ceased. From all the churches sounded the festive
    bells, and from every hearth, even of the smallest hut, rose the smoke into
    the blue sky, like the smoke from the festive thank-offerings on the Druids’
    altars. The sea gradually became calm, and on board a great ship that had withstood
    the tempest during the night, all the flags were displayed, as a token of joy
    and festivity. “The tree is down! The old oak,—our landmark on the coast!” exclaimed
    the sailors. “It must have fallen in the storm of last night. Who can replace
    it? Alas! no one.” This was a funeral oration over the old tree; short, but
    well-meant. There it lay stretched on the snow-covered shore, and over it sounded
    the notes of a song from the ship—a song of Christmas joy, and of the redemption
    of the soul of man, and of eternal life through Christ’s atoning blood.

    “Sing aloud on the happy morn,
    All is fulfilled, for Christ is born;
    With songs of joy let us loudly sing,
    ‘Hallelujahs to Christ our King.’”

    Thus sounded the old Christmas carol, and every one on board the ship felt
    his thoughts elevated, through the song and the prayer, even as the old tree
    had felt lifted up in its last, its beautiful dream on that Christmas morn.