THE OLD BACHELOR'S NIGHTCAP [5]
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
began the history of this tree, and what is it now? Forsaken and
forgotten, in a garden by a hedge in a field, and close to a public
road. There it stands, unsheltered, plundered, and broken. It
certainly has not yet withered; but in the course of years the
number of blossoms from time to time will grow less, and at last it
was cease altogether to bear fruit; and then its history will be
over."
Such were Anthony's thoughts as he stood under the tree, and
during many a long night as he lay in his lonely chamber in the wooden
house in Hauschen Street, Copenhagen, in the foreign land to which the
rich merchant of Bremen, his employer, had sent him on condition
that he should never marry. "Marry! ha, ha!" and he laughed bitterly
to himself at the thought.
Winter one year set in early, and it was freezing hard. Without, a
snowstorm made every one remain at home who could do so. Thus it
happened that Anthony's neighbors, who lived opposite to him, did
not notice that his house remained unopened for two days, and that
he had not showed himself during that time, for who would go out in
such weather unless he were obliged to do so. They were gray, gloomy
days, and in the house whose windows were not glass, twilight and dark
nights reigned in turns. During these two days old Anthony had not
left his bed, he had not the strength to do so. The bitter weather had
for some time affected his limbs. There lay the old bachelor, forsaken
by all, and unable to help himself. He could scarcely reach the
water jug that he had placed by his bed, and the last drop was gone.
It was not fever, nor sickness, but old age, that had laid him low. In
the little corner, where his bed lay, he was over-shadowed as it
were by perpetual night. A little spider, which he could however not
see, busily and cheerfully spun its web above him, so that there
should be a kind of little banner waving over the old man, when his
eyes closed. The time passed slowly and painfully. He had no tears
to shed, and he felt no pain; no thought of Molly came into his
mind. He felt as if the world was now nothing to him, as if he were
lying beyond it, with no one to think of him. Now and then he felt
slight sensations of hunger and thirst; but no one came to him, no one
tended him. He thought of all those who had once suffered from
starvation, of Saint Elizabeth, who