The Old Bachelor's Nightcap Page #3

The Old Bachelor's Nightcap is a fairy tale by Hans Christian Andersen about an elderly bachelor living in old Copenhagen who clings to his childhood nightcap as a symbol of his unfulfilled life. The cap, marked by the joys and tragedies of his life, serves as a metaphor for his loneliness and regrets. Andersen uses his poetic style to tell this melancholic tale of love lost, dreams unfulfilled, and the inevitability of death.

• Children

								

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
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes