Smrečica

Besedilo

Smrečica

Out in the forest stood such a pretty little fir tree. It had a good spot; it could get sunshine, there was plenty of fresh air, and all around it grew many taller companions, both firs and pines. But the little fir tree was so impatient to grow! It never thought about the warm sunshine or the fresh air, and it took no notice of the peasant children who wandered about chattering as they gathered strawberries or raspberries. Often they came with a whole jar full, or with strawberries threaded on straws, and sat down beside the little tree and said, "Oh, what a pretty little thing!" The tree did not like to hear that at all.

The next year it had grown one long shoot taller, and the year after that another, much longer still; for you can always tell how many years a fir tree has been growing by the tiers of branches it has.

"Oh, if only I were a great tree like the others!" sighed the little tree. "Then I could spread my branches far and wide, and from my top I could look out into the wide world! The birds would build nests among my branches, and when the wind blew I could nod as grandly as those others over there!"

It took no pleasure at all in the sunshine, the birds, or the red clouds that sailed above it morning and evening. In winter, when the snow lay sparkling white all around, a hare would often come bounding along and leap right over the little tree—oh, how vexing that was! But two winters passed, and by the third the tree was so tall that the hare had to go around it. Oh, to grow, to grow, to become tall and old—that was the only wonderful thing in the world, the tree thought.

In autumn the woodcutters always came and felled some of the tallest trees. This happened every year, and the young fir tree, which had now grown quite a good deal, trembled at the sight, for the great, magnificent trees fell to the ground with a creaking and a crashing. Their branches were chopped off, and they looked quite naked, long and slender; they were scarcely recognizable. Then they were loaded onto wagons, and horses drew them away out of the forest.

Where were they going? What lay ahead of them? In spring, when the swallow and the stork returned, the tree asked them, "Do you know where they were taken? Have you met them anywhere?"

The swallows knew nothing, but the stork looked thoughtful, nodded its head, and said, "Yes, I think so! I met many new ships as I flew from Egypt. The ships had splendid masts; I dare say those were the trees, for they smelled of fir. I can give you their warmest greetings. How proudly they stood, how proudly!"

"Oh, if only I were tall enough to fly across the sea too! What is this sea really like? What does it look like?" "Well, that would take a great deal of explaining!" said the stork, and off it went.

"Be glad of your youth!" said the sunbeams. "Be glad of your fresh growth and the young life within you!" And the wind kissed the tree, and the dew wept tears over it, but the fir tree did not understand.

At Christmastime quite young trees were felled, trees that were often not even as tall or as old as this fir tree, which could find neither rest nor peace, but always longed to be off. These young trees—and they were always the very prettiest—kept all their branches; they were loaded onto wagons, and horses drew them away out of the forest.

"Where are they going?" asked the fir tree. "They are no taller than I am; one of them was even much smaller. Why do they keep all their branches? Where are they being taken?"

"We know! We know!" chirped the sparrows. "We've peeped through the windows down in town! We know where they're being taken! Oh, they come into the greatest splendor and glory imaginable! We've looked through the windows and seen them planted in the middle of a warm room, and decorated with the loveliest things: gilded apples, honey cakes, toys, and hundreds and hundreds of candles!"

"And then—?" asked the fir tree, trembling in every branch. "And then? What happens then?" "Well, we haven't seen any more! It was beyond compare!" "Could I have been born for such a glorious destiny?" cried the tree in delight. "That is even better than sailing across the sea! How I ache with longing! If only it were Christmas! Now I am as tall and spreading as the others that were taken away last year! Oh, if only I were on the wagon already! If only I were in the warm room with all that splendor and glory! And then—? Why, then something still better, still more beautiful must come; why else would they decorate me like that? Something still grander, still more glorious must be coming! But what? Oh, how I ache! How I long! I don't know what has come over me!"

"Be glad of us!" said the air and the sunlight. "Be glad of your fresh young life out in the open!" But the tree was not glad at all. It grew and grew, and stood green through winter and summer; dark green it stood. People who saw it said, "What a beautiful tree!" And at Christmastime it was the first to be felled. The axe cut deep through its heart, and the tree fell to the ground with a sigh. It felt a pain, a faintness; it could not think of happiness at all. It was sad to leave its home, the spot where it had first sprung up. It knew it would never again see its dear old companions, the little bushes and flowers around it, perhaps not even the birds. The departure was anything but pleasant.

The tree came to itself only when, unloaded in a courtyard with the other trees, it heard a man say, "That one is splendid! That's the one we'll have!"

Now two servants in full livery came and carried the fir tree into a large, beautiful drawing room. Portraits hung all around the walls, and beside the great tiled stove stood large Chinese vases with lions on their lids. There were rocking chairs, silk sofas, great tables covered with picture books, and toys worth a hundred times a hundred rigsdalers—at least, that was what the children said. The fir tree was set upright in a large wooden tub filled with sand, but no one could see that it was a tub, for green cloth was draped around it, and it stood on a large, colorful carpet. Oh, how the tree trembled! What was going to happen? Servants and young ladies alike busied themselves decorating it. On one branch they hung little nets cut out of colored paper, each filled with sweets. Gilded apples and walnuts hung as though they had grown there, and more than a hundred little red, blue, and white candles were fastened to the branches. Dolls that looked just like living people—the tree had never seen such things before—seemed to float among the greenery, and at the very top they placed a large star of gold tinsel. It was splendid, splendid beyond compare.

"Tonight," they all said, "tonight it will shine!" "Oh!" thought the tree. "If only it were evening! If only the candles would soon be lit! And what will happen then? Will trees come from the forest to look at me? Will the sparrows fly up to the window? Shall I take root here and stand decorated through winter and summer?"

Yes, it certainly knew all about it! But its bark positively ached with longing, and barkache is just as bad for a tree as a headache is for the rest of us.

Now the candles were lit. What brilliance, what splendor! The tree trembled in every branch, so much that one of the candles set fire to its greenery. It really stung.

"Heaven preserve us!" cried the young ladies, and quickly put it out. Now the tree did not even dare to tremble. Oh, how dreadful it was! It was so afraid of losing any of its finery, and quite dazed by all the brilliance. And now both folding doors were thrown open, and a crowd of children rushed in as though they meant to knock the whole tree over. The grown-ups followed at a more measured pace. The little ones stood quite silent—but only for a moment; then they shouted again until the room rang. They danced around the tree, and one present after another was plucked from its branches.

"What are they doing?" thought the tree. "What is going to happen?" And the candles burned right down to the branches, and as they burned low they were put out; then the children were allowed to plunder the tree. Oh, how they rushed at it, until every branch creaked! Had it not been tied to the ceiling by its tip and its golden star, it would have tumbled over.

The children danced about with their splendid toys. No one looked at the tree except the old nursemaid, who peered in among its branches, but only to see whether a fig or an apple might have been forgotten.

"A story! A story!" cried the children, pulling a short, stout man toward the tree. He sat down right beneath it. "Now we're in the greenwood," he said, "and the tree may do itself a world of good by listening too! But I shall tell only one story. Would you like the one about Ivede-Avede, or the one about Klumpe-Dumpe, who fell down the stairs but came to sit on the throne and won the princess after all?"

"Ivede-Avede!" screamed some. "Klumpe-Dumpe!" screamed others. There was such shouting and shrieking! Only the fir tree kept perfectly quiet and thought, "Am I not to join in at all? Am I not to do anything?" But it had joined in; it had done what it was meant to do.

And the man told the story of Klumpe-Dumpe, who fell down the stairs but came to sit on the throne and won the princess after all. The children clapped their hands and cried, "Another! Another!" They wanted Ivede-Avede too, but they were given only Klumpe-Dumpe. The fir tree stood quite still and thoughtful; never had the birds out in the forest told anything like this. "Klumpe-Dumpe fell down the stairs and won the princess after all! Yes, yes, that's how things happen in the world!" thought the fir tree, believing it was all true because such a nice man had told it. "Yes, yes! Who can tell? Perhaps I too shall fall down the stairs and win a princess!" And it looked forward to being dressed again the next day with candles and toys, gold and fruit.

"Tomorrow I shan't tremble!" it thought. "I shall thoroughly enjoy all my splendor. Tomorrow I shall hear the story of Klumpe-Dumpe again, and perhaps the one about Ivede-Avede as well." And the tree stood silent and thoughtful all night long.

In the morning a manservant and a maid came in. "Now all the finery begins again!" thought the tree. But they dragged it out of the room, up the stairs, and into the attic, where they put it in a dark corner that no daylight ever reached. "What can this mean?" thought the tree. "What am I supposed to do here? What shall I hear here?" And it leaned against the wall and stood thinking and thinking. It had plenty of time, for days and nights went by. No one came up, and when someone finally did come, it was only to put some large boxes in the corner. The tree stood quite hidden; one might have thought it had been utterly forgotten.

"It is winter outside now!" thought the tree. "The ground is hard and covered with snow; people cannot plant me, so I must be meant to stay here under shelter until spring! How thoughtful! How kind people are! If only it weren't so dark and so terribly lonely here! Not even a little hare! It was so pleasant out in the forest when the snow lay on the ground and the hare bounded past; yes, even when it jumped right over me, though I didn't like that at the time. It is terribly lonely up here!"

"Squeak, squeak!" said a little mouse just then, darting out; and then another little one came. They sniffed at the fir tree and slipped in among its branches.

"It's frightfully cold!" said the little mice. "Otherwise it's a lovely place to be! Don't you think so, you old fir tree?" "I'm not old at all!" said the fir tree. "There are many who are much older than I am!"

"Where do you come from?" asked the mice. "And what do you know?" They were dreadfully curious. "Do tell us about the loveliest place on earth! Have you been there? Have you been in the pantry, where cheeses lie on the shelves and hams hang from the ceiling, where you dance on tallow candles and go in thin and come out fat?"

"I don't know that place!" said the tree. "But I know the forest, where the sun shines and the birds sing!" And it told them everything about its youth. The little mice had never heard anything like it, and they listened so closely and said, "Oh, how much you have seen! How happy you have been!"

"I?" said the fir tree, thinking over what it had just told them. "Yes, those really were rather pleasant times!" But then it told them about Christmas Eve, when it had been decorated with cakes and candles.

"Oh!" said the little mice. "How happy you have been, you old fir tree!" "I'm not old at all!" said the tree. "I only came from the forest this very winter! I am in the prime of life; my growth has merely been checked!"

"What lovely stories you tell!" said the little mice. The next night they brought four other little mice to hear the tree's stories, and the more it told, the more clearly it remembered everything itself, and thought, "Those really were rather pleasant times! But they may come again, they may come again! Klumpe-Dumpe fell down the stairs and won the princess after all; perhaps I too may win a princess." And the fir tree thought of a pretty little birch tree growing out in the forest; to the fir tree, she was a truly lovely princess.

"Who is Klumpe-Dumpe?" asked the little mice. And the fir tree told them the whole fairy tale; it could remember every single word. The little mice were ready to jump right to the top of the tree for sheer delight. The next night many more mice came, and on Sunday even two rats. But the rats said the story was not amusing, and that saddened the little mice, for now they too thought less of it.

"Do you know only that one story?" asked the rats. "Only that one!" answered the tree. "I heard it on the happiest evening of my life, but at the time I never thought how happy I was!"

"It's an exceedingly poor story! Don't you know any about bacon and tallow candles? No pantry stories?" "No!" said the tree. "Well, then, we'll bid you good day!" answered the rats, and went home.

In the end the little mice stopped coming too, and then the tree sighed. "It was really quite pleasant when those nimble little mice sat around me and listened to my stories! Now that is over too! But I shall remember to enjoy myself when I am brought out again!"

But when did that happen? Why, one morning people came bustling about in the attic. The boxes were moved, and the tree was pulled out. They did throw it rather roughly onto the floor, but at once a manservant dragged it toward the stairs, where daylight shone.

"Now life begins again!" thought the tree. It felt the fresh air, the first sunbeam—and now it was out in the courtyard. Everything happened so quickly that the tree quite forgot to look at itself; there was so much to see all around. The courtyard adjoined a garden, and everything there was in bloom. Fresh, fragrant roses hung over the little fence, the lime trees were flowering, and the swallows flew about, calling, "Chirra-wirra-wit, my husband has come!" But they did not mean the fir tree.

"Now I shall live!" it cried joyfully, spreading its branches wide. Alas, they were all withered and yellow; it lay in a corner among weeds and nettles. The gold-paper star was still at its top, glittering in the bright sunshine.

In the courtyard a couple of the merry children were playing, the ones who had danced around the tree at Christmas and been so delighted with it. One of the smallest rushed over and tore off the golden star.

"Look what's still on that nasty old Christmas tree!" he said, trampling on the branches until they cracked beneath his boots. And the tree looked at all the flowers and freshness in the garden, then looked at itself, and wished it had stayed in its dark corner in the attic. It thought of its fresh young days in the forest, of merry Christmas Eve, and of the little mice who had listened so happily to the story of Klumpe-Dumpe.

"Gone! Gone!" said the poor tree. "If only I had been glad while I could! Gone! Gone!" And the manservant came and chopped the tree into little pieces; a whole bundle lay there. It blazed up beautifully beneath the great brewing kettle, and it sighed so deeply that each sigh was like a little gunshot. That was why the children who were playing ran in and sat before the fire, gazing into it and shouting, "Pop! Bang!" But with every crack, which was a deep sigh, the tree thought of a summer day in the forest, a winter night out there when the stars shone; it thought of Christmas Eve and Klumpe-Dumpe, the only fairy tale it had ever heard and knew how to tell. And then the tree had burned away.

The boys played in the courtyard, and the smallest wore on his chest the golden star that the tree had worn on the happiest evening of its life. Now that was over, and the tree was gone, and the story too: over, over—and that is how all stories end!