The story that follows is nearly 200 years old, but since it is a Christmas tale, it's actually new every single year. Though not as well known as many of his other works, this story by Hans Christian Anderson packs many life lessons into a fascinating short narrative of 3300 words.
The
Christmas Tree
By
Hans Christian Anderson
(originally
titled, The Fir Tree)
Introduction:
Anderson’s bittersweet fairy tale is about a young
tree that couldn’t wait to grow up.
Before, and after, its first publication in 1844 he promoted his story by
reading it aloud at parties and gatherings in his native Denmark.
Shortly before Christmas, the year after the yarn was
published, he read the Christmas Tree
story and his Ugly Duckling tale at an important holiday party given by Count
Bismarck-Bohlen. Among the many people
gathered in the great mansion was Wilhelm Grimm. The younger Grimm of the
famous Grimm Brothers, liked the story of the tree very much. Anderson wrote of the success of the story
and of Grimm’s fondness for it, in his diary.
Here now is the story of the Christmas Tree:
Out in the woods stood a nice little Fir-tree. The place
he had was a very good one; the sun shone on him; as to fresh air, there was
enough of that, and round him grew many large-sized comrades, pines as well as
firs. But the little Fir wanted so very much to be a grown-up tree.
He did not think of the warm sun and of the fresh air; he
did not care for the little cottage children that ran about and prattled when
they were in the woods looking for wild strawberries. The children often came
with a whole pitcher full of berries, or a long row of them threaded on a
straw, and sat down near the young tree and said, “Oh, how pretty he is! what a
nice little fir!” But this was what the Tree could not bear to hear.
At the end of a year he had shot up a good deal, and after
another year
he was another long bit taller; for with fir-trees one can
always tell
“Oh, were I but such a high tree as the others are!”
sighed he. “Then I should be able to spread out my branches, and with the tops
to look into the wide world! Then would the birds build nests among my
branches; and when there was a breeze, I could bend with as much stateliness as
the others!”
Neither the sunbeams, nor the birds, nor the red clouds,
which morning and evening sailed above them, gave the little Tree any pleasure.
In winter, when the snow lay glittering on the ground, a
hare would often come leaping along, and jump right over the little Tree. Oh,
that made him so angry! But two winters were past, and in the third the tree
was so large that the hare was obliged to go round it. “To grow and grow, to
get older and be tall,” thought the Tree—“that, after all, is the most
delightful thing in the world!”
In autumn the wood-cutters always came and felled some of
the largest trees. This happened every year; and the young Fir-tree, that had
now grown to a very comely size, trembled at the sight; for the magnificent
great trees fell to the earth with noise and cracking, the branches were lopped
off, and the trees looked long and bare; they were hardly to be recognized; and
then they were laid in carts, and the horses dragged them out of the woods.
Where
did they go to? What became of them?
In spring, when the Swallows and the Storks came, the Tree
asked them, “Don’t you know where they have been taken? Have you not met them
anywhere?”
The Swallows did not know anything about it; but the Stork
looked musing, nodded his head, and said: “Yes, I think I know; I met many
ships as I was flying hither from Egypt; on the ships were magnificent masts,
and I venture to assert that it was they that smelt so of fir. I may
congratulate you, for they lifted themselves on high most majestically!”
“Oh, were I but old enough to fly across the sea! But how
does the sea look in reality? What is it like?”
“That would take a long time to explain,” said the Stork,
and with these words off he went.
“Rejoice in thy growth!” said the Sunbeams, “rejoice in
thy vigorous growth, and in the fresh life that moveth within thee!”
And the Wind kissed the Tree, and the Dew wept tears over
him; but the Fir understood it not.
When Christmas came, quite young trees were cut down;
trees which often were not even as large or of the same age as this Fir-tree,
who could never rest, but always wanted to be off. These young trees, and they
were always the finest looking, retained their branches; they were laid on
carts, and the horses drew them out of the woods.
“Where are they going to?” asked the Fir. “They are not
taller than I; there was one indeed that was considerably shorter; and why do
they retain all their branches? Whither are they taken?”
“We know! we know!” chirped the Sparrows. “We have peeped
in at the windows in the town below! We know whither they are taken! The
greatest splendour and the greatest magnificence one can imagine await them. We
peeped through the windows, and saw them planted in the middle of the warm
room, and ornamented with the most splendid things—with gilded apples, with
gingerbread, with toys, and many hundred lights!”
“And then?” asked the Fir-tree, trembling in every bough.
“And then?
What happens then?”
“We did not see anything more: it was incomparably
beautiful.”
“I would fain know if I am destined for so glorious a
career,” cried the Tree, rejoicing. “That is still better than to cross the
sea! What a longing do I suffer! Were Christmas but come! I am now tall, and my
branches spread like the others that were carried off last year! Oh, were I but
already on the cart. Were I in the warm room with all the splendour and
magnificence! Yes; then something better, something still grander, will surely
follow, or wherefore should they thus ornament me? Something better, something still grander,
MUST follow—but what? Oh, how I long, how I suffer! I do not know myself what
is the matter with me!”
“Rejoice in our presence!” said the Air and the Sunlight;
“rejoice in thy own fresh youth!”
But the Tree did not rejoice at all; he grew and grew, and
was green both winter and summer. People that saw him said, “What a fine tree!”
and toward Christmas he was one of the first that was cut down. The axe struck
deep into the very pith; the tree fell to the earth with a sigh: he felt a
pang—it was like a swoon; he could not think of happiness, for he was sorrowful
at being separated from his home, from the place where he had sprung up. He
knew well that he should never see his dear old comrades, the little bushes and
flowers around him, any more; perhaps not even the birds! The departure was not
at all agreeable.
The Tree only came to himself when he was unloaded in a
courtyard with the other trees, and heard a man say, “That one is splendid! we
don’t want the others.” Then two servants came in rich livery and carried the
Fir-tree into a large and splendid drawing-room. Portraits were hanging on the
walls, and near the white porcelain stove stood two large Chinese vases with
lions on the covers. There, too, were large easy chairs, silken sofas, large
tables full of picture-books, and full of toys worth hundreds and hundreds of
crowns—at least the children said so. And the Fir-tree was stuck upright in a
cask that was filled with sand: but no one could see that it was a cask, for
green cloth was hung all around it, and it stood on a large gayly coloured
carpet. Oh, how the Tree quivered! What was to happen? The servants, as well as
the young ladies, decorated it. On one branch there hung little nets cut out of
coloured paper, and each net was filled with sugar-plums; and among the other
boughs gilded apples and walnuts were suspended, looking as though they had
grown there, and little blue and white tapers were placed among the leaves.
Dolls that looked for all the world like men—the Tree had never beheld such
before—were seen among the foliage, and at the very top a large star of gold
tinsel was fixed. It was really
splendid—beyond description splendid.
“This
evening!” said they all; “how it will shine this evening!”
“Oh,” thought the Tree, “if the evening were but come! If
the tapers were but lighted! And then I wonder what will happen! Perhaps the
other trees from the forest will come to look at me! Perhaps the sparrows will
beat against the window-panes! I wonder if I shall take root here, and winter
and summer stand covered with ornaments!”
He knew very much about the matter! but he was so
impatient that for sheer longing he got a pain in his back, and this with trees
is the same thing as a headache with us.
The candles were now lighted. What brightness! What
splendour! The Tree trembled so in every bough that one of the tapers set fire
to the foliage. It blazed up splendidly.
“Help! Help!” cried the young ladies, and they quickly put
out the fire.
Now the Tree did not even dare tremble. What a state he
was in! He was so uneasy lest he should lose something of his splendour, that
he was quite bewildered amidst the glare and brightness; when suddenly both
folding-doors opened, and a troop of children rushed in as if they would upset
the Tree. The older persons followed quietly; the little ones stood quite
still. But it was only for a moment; then they shouted so that the whole place
reechoed with their rejoicing; they danced round the tree, and one present
after the other was pulled off.
“What are they about?” thought the Tree. “What is to
happen now?” And the lights burned down to the very branches, and as they
burned down they were put out, one after the other, and then the children had
permission to plunder the tree. So they fell upon it with such violence that
all its branches cracked; if it had not been fixed firmly in the cask, it would
certainly have tumbled down.
The children danced about with their beautiful playthings:
no one looked at the Tree except the old nurse, who peeped between the
branches; but it was only to see if there was a fig or an apple left that had
been forgotten.
“A story! a story!” cried the children, drawing a little
fat man toward the tree. He seated himself under it, and said: “Now we are in
the shade, and the Tree can listen, too. But I shall tell only one story. Now which will you have: that about
Ivedy-Avedy, or about Klumpy-Dumpy who tumbled downstairs, and yet after all
came to the throne and married the princess?”
“Ivedy-Avedy!” cried some; “Klumpy-Dumpy” cried the
others. There was such a bawling and screaming—the Fir-tree alone was silent,
and he thought to himself, “Am I not to bawl with the rest?--am I to do nothing
whatever?” for he was one of the company, and had done what he had to do.
And the man told about Klumpy-Dumpy that tumbled down, who
notwithstanding came to the throne, and at last married the princess. And the children clapped their hands, and
cried out, “Oh, go on! Do go on!” They wanted to hear about Ivedy-Avedy, too,
but the little man only told them about Klumpy-Dumpy. The Fir-tree stood quite
still and absorbed in thought; the birds in the woods had never related the
like of this. “Klumpy-Dumpy fell downstairs, and yet he married the princess!
Yes! Yes! that’s the way of the world!” thought the Fir-tree, and believed it
all, because the man who told the story was so good-looking. “Well, well! who
knows, perhaps I may fall downstairs, too, and get a princess as wife!” And he
looked forward with joy to the morrow, when he hoped to be decked out again
with lights, playthings, fruits, and tinsel.
“I won’t tremble to-morrow,” thought the Fir-tree. “I will
enjoy to the full all my splendour. To-morrow I shall hear again the story of
Klumpy-Dumpy, and perhaps that of Ivedy-Avedy, too.” And the whole night the
Tree stood still and in deep thought.
In the morning the servant and the housemaid came in.
“Now, then, the splendour will begin again,” thought the
Fir. But they dragged him out of the room, and up the stairs into the loft; and
here in a dark corner, where no daylight could enter, they left him. “What’s
the meaning of this?” thought the Tree. “What am I to do here? What shall I
hear now, I wonder?” And he leaned
against the wall, lost in reverie. Time enough had he, too, for his
reflections; for days and nights passed on, and nobody came up; and when at
last somebody did come, it was only to put some great trunks in a corner out of
the way. There stood the Tree quite
hidden; it seemed as if he had been entirely forgotten.
“’Tis now winter out of doors!” thought the Tree. “The
earth is hard and covered with snow; men cannot plant me now, and therefore I
have been put up here under shelter till the springtime comes! How thoughtful
that is! How kind man is, after all! If it only were not so dark here, and so
terribly lonely! Not even a hare. And out in the woods it was so pleasant, when
the snow was on the ground, and the hare leaped by; yes—even when he jumped
over me; but I did not like it then. It is really terribly lonely here!”
“Squeak! squeak!” said a little Mouse at the same moment,
peeping out of his hole. And then another little one came. They sniffed about
the Fir-tree, and rustled among the branches.
“It is dreadfully cold,” said the Mouse. “But for that, it
would be delightful here, old Fir, wouldn’t it?”
“I am by no means old,” said the Fir-tree. “There’s many a
one considerably older than I am.”
“Where do you come from,” asked the Mice; “and what can
you do?” They were so extremely curious. “Tell us about the most beautiful spot
on the earth. Have you never been there? Were you never in the larder, where
cheeses lie on the shelves, and hams hang from above; where one dances about on
tallow-candles; that place where one enters lean, and comes out again fat and portly?”
“I know no such place,” said the Tree, “but I know the
woods, where the sun shines, and where the little birds sing.” And then he told
all about his youth; and the little Mice had never heard the like before; and
they listened and said:
“Well, to be sure! How much you have seen! How happy you
must have been!”
“I?” said the Fir-tree, thinking over what he had himself
related. “Yes, in reality those were
happy times.” And then he told about Christmas Eve, when he was decked out with
cakes and candles.
“Oh,”
said the little Mice, “how fortunate you have been, old Fir-tree!”
“I am by no means old,” said he. “I came from the woods
this winter; I am in my prime, and am only rather short for my age.”
“What delightful stories you know!” said the Mice: and the
next night they came with four other little Mice, who were to hear what the
tree recounted; and the more he related, the more plainly he remembered all
himself; and it appeared as if those times had really been happy times. “But they may still come—they may still come.
Klumpy-Dumpy fell downstairs and yet he got a princess,” and he thought at the
moment of a nice little Birch-tree growing out in the woods; to the Fir, that
would be a real charming princess.
“Who is Klumpy-Dumpy?” asked the Mice. So then the
Fir-tree told the whole fairy tale, for he could remember every single word of
it; and the little Mice jumped for joy up to the very top of the Tree. Next
night two more Mice came, and on Sunday two Rats, even; but they said the
stories were not interesting, which vexed the little Mice; and they, too, now
began to think them not so very amusing either.
“Do you know only one story?” asked the Rats.
“Only that one,” answered the Tree. “I heard it on my
happiest evening; but I did not then know how happy I was.”
“It is a very stupid story. Don’t you know one about bacon
and tallow candles? Can’t you tell any larder stories?”
“No,” said the Tree.
“Then good-bye,” said the Rats; and they went home.
At last the little Mice stayed away also; and the Tree
sighed: “After all, it was very pleasant when the sleek little Mice sat around
me and listened to what I told them. Now that too is over. But I will take good
care to enjoy myself when I am brought out again.”
But when was that to be? Why, one morning there came a
quantity of people and set to work in the loft. The trunks were moved, the Tree
was pulled out and thrown—rather hard, it is true—down on the floor, but a man
drew him toward the stairs, where the daylight shone.
“Now a merry life will begin again,” thought the Tree. He
felt the fresh air, the first sunbeam—and now he was out in the courtyard. All
passed so quickly, there was so much going on around him, that the Tree quite
forgot to look to himself. The court adjoined a garden, and all was in flower;
the roses hung so fresh and odorous over the balustrade, the lindens were in
blossom, the Swallows flew by, and said, “Quirre-vit! my husband is come!” but
it was not the Fir-tree that they meant.
“Now, then, I shall really enjoy life,” said he,
exultingly, and spread out his branches; but, alas! they were all withered and
yellow. It was in a corner that he lay, among weeds and nettles. The golden
star of tinsel was still on the top of the Tree, and glittered in the sunshine.
In the courtyard some of the merry children were playing
who had danced at Christmas round the Fir-tree, and were so glad at the sight
of him. One of the youngest ran and tore
off the golden star.
“Only look what is still on the ugly old Christmas tree!”
said he, trampling on the branches, so that they all cracked beneath his
feet. And the Tree beheld all the beauty
of the flowers, and the freshness in the garden; he beheld himself, and wished
he had remained in his dark corner in the loft; he thought of his first youth
in the woods, of the merry Christmas Eve, and of the little Mice who had
listened with so much pleasure to the story of Klumpy-Dumpy.
“’Tis over—‘tis past!” said the poor Tree. “Had I but
rejoiced when I had reason to do so! But now ‘tis past, ‘tis past!”
And the gardener’s boy chopped the Tree into small pieces;
there was a whole heap lying there. The wood flamed up splendidly under the
large brewing copper, and it sighed so deeply! Each sigh was like a shot.
The boys played about in the court, and the youngest wore
the gold star on his breast which the Tree had had on the happiest evening of
his life. However, that was over now—the Tree gone, the story at an end. All, all was over; every tale must end at
last.
The End
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