THE DUMB BOOK
1872 FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN THE DUMB BOOK by Hans Christian Andersen IN the high-road which led through a wood stood a solitaryfarm-house; the road, in fact, ran right through its yard. The sun wasshining and all the windows were open; within the house people werevery busy. In the yard, in an arbour formed by lilac bushes in fullbloom, stood an open coffin; thither they had carried a dead man,who was to be buried that very afternoon. Nobody shed a tear over him;his face was covered over with a white cloth, under his head theyhad placed a large thick book, the leaves of which consisted of foldedsheets of blotting-paper, and withered flowers lay between them; itwas the herbarium which he had gathered in various places and was tobe buried with him, according to his own wish. Every one of theflowers in it was connected with some chapter of his life. “Who is the dead man?” we asked. “The old student,” was the reply. “They say that he was once anenergetic young man, that he studied the dead languages, and sangand even composed many songs; then something had happened to him,and in consequence of this he gave himself up to drink, body and mind.When at last he had ruined his health, they brought him into thecountry, where someone paid for his board and residence. He was gentleas a child as long as the sullen mood did not come over him; butwhen it came he was fierce, became as strong as a giant, and ran aboutin the wood like a chased deer. But when we succeeded in bringinghim home, and prevailed upon him to open the book with the dried-upplants in it, he would sometimes sit for a whole day looking at thisor that plant, while frequently the tears rolled over his cheeks.God knows what was in his mind; but he requested us to put the bookinto his coffin, and now he lies there. In a little while the lid willbe placed upon the coffin, and he will have sweet rest in the grave!” The cloth which covered his face was lifted up; the dead man’sface expressed peace- a sunbeam fell upon it. A swallow flew withthe swiftness of an arrow into the arbour, turning in its flight,and twittered over the dead man’s head. What a strange feeling it is- surely we all know it- to lookthrough old letters of our young days; a different life rises up outof the past, as it were, with all its hopes and sorrows. How many ofthe people with whom in those days we used to be on intimate termsappear to us as if dead, and yet they are still alive- only we havenot thought of them for such a long time, whom we imagined we shouldretain in our memories for ever, and share every joy and sorrow withthem. The withered oak leaf in the book here recalled the friend, theschoolfellow, who was to be his friend for life. He fixed the leafto the student’s cap in the green wood, when they vowed eternalfriendship. Where does he dwell now? The leaf is kept, but thefriendship does no longer exist. Here is a foreign hothouse plant, tootender for the gardens of the North. It is almost as if its leavesstill smelt sweet! She gave it to him out of her own garden- anobleman’s daughter. Here is a water-lily that he had plucked himself, and watered withsalt tears- a lily of sweet water. And here is a nettle: what mayits leaves tell us? What might he have thought when he plucked andkept it? Here is a little snowdrop out of the solitary wood; here isan evergreen from the flower-pot at the tavern; and here is a simpleblade of grass. The lilac bends its fresh fragrant flowers over the dead man’shead; the swallow passes again- “twit, twit;” now the men come withhammer and nails, the lid is placed over the dead man, while hishead rests on the dumb book- so long cherished, now closed for ever! THE END.
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