FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN THE OLD BACHELOR'S NIGHTCAP

                                       1872

                     FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

                          THE OLD BACHELOR'S NIGHTCAP

                           by Hans Christian Andersen

    THERE is a street in Copenhagen with a very strange name. It is

called "Hysken" street. Where the name came from, and what it means is

very uncertain. It is said to be German, but that is unjust to the

Germans, for it would then be called "Hauschen," not "Hysken."

"Hauschen," means a little house; and for many years it consisted only

of a few small houses, which were scarcely larger than the wooden

booths we see in the market-places at fair time. They were perhaps a

little higher, and had windows; but the panes consisted of horn or

bladder-skins, for glass was then too dear to have glazed windows in

every house. This was a long time ago, so long indeed that our

grandfathers, and even great-grandfathers, would speak of those days

as "olden times;" indeed, many centuries have passed since then.

    The rich merchants in Bremen and Lubeck, who carried on trade in

Copenhagen, did not reside in the town themselves, but sent their

clerks, who dwelt in the wooden booths in the Hauschen street, and

sold beer and spices. The German beer was very good, and there were

many sorts- from Bremen, Prussia, and Brunswick- and quantities of all

sorts of spices, saffron, aniseed, ginger, and especially pepper;

indeed, pepper was almost the chief article sold here; so it

happened at last that the German clerks in Denmark got their

nickname of "pepper gentry." It had been made a condition with these

clerks that they should not marry; so that those who lived to be old

had to take care of themselves, to attend to their own comforts, and

even to light their own fires, when they had any to light. Many of

them were very aged; lonely old boys, with strange thoughts and

eccentric habits. From this, all unmarried men, who have attained a

certain age, are called, in Denmark, "pepper gentry;" and this must be

remembered by all those who wish to understand the story. These

"pepper gentlemen," or, as they are called in England, "old

bachelors," are often made a butt of ridicule; they are told to put on

their nightcaps, draw them over their eyes, and go to sleep. The

boys in Denmark make a song of it, thus:-

                  "Poor old bachelor, cut your wood,

                    Such a nightcap was never seen;

                    Who would think it was ever clean?

                  Go to sleep, it will do you good."

    So they sing about the "pepper gentleman;" so do they make sport

of the poor old bachelor and his nightcap, and all because they really

know nothing of either. It is a cap that no one need wish for, or

laugh at. And why not? Well, we shall hear in the story.

    In olden times, Hauschen Street was not paved, and passengers

would stumble out of one hole into another, as they generally do in

unfrequented highways; and the street was so narrow, and the booths

leaning against each other were so close together, that in the

summer time a sail would be stretched across the street from one booth

to another opposite. At these times the odor of the pepper, saffron,

and ginger became more powerful than ever. Behind the counter, as a

rule, there were no young men. The clerks were almost all old boys;

but they did not dress as we are accustomed to see old men

represented, wearing wigs, nightcaps, and knee-breeches, and with coat

and waistcoat buttoned up to the chin. We have seen the portraits of

our great-grandfathers dressed in this way; but the "pepper gentlemen"

had no money to spare to have their portraits taken, though one of

them would have made a very interesting picture for us now, if taken

as he appeared standing behind his counter, or going to church, or

on holidays. On these occasions, they wore high-crowned, broad-brimmed

hats, and sometimes a younger clerk would stick a feather in his.

The woollen shirt was concealed by a broad, linen collar; the close

jacket was buttoned up to the chin, and the cloak hung loosely over

it; the trousers were tucked into the broad, tipped shoes, for the

clerks wore no stockings. They generally stuck a table-knife and spoon

in their girdles, as well as a larger knife, as a protection to

themselves; and such a weapon was often very necessary.

    After this fashion was Anthony dressed on holidays and

festivals, excepting that, instead of a high-crowned hat, he wore a

kind of bonnet, and under it a knitted cap, a regular nightcap, to

which he was so accustomed that it was always on his head; he had two,

nightcaps I mean, not heads. Anthony was one of the oldest of the

clerks, and just the subject for a painter. He was as thin as a

lath, wrinkled round the mouth and eyes, had long, bony fingers,

bushy, gray eyebrows, and over his left eye hung a thick tuft of hair,

which did not look handsome, but made his appearance very

remarkable. People knew that he came from Bremen; it was not exactly

his home, although his master resided there. His ancestors were from

Thuringia, and had lived in the town of Eisenach, close by Wartburg.

Old Anthony seldom spoke of this place, but he thought of it all the

more.

    The old clerks of Hauschen Street very seldom met together; each

one remained in his own booth, which was closed early enough in the

evening, and then it looked dark and dismal out in the street. Only

a faint glimmer of light struggled through the horn panes in the

little window on the roof, while within sat the old clerk, generally

on his bed, singing his evening hymn in a low voice; or he would be

moving about in his booth till late in the night, busily employed in

many things. It certainly was not a very lively existence. To be a

stranger in a strange land is a bitter lot; no one notices you

unless you happen to stand in their way. Often, when it was dark night

outside, with rain or snow falling, the place looked quite deserted

and gloomy. There were no lamps in the street, excepting a very

small one, which hung at one end of the street, before a picture of

the Virgin, which had been painted on the wall. The dashing of the

water against the bulwarks of a neighboring castle could plainly be

heard. Such evenings are long and dreary, unless people can find

something to do; and so Anthony found it. There were not always things

to be packed or unpacked, nor paper bags to be made, nor the scales to

be polished. So Anthony invented employment; he mended his clothes and

patched his boots, and when he at last went to bed,- his nightcap,

which he had worn from habit, still remained on his head; he had

only to pull it down a little farther over his forehead. Very soon,

however, it would be pushed up again to see if the light was

properly put out; he would touch it, press the wick together, and at

last pull his nightcap over his eyes and lie down again on the other

side. But often there would arise in his mind a doubt as to whether

every coal had been quite put out in the little fire-pan in the shop

below. If even a tiny spark had remained it might set fire to

something, and cause great damage. Then he would rise from his bed,

creep down the ladder- for it could scarcely be called a flight of

stairs- and when he reached the fire-pan not a spark could be seen; so

he had just to go back again to bed. But often, when he had got half

way back, he would fancy the iron shutters of the door were not

properly fastened, and his thin legs would carry him down again. And

when at last he crept into bed, he would be so cold that his teeth

chattered in his head. He would draw the coverlet closer round him,

pull his nightcap over his eyes, and try to turn his thoughts from

trade, and from the labors of the day, to olden times. But this was

scarcely an agreeable entertainment; for thoughts of olden memories

raise the curtains from the past, and sometimes pierce the heart

with painful recollections till the agony brings tears to the waking

eyes. And so it was with Anthony; often the scalding tears, like

pearly drops, would fall from his eyes to the coverlet and roll on the

floor with a sound as if one of his heartstrings had broken.

Sometimes, with a lurid flame, memory would light up a picture of life

which had never faded from his heart. If he dried his eyes with his

nightcap, then the tear and the picture would be crushed; but the

source of the tears remained and welled up again in his heart. The

pictures did not follow one another in order, as the circumstances

they represented had occurred; very often the most painful would

come together, and when those came which were most full of joy, they

had always the deepest shadow thrown upon them.

    The beech woods of Denmark are acknowledged by every one to be

very beautiful, but more beautiful still in the eyes of old Anthony

were the beech woods in the neighborhood of Wartburg. More grand and

venerable to him seemed the old oaks around the proud baronial castle,

where the creeping plants hung over the stony summits of the rocks;

sweeter was the perfume there of the apple-blossom than in all the

land of Denmark. How vividly were represented to him, in a

glittering tear that rolled down his cheek, two children at play- a

boy and a girl. The boy had rosy cheeks, golden ringlets, and clear,

blue eyes; he was the son of Anthony, a rich merchant; it was himself.

The little girl had brown eyes and black hair, and was clever and

courageous; she was the mayor's daughter, Molly. The children were

playing with an apple; they shook the apple, and heard the pips

rattling in it. Then they cut it in two, and each of them took half.

They also divided the pips and ate all but one, which the little

girl proposed should be placed in the ground.

    "You will see what will come out," she said; "something you

don't expect. A whole apple-tree will come out, but not directly."

Then they got a flower-pot, filled it with earth, and were soon both

very busy and eager about it. The boy made a hole in the earth with

his finger, and the little girl placed the pip in the hole, and then

they both covered it over with earth.

    "Now you must not take it out to-morrow to see if it has taken

root," said Molly; "no one ever should do that. I did so with my

flowers, but only twice; I wanted to see if they were growing. I

didn't know any better then, and the flowers all died."

    Little Anthony kept the flower-pot, and every morning during the

whole winter he looked at it, but there was nothing to be seen but

black earth. At last, however, the spring came, and the sun shone warm

again, and then two little green leaves sprouted forth in the pot.

    "They are Molly and me," said the boy. "How wonderful they are,

and so beautiful!"

    Very soon a third leaf made its appearance.

    "Who does that stand for?" thought he, and then came another and

another. Day after day, and week after week, till the plant became

quite a tree. And all this about the two children was mirrored to

old Anthony in a single tear, which could soon be wiped away and

disappear, but might come again from its source in the heart of the

old man.

    In the neighborhood of Eisenach stretches a ridge of stony

mountains, one of which has a rounded outline, and shows itself

above the rest without tree, bush, or grass on its barren summits.

It is called the "Venus Mountain," and the story goes that the "Lady

Venus," one of the heathen goddesses, keeps house there. She is also

called "Lady Halle," as every child round Eisenach well knows. She

it was who enticed the noble knight, Tannhauser, the minstrel, from

the circle of singers at Wartburg into her mountain.

    Little Molly and Anthony often stood by this mountain, and one day

Molly said, "Do you dare to knock and say, 'Lady Halle, Lady Halle,

open the door: Tannhauser is here!'" But Anthony did not dare.

Molly, however, did, though she only said the words, "Lady Halle, Lady

Halle," loudly and distinctly; the rest she muttered so much under her

breath that Anthony felt certain she had really said nothing; and

yet she looked quite bold and saucy, just as she did sometimes when

she was in the garden with a number of other little girls; they

would all stand round him together, and want to kiss him, because he

did not like to be kissed, and pushed them away. Then Molly was the

only one who dared to resist him. "I may kiss him," she would say

proudly, as she threw her arms round his neck; she was vain of her

power over Anthony, for he would submit quietly and think nothing of

it. Molly was very charming, but rather bold; and how she did tease!

    They said Lady Halle was beautiful, but her beauty was that of a

tempting fiend. Saint Elizabeth, the tutelar saint of the land, the

pious princess of Thuringia, whose good deeds have been immortalized

in so many places through stories and legends, had greater beauty

and more real grace. Her picture hung in the chapel, surrounded by

silver lamps; but it did not in the least resemble Molly.

    The apple-tree, which the two children had planted, grew year

after year, till it became so large that it had to be transplanted

into the garden, where the dew fell and the sun shone warmly. And

there it increased in strength so much as to be able to withstand

the cold of winter; and after passing through the severe weather, it

seemed to put forth its blossoms in spring for very joy that the

cold season had gone. In autumn it produced two apples, one for

Molly and one for Anthony; it could not well do less. The tree after

this grew very rapidly, and Molly grew with the tree. She was as fresh

as an apple-blossom, but Anthony was not to behold this flower for

long. All things change; Molly's father left his old home, and Molly

went with him far away. In our time, it would be only a journey of a

few hours, but then it took more than a day and a night to travel so

far eastward from Eisenbach to a town still called Weimar, on the

borders of Thuringia. And Molly and Anthony both wept, but these tears

all flowed together into one tear which had the rosy shimmer of joy.

Molly had told him that she loved him- loved him more than all the

splendors of Weimar.

    One, two, three years went by, and during the whole time he

received only two letters. One came by the carrier, and the other a

traveller brought. The way was very long and difficult, with many

turnings and windings through towns and villages. How often had

Anthony and Molly heard the story of Tristan and Isolda, and Anthony

had thought the story applied to him, although Tristan means born in

sorrow, which Anthony certainly was not; nor was it likely he would

ever say of Molly as Tristan said of Isolda, "She has forgotten me."

But in truth, Isolda had not forgotten him, her faithful friend; and

when both were laid in their graves, one, on each side of the

church, the linden-trees that grew by each grave spread over the roof,

and, bending towards each other, mingled their blossoms together.

Anthony thought it a very beautiful but mournful story; yet he never

feared anything so sad would happen to him and Molly, as he passed the

spot, whistling the air of a song, composed by the minstrel Walter,

called the "Willow bird," beginning-

                    "Under the linden-trees,

                       Out on the heath."

    One stanza pleased him exceedingly-

                "Through the forest, and in the vale,

                 Sweetly warbles the nightingale.

    This song was often in his mouth, and he sung or whistled it on

a moonlight night, when he rode on horseback along the deep, hollow

way, on his road to Weimar, to visit Molly. He wished to arrive

unexpectedly, and so indeed he did. He was received with a hearty

welcome, and introduced to plenty of grand and pleasant company, where

overflowing winecups were passed about. A pretty room and a good bed

were provided for him, and yet his reception was not what he had

expected and dreamed it would be. He could not comprehend his own

feelings nor the feelings of others; but it is easily understood how a

person can be admitted into a house or a family without becoming one

of them. We converse in company with those we meet, as we converse

with our fellow-travellers in a stage-coach, on a journey; we know

nothing of them, and perhaps all the while we are incommoding one

another, and each is wishing himself or his neighbor away. Something

of this kind Anthony felt when Molly talked to him of old times.

    "I am a straightforward girl," she said, "and I will tell you

myself how it is. There have been great changes since we were children

together; everything is different, both inwardly and outwardly. We

cannot control our wills, nor the feelings of our hearts, by the force

of custom. Anthony, I would not, for the world, make an enemy of you

when I am far away. Believe me, I entertain for you the kindest wishes

in my heart; but to feel for you what I now know can be felt for

another man, can never be. You must try and reconcile yourself to

this. Farewell, Anthony."

    Anthony also said, "Farewell." Not a tear came into his eye; he

felt he was no longer Molly's friend. Hot iron and cold iron alike

take the skin from our lips, and we feel the same sensation if we kiss

either; and Anthony's kiss was now the kiss of hatred, as it had

once been the kiss of love. Within four-and-twenty hours Anthony was

back again to Eisenach, though the horse that he rode was entirely

ruined.

    "What matters it?" said he; "I am ruined also. I will destroy

everything that can remind me of her, or of Lady Halle, or Lady Venus,

the heathen woman. I will break down the apple-tree, and tear it up by

the roots; never more shall it blossom or bear fruit."

    The apple-tree was not broken down; for Anthony himself was struck

with a fever, which caused him to break down, and confined him to

his bed. But something occurred to raise him up again. What was it?

A medicine was offered to him, which he was obliged to take: a

bitter remedy, at which the sick body and the oppressed spirit alike

shuddered. Anthony's father lost all his property, and, from being

known as one of the richest merchants, he became very poor. Dark days,

heavy trials, with poverty at the door, came rolling into the house

upon them like the waves of the sea. Sorrow and suffering deprived

Anthony's father of his strength, so that he had something else to

think of besides nursing his love-sorrows and his anger against Molly.

He had to take his father's place, to give orders, to act with energy,

to help, and, at last, to go out into the world and earn his bread.

Anthony went to Bremen, and there he learnt what poverty and hard

living really were. These things often harden the character, but

sometimes soften the heart, even too much.

    How different the world, and the people in it, appeared to Anthony

now, to what he had thought in his childhood! What to him were the

minstrel's songs? An echo of the past, sounds long vanished. At

times he would think in this way; yet again and again the songs

would sound in his soul, and his heart become gentle and pious.

    "God's will is the best," he would then say. "It was well that I

was not allowed to keep my power over Molly's heart, and that she

did not remain true to me. How I should have felt it now, when fortune

has deserted me! She left me before she knew of the change in my

circumstances, or had a thought of what was before me. That is a

merciful providence for me. All has happened for the best. She could

not help it, and yet I have been so bitter, and in such enmity against

her."

    Years passed by: Anthony's father died, and strangers lived in the

old house. He had seen it once again since then. His rich master

sent him journeys on business, and on one occasion his way led him

to his native town of Eisenach. The old Wartburg castle stood

unchanged on the rock where the monk and the nun were hewn out of

the stone. The great oaks formed an outline to the scene which he so

well remembered in his childhood. The Venus mountain stood out gray

and bare, overshadowing the valley beneath. He would have been glad to

call out "Lady Halle, Lady Halle, unlock the mountain. I would fain

remain here always in my native soil." That was a sinful thought,

and he offered a prayer to drive it away. Then a little bird in the

thicket sang out clearly, and old Anthony thought of the minstrel's

song. How much came back to his remembrance as he looked through the

tears once more on his native town! The old house was still standing

as in olden times, but the garden had been greatly altered; a

pathway led through a portion of the ground, and outside the garden,

and beyond the path, stood the old apple-tree, which he had not broken

down, although he talked of doing so in his trouble. The sun still

threw its rays upon the tree, and the refreshing dew fell upon it as

of old; and it was so overloaded with fruit that the branches bent

towards the earth with the weight. "That flourishes still," said he,

as he gazed. One of the branches of the tree had, however, been

broken: mischievous hands must have done this in passing, for the tree

now stood in a public thoroughfare. "The blossoms are often

plucked," said Anthony; "the fruit is stolen and the branches broken

without a thankful thought of their profusion and beauty. It might

be said of a tree, as it has been said of some men- it was not

predicted at his cradle that he should come to this. How brightly

began the history of this tree, and what is it now? Forsaken and

forgotten, in a garden by a hedge in a field, and close to a public

road. There it stands, unsheltered, plundered, and broken. It

certainly has not yet withered; but in the course of years the

number of blossoms from time to time will grow less, and at last it

was cease altogether to bear fruit; and then its history will be

over."

    Such were Anthony's thoughts as he stood under the tree, and

during many a long night as he lay in his lonely chamber in the wooden

house in Hauschen Street, Copenhagen, in the foreign land to which the

rich merchant of Bremen, his employer, had sent him on condition

that he should never marry. "Marry! ha, ha!" and he laughed bitterly

to himself at the thought.

    Winter one year set in early, and it was freezing hard. Without, a

snowstorm made every one remain at home who could do so. Thus it

happened that Anthony's neighbors, who lived opposite to him, did

not notice that his house remained unopened for two days, and that

he had not showed himself during that time, for who would go out in

such weather unless he were obliged to do so. They were gray, gloomy

days, and in the house whose windows were not glass, twilight and dark

nights reigned in turns. During these two days old Anthony had not

left his bed, he had not the strength to do so. The bitter weather had

for some time affected his limbs. There lay the old bachelor, forsaken

by all, and unable to help himself. He could scarcely reach the

water jug that he had placed by his bed, and the last drop was gone.

It was not fever, nor sickness, but old age, that had laid him low. In

the little corner, where his bed lay, he was over-shadowed as it

were by perpetual night. A little spider, which he could however not

see, busily and cheerfully spun its web above him, so that there

should be a kind of little banner waving over the old man, when his

eyes closed. The time passed slowly and painfully. He had no tears

to shed, and he felt no pain; no thought of Molly came into his

mind. He felt as if the world was now nothing to him, as if he were

lying beyond it, with no one to think of him. Now and then he felt

slight sensations of hunger and thirst; but no one came to him, no one

tended him. He thought of all those who had once suffered from

starvation, of Saint Elizabeth, who once wandered on the earth, the

saint of his home and his childhood, the noble Duchess of Thuringia,

that highly esteemed lady who visited the poorest villages, bringing

hope and relief to the sick inmates. The recollection of her pious

deeds was as light to the soul of poor Anthony. He thought of her as

she went about speaking words of comfort, binding up the wounds of the

afflicted and feeding the hungry, although often blamed for it by

her stern husband. He remembered a story told of her, that on one

occasion, when she was carrying a basket full of wine and

provisions, her husband, who had watched her footsteps, stepped

forward and asked her angrily what she carried in her basket,

whereupon, with fear and trembling, she answered, "Roses, which I have

plucked from the garden." Then he tore away the cloth which covered

the basket, and what could equal the surprise of the pious woman, to

find that by a miracle, everything in her basket- the wine, the bread-

had all been changed into roses.

    In this way the memory of the kind lady dwelt in the calm mind

of Anthony. She was as a living reality in his little dwelling in

the Danish land. He uncovered his face that he might look into her

gentle eyes, while everything around him changed from its look of

poverty and want, to a bright rose tint. The fragrance of roses spread

through the room, mingled with the sweet smell of apples. He saw the

branches of an apple-tree spreading above him. It was the tree which

he and Molly had planted together. The fragrant leaves of the tree

fell upon him and cooled his burning brow; upon his parched lips

they seemed like refreshing bread and wine; and as they rested on

his breast, a peaceful calm stole over him, and he felt inclined to

sleep. "I shall sleep now," he whispered to himself. "Sleep will do me

good. In the morning I shall be upon my feet again, strong and well.

Glorious! wonderful! That apple-tree, planted in love, now appears

before me in heavenly beauty." And he slept.

    The following day, the third day during which his house had been

closed, the snow-storm ceased. Then his opposite neighbor stepped over

to the house in which old Anthony lived, for he had not yet showed

himself. There he lay stretched on his bed, dead, with his old

nightcap tightly clasped in his two hands. The nightcap, however,

was not placed on his head in his coffin; he had a clean white one

on then. Where now were the tears he had shed? What had become of

those wonderful pearls? They were in the nightcap still. Such tears as

these cannot be washed out, even when the nightcap is forgotten. The

old thoughts and dreams of a bachelor's nightcap still remain. Never

wish for such a nightcap. It would make your forehead hot, cause

your pulse to beat with agitation, and conjure up dreams which would

appear realities.

    The first who wore old Anthony's cap felt the truth of this,

though it was half a century afterwards. That man was the mayor

himself, who had already made a comfortable home for his wife and

eleven children, by his industry. The moment he put the cap on he

dreamed of unfortunate love, of bankruptcy, and of dark days.

"Hallo! how the nightcap burns!" he exclaimed, as he tore it from

his bead. Then a pearl rolled out, and then another, and another,

and they glittered and sounded as they fell. "What can this be? Is

it paralysis, or something dazzling my eyes?" They were the tears

which old Anthony had shed half a century before.

    To every one who afterwards put this cap on his head, came visions

and dreams which agitated him not a little. His own history was

changed into that of Anthony till it became quite a story, and many

stories might be made by others, so we will leave them to relate their

own. We have told the first; and our last word is, don't wish for a

"bachelor's nightcap."

                            THE END