The Old House Page #2

The Old House is an enchanting, heartwarming tale by Hans Christian Andersen. It tells the story of a sentient, aging house who has witnessed centuries of human life and transformation. The House is visited by a little boy, who brings joy and revives the House's spirits through his curiosity and kind heart. As the years go by, the House grows even older and is eventually abandoned, but its legacy and memories of the little boy survive, reflecting themes of change, the passage of time, and the enduring power of memories and love.

• Children

								

certainly, to be in that old house.

"I cannot endure it," said the tin soldier, who stood on a
shelf, "it is so lonely and dull here. I have been accustomed to
live in a family, and I cannot get used to this life. I cannot bear
it. The whole day is long enough, but the evening is longer. It is not
here like it was in your house opposite, when your father and mother
talked so cheerfully together, while you and all the dear children
made such a delightful noise. No, it is all lonely in the old man's
house. Do you think he gets any kisses? Do you think he ever has
friendly looks, or a Christmas tree? He will have nothing now but
the grave. Oh, I cannot bear it."

"You must not look only on the sorrowful side," said the little
boy; "I think everything in this house is beautiful, and all the old
pleasant thoughts come back here to pay visits."

"Ah, but I never see any, and I don't know them," said the tin
soldier, "and I cannot bear it."

"You must bear it," said the little boy. Then the old man came
back with a pleasant face; and brought with him beautiful preserved
fruits, as well as apples and nuts; and the little boy thought no more
of the tin soldier. How happy and delighted the little boy was; and
after he returned home, and while days and weeks passed, a great
deal of nodding took place from one house to the other, and then the
little boy went to pay another visit. The carved trumpeters blew
"Tanta-ra-ra. There is the little boy. Tanta-ra-ra." The swords and
armor on the old knight's pictures rattled. The silk dresses
rustled, the leather repeated its rhyme, and the old chairs had the
gout in their backs, and cried, "Creak;" it was all exactly like the
first time; for in that house, one day and one hour were just like
another. "I cannot bear it any longer," said the tin soldier; "I
have wept tears of tin, it is so melancholy here. Let me go to the
wars, and lose an arm or a leg, that would be some change; I cannot
bear it. Now I know what it is to have visits from one's old
recollections, and all they bring with them. I have had visits from
mine, and you may believe me it is not altogether pleasant. I was very
nearly jumping from the shelf. I saw you all in your house opposite,
as if you were really present. It was Sunday morning, and you children
stood round the table, singing the hymn that you sing every morning.
You were standing quietly, with your hands folded, and your father and
mother. You were standing quietly, with your hands folded, and your
father and mother were looking just as serious, when the door
opened, and your little sister Maria, who is not two years old, was
brought into the room. You know she always dances when she hears music
and singing of any sort; so she began to dance immediately, although
she ought not to have done so, but she could not get into the right
time because the tune was so slow; so she stood first on one leg and
then on the other, and bent her head very low, but it would not suit
the music. You all stood looking very grave, although it was very
difficult to do so, but I laughed so to myself that I fell down from
the table, and got a bruise, which is there still; I know it was not
right to laugh. So all this, and everything else that I have seen,
keeps running in my head, and these must be the old recollections that
bring so many thoughts with them. Tell me whether you still sing on
Sundays, and tell me about your little sister Maria, and how my old
comrade is, the other tin soldier. Ah, really he must be very happy; I
cannot endure this life."

"You are given away," said the little boy; "you must stay. Don't
you see that?" Then the old man came in, with a box containing many
curious things to show him. Rouge-pots, scent-boxes, and old cards, so
large and so richly gilded, that none are ever seen like them in these
days. And there were smaller boxes to look at, and the piano was
opened, and inside the lid were painted landscapes. But when the old
man played, the piano sounded quite out of tune. Then he looked at the
picture he had bought at the broker's, and his eyes sparkled
brightly as he nodded at it, and said, "Ah, she could sing that tune."

"I will go to the wars! I will go to the wars!" cried the tin
soldier as loud as he could, and threw himself down on the floor.
Where could he have fallen? The old man searched, and the little boy
searched, but he was gone, and could not be found. "I shall find him
again," said the old man, but he did not find him. The boards of the
floor were open and full of holes. The tin soldier had fallen
through a crack between the boards, and lay there now in an open
grave. The day went by, and the little boy returned home; the week
passed, and many more weeks. It was winter, and the windows were quite
frozen, so the little boy was obliged to breathe on the panes, and rub
a hole to peep through at the old house. Snow drifts were lying in all
the scrolls and on the inscriptions, and the steps were covered with
snow as if no one were at home. And indeed nobody was home, for the
old man was dead. In the evening, a hearse stopped at the door, and
the old man in his coffin was placed in it. He was to be taken to
the country to be buried there in his own grave; so they carried him
away; no one followed him, for all his friends were dead; and the
little boy kissed his hand to the coffin as the hearse moved away with
it. A few days after, there was an auction at the old house, and
from his window the little boy saw the people carrying away the
pictures of old knights and ladies, the flower-pots with the long
ears, the old chairs, and the cup-boards. Some were taken one way,
some another. Her portrait, which had been bought at the picture
dealer's, went back again to his shop, and there it remained, for no
one seemed to know her, or to care for the old picture. In the spring;
they began to pull the house itself down; people called it complete
rubbish. From the street could be seen the room in which the walls
were covered with leather, ragged and torn, and the green in the
balcony hung straggling over the beams; they pulled it down quickly,
for it looked ready to fall, and at last it was cleared away
altogether. "What a good riddance," said the neighbors' houses. Very
shortly, a fine new house was built farther back from the road; it had
lofty windows and smooth walls, but in front, on the spot where the
old house really stood, a little garden was planted, and wild vines
grew up over the neighboring walls; in front of the garden were
large iron railings and a great gate, which looked very stately.
People used to stop and peep through the railings. The sparrows
assembled in dozens upon the wild vines, and chattered all together as
loud as they could, but not about the old house; none of them could
remember it, for many years had passed by, so many indeed, that the
little boy was now a man, and a really good man too, and his parents
were very proud of him. He was just married, and had come, with his
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