THE LAST DREAM OF THE OLD OAK TREE

A CHRISTMAS TALE

 

IN the forest，high up on the steep shore，hard by the open sea coast，stood a very old Oak Tree．It was exactly three hundred and sixty-five years old，but that long time was not more for the Tree than just as many days would be to us men．We wake by day and sleep through the night，and then we have our dreams：it is different with the Tree，which keeps awake through three seasons of the year，and does not get its sleep till winter comes．Winter is its time for rest，its night after the long day which is called spring，summer，and autumn．

On many a [warm] summer day the Ephemera，[the fly that lives but for a day，] had danced around his crown—had lived，enjoyed，and felt happy；and then the tiny creature had rested for a moment in quiet bliss on one of the great fresh Oak leaves；and then the Tree always said，

“Poor little thing！Your whole life is but a single day！How very short！It's quite melancholy．”

“Melancholy！Why do you say that？”the Ephemera would then always reply．“It's wonderfully bright，warm，and beautiful all around me，and that makes me rejoice．”

“But only one day，and then it's all done！”

“Done！”repeated the Ephemera．“What's the mean－in of done？Are you done，too？”

“No；I shall perhaps live for thousands of your days，and my day is whole seasons long！It's something so long，that you can't at all manage to reckon it out．”

“No？then I don't understand you．You say you have thousands of my days；but I have thousands of moments，in which I can be merry and happy．Does all the beauty of this world cease when you die？”

“No，”replied the Tree；“it will certainly last much longer—far longer than I can possibly think．”

“Well，then，we have the same time，only that we reckon differently．”

And the Ephemera danced and floated in the air，and rejoiced in her delicate wings of gauze and velvet，and rejoiced in the balmy breezes laden with the fragrance of the meadows and of wild roses and elder flowers，of the garden hedges，wild thyme，and mint，and daisies；the scent of these was all so strong that the Ephemera was al－most intoxicated．The day was long and beautiful，full of joy and of sweet feeling，and when the sun sank low the little fly felt very agreeably tired of all its happiness and enjoyment．The delicate wings would not carry it any more，and quietly and slowly if glided down upon the soft grass-blade，nodded its head as well as it could nod，and went quietly to sleep—and was dead．

“Poor little Ephemera！”said the Oak．“That was a terribly short life！”

And on every summer day the same dance was repeated，the same question and answer，and the same sleep．The same thing was repeated through whole generations of Ephemerae，and all of them felt equally merry and equally happy．

The Oak stood there awake through the spring morn－in，the noon of summer，and the evening of autumn；and its time of rest，its night，was coming on apace．Winter was approaching．

Already the storms were singing their“good night！good night！”Here fell a leaf，and there fell a leaf．

“We pull！See if you can sleep！We sing you to sleep，we shake you to sleep，but it does you good in your old twigs，does it not？They seem to crack for very joy．Sleep sweetly！Sleep sweetly！It's your three hundred and sixty－fifth night．Properly speaking，you're only a year old yet！Sleep sweetly！The clouds strew down snow，there will be quite a coverlet，warm and protect－in，around your feet．Sweet sleep to you，and pleasant dreams！”

And the old Oak Tree stood there，stripped of all its 1eaves，to sleep through the long winter，and to dream many a dream，always about something that had happened to it，just as in the dreams of men．

The great Oak Tree had once been small—indeed，an acorn had been its cradle．According to human commaputation，it was now in its fourth century．It was the greatest and best tree in the forest；its crown towered far above all the other trees，and could be descried from afar across the sea，so that it served as a landmark to the sailors：the Tree had no idea how many eyes were in the habit of seeking it．High up in its green summit the wood－pigeon built her nest，and the cuckoo sat in its boughs and sang his song；and in autumn，when the leaves looked like thin plates of copper，the birds of passape came and rested there，before they flew away across the sea；but now it was winter，and the Tree stood there leafless，so that every one could see how gnarled and crooked the branches were that shot forth from its trunk．Crows and rooks came and took their seat by turns in the boughs，and spoke of the hard times which were beginning，and of the difficulty of getting a living in winter．

It was just at the holy Christmas time，when the Tree dreamed its most glorious dream．

The Tree had a distinct feeling of the festive time，and fancied he heard the bells ringing from the churches all around；and yet it seemed as if it were a fine summer's day，mild and warm．Fresh and green he spread out his mighty crown；the sunbeams played among the twigs and the leaves；the air was full of the fragrance of herbs and blossoms；gay butterflies chased each other to and fro．The ephemeral insects danced as if all the world were created merely for them to dance and be merry in．All that the Tree had experienced for years and years，and that had happened around him，seemed to pass by him again，as in a festive pageant．He saw the knights of ancient days ride by with their noble dames on gallant steeds，with plumes waving in their bonnets and falcons on their wrists．The hunting horn sounded，and the dogs barked．He saw hostile warriors in coloured jerkins and with shining weapons，with spear and halberd，pitching their tents and striking them again．The watchfires flamed up anew，and men sang and slept under the branches of the Tree．He saw loving couples meeting near his trunk，happily，in the moon－shine；and they cut the initials of their names in the greygreen back of his stem．Once—but long years had rolled by since then—citherns and Aeolian harps had been hung up on his boughs by merry wanderers；now they hung there again，and once again they sounded in tones of marvellous sweetness．The wood-pigeons cooed，as if they were telling what the Tree felt in all this，and the cuckco called out to tell him how many summer days he had yet to live．

Then it appeared to him as if new life were rippling down into the remotest fibre of his root，and mounting up into his highest branches，to the tops of the leaves．The Tree felt that he was stretching and spreading himself，and through his root he felt that there was life and warmth even in the ground itself．He left his strength increase，he grew higher，his stem shot up unceasingly，and he grew more and more，his crown became fuller and spread out；and in proportion as the Tree grew，he felt his happiness increase，and his joyous hope that he should reach even higher—quite up to the warm brilliant sun．

Already had he grown high up above the clouds，which floated past beneath his crown like dark troops of passage－birds，or like great white swans．And every leaf of the Tree had the gift of sight，as if it had eyes wherewith to see：the stars became visible in broad daylight，great and sparkling；each of them sparkled like a pair of eyes，mild and clear．They recalled to his memory well-known gentle eyes，eyes of children，eyes of lovers，who had met beneath his boughs．

It was a marvellous spectacle，and one full of happiness and joy！And yet amid all this happiness the Tree felt a longing，a yearning desire that all other trees of the wood beneath him，and all the bushes，and herbs，and flowers，might be able to rise with him，that they too might see this splendour and experience this joy．The great majestic Oak was not quite happy in his happiness，while he had not them all，great and little，about him；and this feeling of yearning trembled through his every twig，through his every leaf，warmly and fervently as through a human heart．

The crown of the Tree waved to and fro，as if he sought something in his silent longing，and he looked down．Then he felt the fragrance of woodruff，and soon after－wards the more powerful scent of honeysuckle and violets；and he fancied he heard the cuckoo answering him．

Yes，through the clouds the green summits of the forest came peering up，and under himself the Oak saw the other trees，as they grew and raised themselves aloft．Bushes and herbs shot up high，and some tore themselves up bodily by the roots to rise the quicker．The birch was the quickest of all．Like a white streak of lightning，its slender stem shot upwards in a zigzag line，and the branches spread around it like green gauze and like banners；the whole woodland natives，even to the brown－plumed rushes，grew up with the rest，and the birds came too，and sang；and on the grass－blade that fluttered aloft like a long silken ribbon into the air，sat the grasshopper cleaning his wings with his leg；the May beetles hummed，and the bees murmured，and every bird sang in his appointed manner；all was song and sound of gladness up into the high heaven．

“But the little blue flower by the water－side，where is that？”said the Oak；“and the purple bell－flower and the daisy？”For，you see，the old Oak Tree wanted to have them all about him．

“We are here！We are here！”was shouted and sung in reply．

“But the beautiful woodruff of last summer—and in the last year there was certainly a place here covered with lilies of the valley！And the wild apple tree that Lossomed so splendidly！And all the glory of the wood that came year by year—if that had only lived and remained till now，then it might have been here now！”

“We are here！We are here！”replied voices still higher in the air．

It seemed as if they had flown on before．

“Why，that is beautiful，indescribably beautiful！”exclaimed the old Oak Tree，rejoicingly．“I have them all around me，great and small；not one has been forgotten！How can so much happiness be imagined？How can it be possible？”

“In heaven it can be imagined，and it is possible！”the reply sounded through the air．

And the old Tree，who grew on and on，felt how his roots were tearing themselves free from the ground．

“That's best of all！”said the Tree．“Now no fetters hold me！I can fly up now，to the very highest，in glory and in light！And all my beloved ones are with me，great and small—all of them，all！”

That was the dream of the old Oak Tree；and whilehe dreamed thus a mighty storm came rushing over land and sea—at the holy Christmastide．The sea rolled great billows towards the shore，and there was a cracking and crashing in the tree—his root was torn out of the ground in the very moment while he was drearming that his root freed itself from the earth．He fell．His three hundred and sixty－five years were now as the single day of the Ephemera．

On the morning of th Christmas festival，when the sun rose，the storm had subsided．From all the churches sounded the festive bells，and from every hearth，even from the smallest hut，arose the smoke in blue clouds，like the smoke from the altars of the Druids of old at the feast of thanks－offerings．The sea became gradually calm， and on board a great ship in the offing，that had fought successfully with the tempest，all the flags were displayed，as a token of joy suitable to the festive day．

“The Tree is down—the odl Oak Tree，our land-mark on the coast！”said the sailors“It tell in the storm of last night．Who can replace it？No one can．”

This was the funeral oration，short but well meant，that was given to the Tree，which lay stretched on the snowy covering on the sea－shore；and over its prostrate form sounded the notes of a song from the ship，a carol of the joys of Christmas，and of the redemption of the soul of man by the blood of Christ，and of eternal life．

Sing，sing aloud，this blessed morn—

It is fufilled— and He is born，

Oh，joy without compare！

Hallelujah！Hallelujah！

Thus sounded the old psalm tune，and every one on board the ship felt lifted up in his own way，through the song and the prayer，just as the old Tree had felt lifted up in its last，its most beauteous，dream in the Christmas night．

老栎树的梦

 

——一个圣诞节的童话

 

在一个树林里，在宽广的海岸旁的一个陡坡上，立着一株很老的栎树。它的年纪恰恰是365岁，不过对于这树说来，这段时间也只是等于我们人的365个昼夜。我们白天醒过来，晚上睡过去，于是我们就做起梦来。树可就不是这样。它一年有三个季节是醒着的，只有到冬天，它才去睡觉。冬天是它睡眠的季节，是它度过了春、夏、秋这一个漫长的白昼以后的夜晚。

在许多夏天的日子里，蜉蝣环绕着这树的簇顶跳起舞来，生活着，飞舞着，感到幸福。然后这小小的生物就在安静的幸福感中，躺在一片新鲜的大栎树叶子上休息。这时树儿就说：

“可怜的小东西！你整个的生命也不过只有一天！太短了！这真是悲哀！”

“悲哀！”蜉蝣总是这样回答说。“你这话是什么意思？一切是这样无比的光明、温暖和美丽。我真感到快乐！”

“然而也不过只有一天，接着什么都完了！”

“完了！”蜉蝣说。“什么完了？你也完了吗？”

“没有。像你那样的日子，我恐怕要活到几千几万个。我的一天包括一年所有的季节！它是那么长，你简直没有方法计算出来！”

“是吗？那我就不了解你了！你说你有几千几万个像我这样的日子，可是我有几千几万个片刻；在这些片刻中我能够感到快乐和幸福。当你死了以后，难道这个世界的一切美景就会不再有吗？”

“当然会有的，”树儿说；“它会永远地存在——存在得出乎我想象之外地久远。”

“这样说来，我们所有的时间是一样的了，只不过我们计算的方法不同罢了！”

蜉蝣在空中飞着，舞着，欣赏它那像薄纱和天鹅绒一样精致的翅膀，欣赏带来原野上的车轴草、篱笆上的野玫瑰、接骨木树和金银花的香气的熏风，欣赏车叶草、樱草花和野薄荷。这些花儿的香味是那么强烈，蜉蝣觉得几乎要醉了。日子是漫长而美丽的，充满了快乐和甜蜜感。当太阳低低地沉落的时候，这只小飞虫感到一种欢乐后的愉快的倦意。它的翅膀已经不想再托住它了；于是它便轻轻地、慢慢地沿着柔软的草叶溜下来，尽可能地点了几下头，然后便安静地睡去——同时也死了。

“可怜的小蜉蝣！”栎树说。“这种生命真是短促得可怕！”

每年夏天它跳着同样的舞，讲着同样的话，回答着同样的问题，而且同样地睡去。蜉蝣世世代代地重复着这同样的事情；它们都感到同样地快乐和幸福。老栎树在它春天的早晨、夏天的中午和秋天的晚上，一直是站在那儿，没有睡。现在它的休息的时刻，它的夜，马上就要来了，因为冬天一步一步地接近了。

暴风雨已经唱起了歌：“晚安！晚安！”这里有一片叶子落下来，那里又有一片叶子落下来了！“我们摘下叶子，我们摘下叶子！看你能不能睡着！我们唱歌使你睡着，我们把你摇得睡着，这对于你的老枝子是有好处的，是不是？它们似乎快乐得裂开了！甜蜜地睡去吧！甜蜜地睡去吧！这是你的第365个夜呀！按规矩说，你还不过是一个刚刚满一岁的孩子！甜蜜地睡去吧！云块撒下雪来，这是一层毯子，一层盖在你脚上的温暖的被子。愿你甜蜜地睡去，做些愉快的梦吧！”

老栎树立在那儿，叶子都光了；它要睡过这漫长的冬天，要做许多梦——梦着它所经历过的事情，像人类所做的梦一样。

它曾经一度也是很小的——的确，那时它的摇篮不过是一颗储子。照人类的计算法，它现在正是在第四百个年头之中。它是森林里一株最大和最好的树。它的顶高高地伸在所有的树上，人们在海上就可以远远地看到它，因此它成了船只的一个地形标记。它一点也不知道，该是有多少眼睛在寻找它。斑鸠在它绿色的顶上高高地建起窝来，杜鹃坐在它的枝丫里唱着歌。在秋天，在树叶看起来像薄薄的铜片的时候，候鸟就飞来，在它们没有到大海的彼岸去以前，停在这儿休息一下。不过现在是冬天了，谁也可以看得出来，这树没有剩下一片叶子；它的枝丫长得多么弯，多么曲啊，乌鸦和白嘴鸦轮流地到它的枝丫里来，在那里休息，谈论着那快要开始的严寒的季节，谈论着在冬天找食物是多么困难。

这正是神圣的圣诞节的时候；这树做了一个最美丽的梦。

这树明显地感觉到，这是一个欢乐的季节。它觉得它听到周围所有教堂的钟都敲起来了。然而天气仍然是像一个美丽的夏天，既柔和，又温暖。它展开它庄严的、新鲜的、绿色的簇顶；太阳光在枝叶之间戏弄着；空气充满了草和灌木的香气；五颜六色的蝴蝶在互相追逐。蜉蝣跳着舞，好像一切都是为了他们的跳舞和欢乐而存在似的。这树多年来所经历过的东西，以及在它周围所发生过的东西，像节日的行列一样，在它面前游行过去。它看到古代的骑士和贵妇人——他们的帽子上插着长羽毛，手腕上托着猎鹰，骑着马走过树林。狩猎的号角吹起来了，猎犬叫起来了。它看到敌对的武士，穿着各种颜色的服装，拿着发亮的武器矛和戟，架起帐篷，收起帐篷。篝火燃起来了；人民在它展开的枝丫下面唱歌和睡觉。它看到一对一对的恋人在月光中幸福地相会，把他们名字的第一个字母刻在它灰绿色的树皮上。有个时候——自此以后多少年过去了——快乐的游荡者把七弦琴和风奏琴挂在它的枝子上，现在它们又在那上面挂起来了，又发出非常动听的音调。斑鸠在喁喁私语，好像是在讲这树对这一切事物的观感；杜鹃在唱它还能活多少个夏天。

这时它觉得仿佛有一种新的生命力在向它最远的细根流去，然后又向它最高的枝子升上来，一直升到它叶子的尖上。这树儿觉得它在伸展和扩大；通过它的根，它感到连土里都有了生命和温暖。它觉得它的气力在增长。它长得更丰满，更宽大，它越长越高。它的躯干在上升，没有一刻停止。它在不断地生长。它的簇顶长得更丰满，更宽大，更高。它越长得高，它的快乐就越增大；于是它就更有一种愉快的渴望，渴望要长得更高——长到跟明朗和温暖的太阳一样高。

它已经长到超出云层之上了。云块在它的簇顶下浮过去，像密密成群的候鸟，或者像在它下面飞过去的白色的大天鹅。

这树的每片叶子都能看到东西，好像它有眼睛一样。它在白天可以看见星垦——那么巨大，那么光耀。每颗星星像一对眼睛——那么温柔，那么晶莹。这使得它记起那些熟识的亲切的眼睛，孩子的眼睛，在它的枝下幽会的恋人的眼睛。

这是一个幸福的片刻——一个充满了快乐的片刻！然而在这幸福之中，它感到一种渴望；它希望看到树林里一切生长在它下面的树、一切灌木丛、草儿和花儿，也能跟它一起长高，也能欣赏这种快乐和美景。这株巨大的栎树在它美丽的梦中并不感到太幸福，因为它没有使它周围大大小小的植物分享这种幸福。这种感觉在它的每个小枝里，每片叶子里，激动着，好像在人类的心里一样。

这树的簇顶前后摇动着，好像它在寻找一件什么东西而没有找到。它朝下面望。于是它嗅到车叶草的香气；不一会儿，它闻到金银花和紫罗兰的更强烈的香味。它相信它听到杜鹃在对自己讲话。

是的，树林的一片绿顶透过了整个的云层；栎树看到它上面其余的树也在生长，像自己一样在向上伸展。灌木和草儿也长得很高，有些甚至把自己的根都拔起来，为的是想飞快地上长。桦树长得最快。它细嫩的躯干，像一条白色的闪电似地在向上伸；它的枝子摇动起来像绿色的细纱和旗子。树林中的一切植物，甚至长着棕毛的灯心草，也跟着别的植物一齐在向上长。鸟儿跟着它们一起向上飞，唱着歌。一根草叶也在飞快地生长，像飘着的一条缎带。一只蚱蜢坐在它上面，用腿子擦着翅膀。小金虫在嗡嗡地唱着歌，蜜蜂在低吟着。每只鸟儿都用自己的嘴唱着歌。处处是一片直冲云霄的歌声和快乐声。

“可是水边的那朵小蓝花在什么地方呢？它应该和大家一起也在这儿。”栎树说，“那紫色的钟形花和那小雏菊在什么地方呢？”是的，老栎树希望这些东西都在它的周围。

“我们都在这儿呀！我们都在这儿呀！”这是一片歌唱的声音。

“不过去年夏天的那棵美丽的车叶草——而且去年这儿还有一棵铃兰花！还有那野苹果树，它是多么美丽！还有那年年都出现的树林胜景——如果这还存在，到现在还存在的话，那么也请它来和我们在一起吧！”

“我们都在这儿呀！我们都在这儿呀！”更高的空中发出这么一个合唱声。这声音似乎早就在那儿。

“唔，这真是说不出的可爱！”老栎树高声说。“他们大大小小都在我的周围！谁也没有被忘记掉！人们怎么能想象得到这么多的幸福呢？这怎么可能呢？”

“在天上这是可能的，也可以想象得到的！”高空中的声音说。

这株不停地生长着的栎树觉得它的根从地上拔出来了。

“这是再好不过了！”这树说。“现在再没有什么东西可以牵制住我了！我现在可以飞了，可以在灿烂的阳光中向最高的地方飞了！而且一切大大小小的心爱的东西都和我在一起！大家都和我在一起！”

这是老栎树做的一个梦。当它正在做这梦的时候，一阵狂暴的风雨，在这个神圣的圣诞节之夜，从海上和陆地上吹来了。海向岸上卷起一股巨大的浪潮，这树在崩裂——当它正在梦着它的根从土里解放出来的时候，它的根真的从地上拔出来了。它倒下来了。它的365岁现在跟蜉蝣的一日没有两样。

在圣诞节的早晨，太阳一出来，暴风雨就停了。所有的教堂都发出节日的钟声。从每一个烟囱里，甚至从最小茅屋顶上的烟囱里升起了蓝色的烟，像古代德鲁伊僧侣的祭坛上在感恩节升起的烟一样。海渐渐地平静了。海面停着的一条大船上——它昨夜曾经战胜了暴风雨——悬起了各色的旗帜庆祝这个美丽的节日。

“这树已经倒下来了——这株很老的、作为地形的指标的栎树！”水手们说。“它在昨夜的暴风雨中倒下来了！谁能再把它栽上呢？谁也不能！”

这是人们对于这株树所作的悼辞。话虽然很短，但是用意很好。这树在盖满了积雪的海岸上躺着；从船上飘来的圣诗的歌声在它的躯体上盘旋着。这是圣诞节的愉快的颂歌，基督用血把人类的灵魂赎出来的颂歌，永恒的生命的颂歌。

唱哟，高声唱哟，上帝的子民！

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啊，处处是无边的欢乐！

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这是一首古老圣诗的调子。在这歌声和祈祷中，船上的每个人都感到一种特有的超升的感觉。正如那株老树在它最后的、最美的、圣诞节晚上的梦中所感到的那种超升的感觉一样。

 

这篇童话最初收进1858年出版的《新的童话和故事集》第正卷第1部里。安徒生在他的手记中说：“《老烁树的梦》完全出自我个人的想象，一个忽然来临的灵感使我立刻写下了它。”这的确是安徒生的“想象”和“灵感”的结晶，但不一定是“忽然来临”的，而是源于长期萦回在他脑际的一种理想——如果说不是“幻想”的话：“我现在可以飞了，可以在灿烂的阳光中向最高的地方飞了！而且一切大大小小的心爱的东西都和我在一起！大家都和我在一起！”普天同乐，大家一齐进入最高的、幸福的境界！