O besedilu
Stara hiša
- Vir
- Andersenove pravljice
- Avtor
- Hans Christian Andersen
- Jezik branja
- English
- Jezik izvirnika
- Dansk
- Čas branja
- 15 min branja
- Obseg
- 12 strani
- Naslov izvirnika
- Det gamle hus
O izvirniku
Andersenove pravljice
Literarne pravljice z nežnostjo, bolečino in ostrim občutkom za čudežno. Bralni jezik je English, izvirnik pa prihaja iz vira Andersenove pravljice v jeziku Dansk.
Besedilo
Stara hiša
There was an old, old house farther down the street; it was almost three hundred years old, as you could tell from the beam where the date was carved among tulips and trailing hops. Whole verses were spelled out there in the old-fashioned way, and above each window a face had been carved in the beam, pulling a grimace. One storey jutted far out over the next, and just beneath the roof was a lead gutter with a dragon’s head. The rainwater was meant to run out of its mouth, but it ran out of its belly instead, for there was a hole in the gutter.
All the other houses in the street were so new and so neat, with large windowpanes and smooth walls, that you could easily see they wanted nothing to do with the old house. No doubt they thought: “How much longer must that ramshackle thing stand here making a spectacle of our street? And its bay window sticks out so far that no one can see what is happening that way from our windows! The steps are as broad as a palace’s and as high as a church tower’s. The iron railing looks just like the gate to an old burial vault, and it has brass knobs besides. How embarrassing!”
Just across the street there were also new, neat houses, and they thought as the others did. But at a window there sat a little boy with fresh red cheeks and clear, shining eyes, and he liked the old house best of all, both in sunshine and in moonlight. When he looked across at the wall where the plaster had fallen away, he could sit discovering all the strangest pictures there: exactly how the street had looked in earlier days, with steps, bay windows, and pointed gables. He could see soldiers with halberds, and gutters winding about like dragons and great serpents. What a house it was to look at! And over there lived an old man who wore knee-breeches, a coat with large brass buttons, and a wig that you could plainly see was a real wig. Every morning an old servant came to tidy up and run errands for him; otherwise the old man in the knee-breeches was quite alone in the old house. Sometimes he came to the windowpane and looked out, and the little boy nodded to him, and the old man nodded back. And so they became acquainted, and then they became friends, though they had never spoken to one another; but that hardly mattered.
The little boy heard his parents say: “The old man over there is comfortably off, but he is so terribly lonely!” The following Sunday the little boy wrapped something in a piece of paper and went down to the gateway. When the man who ran errands came past, he said to him: “Listen! Will you take this to the old man over there from me? I have two tin soldiers, and this is one of them. He shall have it, because I know he is so terribly lonely.”
And the old servant looked quite pleased, nodded, and carried the tin soldier over to the old house. Later a message came asking whether the little boy would like to come over for a visit himself. His parents gave him permission, and so he went across to the old house.
And the brass knobs on the stair railing shone much more brightly than usual; you would have thought they had been polished in honour of the visit. And it seemed as though the carved trumpeters—for there were trumpeters carved on the door, standing among tulips—were blowing with all their might; their cheeks looked much puffier than before. Yes, they were blowing: “Trattera-tra! The little boy is coming! Trattera-tra!” And then the door opened. The whole passage was hung with old portraits, knights in armour and ladies in silk gowns; and the armour clattered and the silk gowns rustled! Then came a staircase that went a long way up and a little way down, and then they were on a balcony. It was very rickety indeed, with great holes and long cracks, but grass and leaves grew up through them all. The whole balcony outside, the courtyard, and the wall were so covered with greenery that it looked like a garden, though it was only a balcony. Old flowerpots stood there, with faces and donkeys’ ears; the flowers grew just as they pleased. One pot was overflowing with carnations—that is to say, with their green shoots, one beside another—and quite distinctly they said: “The air has stroked me, the sun has kissed me, and promised me a little flower on Sunday, a little flower on Sunday!”
Then they entered a room where the walls were hung with pigskin stamped with golden flowers. “Gilding fades away, But pigskin is here to stay!”
said the walls. And there stood armchairs with such high backs, so richly carved, and with arms on either side. “Sit down! Sit down!” they said. “Oh, how I creak! Now I shall be getting rheumatism like the old cupboard! Rheumatism in my back, oh!”
And then the little boy came into the sitting room with the bay window, where the old man sat. “Thank you for the tin soldier, my little friend!” said the old man. “And thank you for coming over to see me!”
“Thank you! Thank you!” or “Crack! Crack!” said all the furniture. There was so much of it that the pieces almost got in one another’s way as they tried to see the little boy. And in the middle of the wall hung a portrait of a beautiful lady, so young and so happy, but dressed entirely in the old-fashioned way, with powdered hair and stiff, spreading clothes. She said neither “Thank you” nor “Crack,” but looked at the little boy with her gentle eyes, and he at once asked the old man: “Where did you get her?”
“At the second-hand dealer’s round the corner!” said the old man. “There are so many pictures hanging there. No one knows them or cares about them, for they have all been buried; but I knew her in the old days, and now she has been dead and gone for fifty years!”
And beneath the portrait, behind glass, hung a bunch of withered flowers. They must have been fifty years old too, they looked so ancient. And the pendulum of the great clock swung to and fro, and the hands turned, and everything in the room grew older still, but no one noticed.
“They say at home,” said the little boy, “that you are so terribly lonely!” “Oh,” he said, “the old thoughts, and all they bring with them, come to visit me, and now you come too! I am very happy here!”
And then he took a picture book down from the shelf. There were whole long processions in it, the most wonderful carriages, such as you never see nowadays, soldiers like the knave of clubs, and townspeople with waving banners. The tailors had their banner with a pair of scissors held by two lions, and the shoemakers had theirs without a boot, but with an eagle that had two heads, for shoemakers must have everything so that they can say: “That makes a pair.” Yes, that was a picture book!
And the old man went into the other room to fetch preserves, apples, and nuts; there were certainly good things to be had in the old house. “I cannot bear it!” said the tin soldier, who stood on the chest of drawers. “It is so lonely and so sad here! No, when you have known family life, you cannot get used to this! I cannot bear it! The whole day is so long, and the evening is longer still! It is nothing like your home, where your father and mother talked so cheerfully, and you and all the other sweet children made such a delightful noise. Oh, how lonely the old man is! Do you suppose he gets kisses? Do you suppose he gets loving looks, or a Christmas tree? He gets nothing except a funeral! I cannot bear it!”
“You must not take it so sadly!” said the little boy. “I think it is so lovely here; and all the old thoughts, and all they bring with them, come to visit him!”
“Yes, but I cannot see them, and I do not know them!” said the tin soldier. “I cannot bear it!” “You must!” said the little boy. And the old man came back with the happiest face, the most delicious preserves, apples, and nuts, and then the little boy forgot about the tin soldier.
Happy and contented, the little boy went home; and weeks passed and days passed, and there were nods to the old house and nods from the old house, and then the little boy went over again.
And the carved trumpeters blew: “Trattera-tra! There is the little boy! Trattera-tra!” And the swords and armour in the knights’ portraits clattered, and the silk gowns rustled, the pigskin spoke, and the old chairs had rheumatism in their backs: “Ow!” It was exactly like the first time, for over there one day and one hour were just like another.
“I cannot bear it!” said the tin soldier. “I have wept tears of tin! It is far too sad here! Better to let me go to war and lose my arms and legs! At least that would be a change. I cannot bear it! Now I know what it means to have your old thoughts come visiting, with all they bring along! Mine have visited me, and you may believe me, it is no pleasure in the long run. In the end I nearly jumped off the chest of drawers. I saw all of you over in your house as clearly as if you were really here. It was that Sunday morning again—you remember! All you children were standing in front of the table, singing your hymn, as you do every morning. You stood there devoutly with folded hands, and your father and mother were just as solemn. Then the door opened, and your little sister Maria, who is not yet two, and who always dances whenever she hears music or singing, whatever kind it may be, was put into the room—though she ought not to have been—and then she began to dance. But she could not keep time, because the notes were so long, and so she stood first on one leg and bent her head right forward, and then on the other leg and bent her head right forward, but it would not come right. You all kept very serious faces, though it must have been difficult, but I laughed inside, and that made me fall off the table and get a dent that I still have, for it was wrong of me to laugh. But now the whole thing passes through me again, and everything else I have lived through; and that must be the old thoughts and all they bring with them! Tell me, do you still sing on Sundays? Tell me a little about little Maria! And how is my comrade, the other tin soldier? Ah, he is happy indeed! I cannot bear it!”
“You have been given away!” said the little boy. “You must stay. Can you not see that?” And the old man came with a drawer full of things to look at: a chalk box, a scent box, and old playing cards, so large and so gilded that you never see their like nowadays. And more drawers were opened, and the piano was opened too. There was a landscape painted on the inside of its lid, and it sounded so hoarse when the old man played it; and then he hummed a song.
“Yes, she used to sing that!” he said, and nodded to the portrait he had bought at the second-hand dealer’s, and the old man’s eyes shone so brightly.
“I want to go to war! I want to go to war!” shouted the tin soldier as loudly as he could, and flung himself straight down onto the floor. But where had he gone? The old man searched, the little boy searched; he was gone, and gone he remained. “I shall find him!” said the old man, but he never did. There were far too many gaps and holes in the floor; the tin soldier had fallen through a crack, and there he lay as though in an open grave.
And that day passed, and the little boy went home, and the week passed, and several more weeks passed. The windows were quite frozen over; the little boy had to sit and breathe on them to make a peephole through which he could see the old house. Over there the snow had drifted into all the scrollwork and inscriptions, and lay deep over the steps, as though no one were at home. And no one was at home: the old man was dead!
That evening a carriage stopped outside, and they carried him down to it in his coffin; he was to lie in his burial place out in the country. Away he went, but no one followed, for all his friends were dead. And the little boy kissed his finger and waved it after the coffin as it drove away.
A few days later there was an auction at the old house, and from his window the little boy watched them carrying things away: the old knights and the old ladies, the flowerpots with long ears, the old chairs and the old cupboards. Some things went here and some went there. The portrait of the lady who had been found at the second-hand dealer’s went back to the second-hand dealer’s again, and there it hung for ever after, for no one knew her any longer, and no one cared about the old picture.
In the spring they pulled down the house itself, for it was a ramshackle old thing, people said. From the street you could see straight into the room with the pigskin wall covering, which was being slashed and torn away; and the greenery round the balcony hung in wild tangles about the falling beams. And then it was all cleared away.
“That is better!” said the neighbouring houses. * * * And a beautiful house was built, with large windows and smooth white walls. But in front, where the old house had actually stood, a little garden was planted, and wild vines climbed the neighbours’ walls. In front of the garden stood a tall iron fence with an iron gate; it looked very grand, and people stopped to peer inside. And sparrows clung to the vines by the dozen, all chattering at once as best they could. But they were not talking about the old house, for they could not remember it. So many years had passed that the little boy had grown into a man—a capable man, too, who was a delight to his parents. He had just married and moved with his young wife into the house with the garden, and he stood beside her there as she planted a wildflower she thought so pretty. She planted it with her little hand and patted the earth down with her fingers. Ow! What was that? She had pricked herself. Something sharp was sticking straight up out of the soft earth.
It was—just imagine!—the tin soldier, the one who had disappeared in the old man’s room, and had tumbled and tossed among timber and rubble, and finally lain for many years in the earth.
And the young wife wiped the soldier, first with a green leaf and then with her fine handkerchief, which smelled so lovely! And to the tin soldier it was as though he were waking from a long sleep.
“Let me see him!” said the young man, laughing, and then he shook his head. “No, it cannot be the same one, but he reminds me of a story about a tin soldier I had when I was a little boy!” And then he told his wife about the old house and the old man, and about the tin soldier he had sent over to him because he was so terribly lonely. And he told it all just as it had really happened, so that the young wife’s eyes filled with tears for the old house and the old man.
“Perhaps it is the very same tin soldier after all!” she said. “I shall keep him and remember everything you have told me. But you must show me the old man’s grave!”
“I do not know where it is,” he said, “and no one knows! All his friends were dead, no one tended it, and I was only a little boy!” “How terribly lonely he must have been!” she said.
“Terribly lonely!” said the tin soldier. “But how lovely it is not to be forgotten!” “Lovely!” cried something close by, but no one except the tin soldier saw that it was a scrap of the pigskin wall covering. All its gilding was gone, and it looked like wet earth, but it had an opinion, and it spoke it aloud:
“Gilding fades away, But pigskin is here to stay.” The tin soldier, however, did not believe it.
Izvirnik
Det gamle hus
Naslednje strani prikazujejo izvirno besedilo za primerjavo.
Eventyr af Hans Christian Andersen
Der var omme i gaden et gammelt, gammelt hus, det var næsten tre hundrede år, det kunne man læse sig til på bjælken, hvor årstallet var skåret ud tillige med tulipaner og humleranker; der stod hele vers bogstaveret som i gamle dage, og over hvert vindue var der i bjælken snittet et ansigt, som vrængede; den ene etage gik et langt stykke ud over den anden, og lige under taget var en blyrende med dragehoved; regnvandet skulle løbe ud af gabet, men det løb ud af maven, for der var hul på renden.
Alle de andre huse i gaden var så nye og så nette, med store ruder og glatte vægge, man kunne nok se at de ville ikke have noget at gøre med det gamle hus; de tænkte nok: "Hvor længe skal det skrummel stå til spektakel her i gaden; så løber karnappen sådan ud, at ingen fra vore vinduer kan se hvad der sker i den kant! Trappen er så bred som til et slot og så høj som til et kirketårn. Jerngelænderet ser jo ud som døren til en gammel begravelse, og så har det messingknapper. Det er flovt!"
Lige overfor i gaden var også nye og nette huse og de tænkte som de andre, men ved vinduet her sad en lille dreng med friske røde kinder, med klare strålende øjne, han syntes rigtignok bedst om det gamle hus, og det både i solskin og i måneskin. Og så han over på muren, hvor kalken var gået af, så kunne han sidde og udfinde der alle de underligste billeder, akkurat hvorledes gaden havde set ud før med trapper, karnapper og spidse gavle; han kunne se soldater med hellebarder, og tagrender der løb om som drager og lindorme. – Det var rigtignok et hus at se på! og derovre boede en gammel mand, som gik i skægsbukser, havde en kjole med store messingknapper og en paryk, som man kunne se var en virkelig paryk. Hver morgen kom der til ham en gammel karl, som ryddede op og gik ærinder, ellers var den gamle mand i de skægsbukser ganske alene i det gamle hus; imellem kom han hen til vinduesruden og så ud, og den lille dreng nikkede til ham, og den gamle mand nikkede igen, og så var de bekendte og så var de venner, skønt de aldrig havde talt med hinanden, men det kunne da også være det samme.
Den lille dreng hørte sine forældre sige: "Den gamle mand derovre har det meget godt, men han er så skrækkelig ene!"
Næste søndag tog den lille dreng og svøbte noget ind i et stykke papir, gik ned i porten, og da han, som gik ærinder, kom forbi, sagde han til ham: "Hør! vil du bringe den gamle mand derovre dette fra mig! jeg har to tinsoldater, dette er den ene; han skal have den, for jeg ved at han er så skrækkelig ene."
Og den gamle karl så ganske fornøjet ud, nikkede og bar tinsoldaten over i det gamle hus. Siden kom der bud, om den lille dreng ikke havde lyst til selv at komme over at gøre besøg, og det fik han lov til af sine forældre, og så kom han over i det gamle hus.
Og messingknapperne på trappegelænderet skinnede meget stærkere end ellers, man skulle tro at de var poleret i anledning af besøget, og det var som om de udskårne trompetere – for der var udskåret i døren trompetere, som stod i tulipanerne – blæste af alle kræfter, kinderne så meget tykkere ud end før. Jo de blæste: "Tratteratra! den lille dreng kommer! tratteratra!" – og så gik døren op. Hele gangen var med gamle portrætter, riddere i harnisk og fruer i silkekjole; og harniskerne raslede og silkekjolerne raslede! – Og så kom der en trappe, den gik et stort stykke opad og et lille stykke ned – og så var man på en altan, der rigtignok var meget skrøbelig, med store huller og lange sprækker, men der voksede græs og blade op af dem alle sammen, for hele altanen udenfor, gården og muren, var med så meget grønt, det så ud som have, men det var kun en altan. Her stod gamle urtepotter, som havde ansigt og æselører; blomsterne de voksede nu ligesom de ville. I den ene potte løb det over alle bredder med nelliker, det vil sige med det grønne, skud ved skud, og ganske tydeligt sagde det: "Luften har klappet mig, solen har kysset mig og lovet mig en lille blomst på søndag, en lille blomst på søndag!"
Og så kom de ind i et kammer, hvor væggene var med svinelædersbetræk og der var trykt guldblomster på.
"Forgyldning forgår,
Men svinelæder består!"
sagde væggene.
Og der stod lænestole så højryggede, så udskårne, og med arme på begge sider. "Sid ned! sid ned!" sagde de. "Uh, hvor det knager i mig! nu får jeg nok gigt ligesom det gamle skab! Gigt i ryggen, uh!"
Og så kom den lille dreng ind i stuen hvor karnappen var, og hvor den gamle mand sad.
"Tak for tinsoldaten, min lille ven!" sagde den gamle mand. "Og tak fordi du kommer over til mig!"
"Tak! Tak!" eller "Knak! Knak!" sagde det i alle møblerne; de var så mange at de næsten stod hverandre i vejen for at se den lille dreng.
Og midt på væggen hang et skilderi med en dejlig dame, så ung, så glad, men ganske klædt på, som i gamle dage, med pudder i håret og klæder, som stod stive; hun sagde hverken "tak" eller "knak," men så med sine milde øjne på den lille dreng, som straks spurgte den gamle mand: "Hvor har du fået hende?"
"Omme hos marskandiseren!" sagde den gamle mand. "Der hænger så mange billeder; Ingen kender eller bryder sig om dem, for de er begravet alle sammen, men i gamle dage har jeg kendt hende, og nu er hun død og borte i et halvt hundrede år!"
Og under skilderiet hang bag glas en buket visne blomster; de var vist også et halvt hundrede år, så gamle så de ud. Og perpendiklen på det store ur gik frem og tilbage, og viseren drejede, og alting i stuen blev endnu ældre, men det mærkede de ikke.
"De siger hjemme," sagde den lille dreng, "at du er så skrækkelig ene!"
"Oh," sagde han, "de gamle tanker, med hvad de kan føre med sig, kommer og besøger mig, og nu kommer du jo også! – Jeg har det meget godt!"
Og så tog han ned af hylden en bog med billeder, der var hele lange optog, de forunderligste kareter, som man ikke ser dem nu til dags, soldater som klør knægt og borgere med vajende faner; skrædderne havde deres med en saks, som blev holdt af to løver og skomagerne deres uden støvle, men med en ørn, som havde to hoveder, for skomagerne må have alting således at de kan sige: Det er et par. – Jo det var en billedbog!
Og den gamle mand gik ind i den anden stue for at hente syltetøj, æbler og nødder; – der var rigtig nok velsignet ovre i det gamle hus.
"Jeg kan ikke holde det ud!" sagde tinsoldaten, som stod på dragkisten; "her er så ensomt og så sørgeligt; nej, når man har været i familieliv, kan man ikke vænne sig til dette her! – Jeg kan ikke holde det ud! Den hele dag er så lang og aftnen er endnu længere! her er slet ikke, som ovre hos dig, hvor din fader og moder talte så fornøjede, og hvor du og alle I søde børn gjorde sådant et dejligt spektakel. Nej, hvor den gamle mand har det ensomt! tror du han får kys! tror du han får milde øjne, eller juletræ! Han får ikke noget, uden begravelse! – jeg kan ikke holde det ud!"
"Du må ikke tage det så sørgeligt!" sagde den lille dreng; "jeg synes her er så dejligt; og alle de gamle tanker, med hvad de kan føre med sig, kommer jo og gør besøg!"
"Ja, dem ser jeg ikke, og dem kender jeg ikke!" sagde tinsoldaten, "jeg kan ikke holde det ud!"
"Det må du!" sagde den lille dreng.
Og den gamle mand kom med det mest fornøjede ansigt, det dejligste syltetøj, æbler og nødder, og så tænkte den lille dreng ikke på tinsoldaten.
Lykkelig og fornøjet kom den lille dreng hjem, og der gik uger og der gik dage, og der blev nikket til det gamle hus og fra det gamle hus, og så kom den lille dreng derover igen.
Og de udskårne trompetere blæste: "tratteratra! der er den lille dreng! tratteratra!" og sværd og rustning på ridderbillederne raslede og silkekjolerne raslede, svinelæderet talte, og de gamle stole havde gigt i ryggen: "av!" det var akkurat ligesom første gang, for der ovre var den ene dag og time ligesom den anden.
"Jeg kan ikke holde det ud!" sagde tinsoldaten, "jeg har grædt tin! her er alt for sørgeligt! lad mig hellere gå i krig og miste arme og ben! det er dog en forandring. Jeg kan ikke holde det ud! – nu ved jeg hvad det er at have besøg af sine gamle tanker, med hvad de kan føre med! jeg har haft besøg af mine, og du kan tro, det er ingen fornøjelse i længden, jeg var til sidst nær ved at springe ned af dragkisten. Alle I derovre i huset så jeg så tydeligt, som om I virkeligt var her; det var igen den søndag morgen, som du ved nok! alle I børn stod foran bordet og sang eders salme, som I synger den hver morgen; I stod andægtige med foldede hænder, og fader og moder var lige så højtidelige, og så gik døren op, og den lille søster Maria, som ikke er to år endnu, og som altid danser når hun hører musik eller sang, hvad slags det endogså er, blev sat ind, – hun skulle det nu ikke, – og så begyndte hun at danse, men kunne ikke komme i takt, for tonerne var så lange, og så stod hun først på det ene ben og hældede hovedet helt forover, og så på det andet ben og hældede hovedet helt forover, men det ville ikke slå til. I stod meget alvorlige, alle sammen, skønt det var nok svært, men jeg lo indvendig og derfor faldt jeg ned af bordet og fik en bule, som jeg endnu går med, for det var ikke ret af mig at le. Men det hele går nu igen inden i mig, og alt hvad jeg sådan har oplevet; og det er nok de gamle tanker med hvad de kan føre med! – Sig mig, om I synger endnu om søndagen? sig mig lidt om den lille Maria! og hvordan har min kammerat det, den anden tinsoldat! ja han er rigtignok lykkelig! – jeg kan ikke holde det ud!"
"Du er foræret bort!" sagde den lille dreng, "du må blive. Kan du ikke indse det?"
Og den gamle mand kom med en skuffe, hvori der var meget at se, både "kridthus," og "balsambøsse," og gamle kort, så store og så forgyldte, som man aldrig ser dem nu. Og der blev åbnet flere skuffer og klaveret blev åbnet, det var med landskab indvendigt på låget, og det var så hæst da den gamle mand spillede på det; og så nynnede han en vise.
"Ja, den kunne hun synge!" sagde han og så nikkede han til portrættet, som han havde købt hos marskandiseren, og den gamle mands øjne de skinnede så klare.
"Jeg vil i krig! jeg vil i krig!" råbte tinsoldaten så højt han kunne og styrtede sig lige ned på gulvet. –
Ja, hvor blev han af? Den gamle mand søgte, den lille dreng søgte, borte var han og borte blev han. "Jeg finder ham nok!" sagde den gamle, men han fandt ham aldrig; gulvet var alt for åbent og hullet; – tinsoldaten var faldet gennem en sprække og der lå han som i åben begravelse.
Og den dag gik og den lille dreng kom hjem, og ugen gik og der gik flere uger. Vinduerne var ganske frosne; den lille dreng måtte sidde og ånde på dem for at få et kighul over til det gamle hus, og der var sneen fyget ind i alle snirkler og indskrifter, den lå helt op over trappen, ligesom om der var ingen hjemme, og der var heller ingen hjemme, den gamle mand var død!
Om aftnen holdt en vogn udenfor, og ned i den bar man ham i hans kiste, han skulle ud at ligge på landet i sin begravelse. Der kørte han nu, men ingen fulgte, alle hans venner var jo døde. Og den lille dreng kyssede på fingeren efter kisten, da den kørte.
Nogle dage efter blev der auktion på det gamle hus, og den lille dreng så fra sit vindue, hvor man bar bort: den gamle riddere og de gamle damer, urtepotterne med lange ører, de gamle stole og de gamle skabe; noget kom her og noget kom der; portrættet af hende, som var fundet hos marskandiseren, kom til marskandiseren igen, og der hang det altid, for ingen kendte hende mere, ingen brød sig om det gamle billede.
I foråret rev man huset selv ned, for det var et skrummel, sagde folk. Man kunne se fra gaden lige ind i stuen til det svineskindsbetræk, som blev flænget og revet; og det grønne om altanen hang ganske vildsomt om de faldende bjælker. – Og så blev der ryddet op.
"Det hjalp!" sagde nabohusene.
* * *
Og der blev bygget et dejligt hus med store vinduer og hvide, glatte mure, men foran, hvor egentligt det gamle hus havde stået, plantedes en lille have og op af naboens mure voksede vilde vinranker; foran haven kom et stort jerngitter med jernport, det så stadseligt ud, folk stod stille og kiggede derind. Og spurvene hængte sig i snesevis, på vinrankerne, snakkede i munden på hverandre, så godt de kunne, men det var ikke om det gamle hus, for det kunne de ikke huske, der var gået så mange år, at den lille dreng var vokset op til en hel mand, ja en dygtig mand, som hans forældre havde fornøjelse af; og han var lige blevet gift og med sin lille kone flyttet ind i huset her, hvor haven var; og han stod hos hende dér idet hun plantede en markblomst, som hun fandt så yndig. Hun plantede den med sin lille hånd og klappede jorden til med fingrene. – Av! hvad var det? Hun stak sig. Der sad noget spidst lige op af den bløde jord.
Det var – ja tænk! det var tinsoldaten, ham som var blevet borte oppe hos den gamle mand, og var rumlet og tumlet mellem tømmer og grus og til sidst havde ligget mange år i jorden.
Og den unge kone tørrede soldaten, først med et grønt blad og så med sit fine lommetørklæde, det havde sådan en dejlig lugt! og det var for tinsoldaten, ligesom om den vågnede op af en dvale.
"Lad mig se ham!" sagde den unge mand, lo og rystede så med hovedet. "Ja, ham kan det nu ikke være, men han husker mig på en historie med en tinsoldat, jeg havde, da jeg var en lille dreng!" og så fortalte han sin kone om det gamle hus, og den gamle mand, og om tinsoldaten han sendte over til ham, fordi han var så skrækkelig ene, og han fortalte det så akkurat, som det virkelig havde været, så at den unge kone fik tårer i øjnene over det gamle hus og den gamle mand.
"Det kan dog være at det er den samme tinsoldat!" sagde hun, "jeg vil gemme den og huske på alt, hvad du har fortalt mig; men den gamle mands grav må du vise mig!"
"Ja, den ved jeg ikke," sagde han, "og ingen ved den! alle hans venner var døde, ingen passede den, og jeg var jo en lille dreng!"
"Hvor han må have været skrækkeligt ene!" sagde hun.
"Skrækkeligt ene!" sagde tinsoldaten, "men dejligt er det, ikke at blive glemt!"
"Dejligt!" råbte noget tæt ved, men ingen uden tinsoldaten så, at det var en lap af det svinelædersbetræk, det var uden al forgyldning, det så ud som våd jord, men en mening havde det, og den sagde det:
"Forgyldning forgår,
Men svinelæder består."
Dog, det troede tinsoldaten ikke.
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