Hans Andersen's Fairy Tales/The Golden Treasure

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For other English-language translations of this work, see The Golden Treasure.

The golden treasure. — No 1.

THE DRUMMER BOY ON THE BATTLE FIELD.


THE GOLDEN TREASURE.


The wife of the town drummer went to a church one day, in which there was a new altar piece, and over the altar was an oil painting, and before it a sculptured figure of a little angel.

What a chubby-cheeked angel it was! both in the picture on the canvas with the aureole round the head, and also in the carved wood, which was also painted and gilded.

The hair glittered like pure gold in the sunshine, wonderful to see. God’s sunshine itself is really not much more beautiful when it shimmers clearly with a purple and golden light between the dark trees, when the sun is setting.

How delightful then must be the light of God’s countenance!

And as the drummer’s wife contemplated all this she wished in her heart that if she should ever have a child, it might be like that little angel, at least with the radiant golden hair of the little angel on the altar piece.

And by-and-by she really had a little child, and the father held it in his arms to show it to her. It was exactly like the angel in the church. The hair was golden, with the glittering brightness of sunshine, when the sun is setting.

“My golden treasure! my riches! my sunny heaven!” cried she, and kissed the shining locks, and there was the sound of music and song in the home of the drummer, as well as life, joy, and great excitement.

The drummer beat a whirligig on his drum—a joyful whirligig, and all the drums, little and big, joined in the turmoil.

“Red Hair!”—The little one has red hair! “Believe the beat of the alarm drum, not what the mother says:” Drum-a-tum-tum—drum-a-tum-tum.

And so all the townspeople believed what the alarm drum had said.

The little one was taken to the church to be baptized, but as no name had been chosen for him they called him “Peter.” The whole of the townspeople, except the drummer, called him “Peter, the drummer’s boy with the red hair.” The mother, however, kissed the red hair, and called him her “Golden Treasure.”

For the whole distance down the slope to the town the soil was clay and often very soft, and in that neighbourhood, the child’s name was not likely to be forgotten, the father took care of that.

“To be well known is always something,” said the drummer, so he wrote his own and his son’s name in the clay soil.

And the swallows arrived after a long journey. They had, however, hewn out an account of what they had seen, on the steep rocks, and on the walls of heathen temples, in Hindoostan, and also of the great deeds of mighty kings. Immortal names of so long ago that no one can read or speak of them any more.

“One name is something. To have many names has its importance,” thought the drummer, but down in the hollow where he had written the names, the ground swallows had made holes for their nests. The rain and the mists had softened the ground and turned it into mud and slime, and so the names of the drummer and his son had soon disappeared.

“Peter’s name will no doubt remain for the next half-year,” said his father.

“Folly,” thought the alarm drum, but he only said Dum-dum-dum-a-lum.

The drummer’s son was a lively frolicsome youngster, and he had a wonderful voice. He could sing so well, that people who heard him singing in the open air said it sounded like the music of birds in the grove. There was melody in the voice, but it wanted cultivation.

“He must be a chorister,” said his mother, “and sing in church, and when he stands under the lovely gilded angel you will see the likeness.”

“What’s going on?” said the curious among the townspeople. The drum heard this from the neighbours.

“Don’t go home, Peter,” cried the street boys, for if you sleep under that roof a fire will break out in the upper story, and then the alarm drum will beat.

“Take care of yourselves, or the drum-stick will beat you,” said Peter, who although he was little was no coward, and he stood and faced the boys quite alone, as he spoke.

Many of them lost their courage at the sight of his fists, while the others hastily took to their heels.

The town musician approached. Oh, just fancy! such a noble and wellborn man! His father had been silversmith to the king!

He pounced upon Peter, took him to his house and kept him for a whole hour, gave him a violin, and showed him how it was played.

When he placed it in the little boy’s fingers, he who once wished to be a drummer, now only wanted to become a musician.

“I mean to be a soldier,” Peter had said when he was a little boy, for he thought nothing in the world could be more beautiful than to carry a gun, and to wear uniform and have a sword by his side, and then to march in time—one, two—one, two.

“You will have to learn to obey the drumbeats,” said the drum, “trommelom, trommelom.”

“Yes, till he is promoted to be general,” said the father, “but for that a war is necessary.

“Which may God prevent,” said the mother.

“We have nothing to lose,” said the father.

“Have we not our son?” she replied.

“And supposing he should come back a general,” said the father.

“Ah, yes, without an arm or a leg,” cried the mother, “and I would rather keep my golden treasure at home, with sound limbs.”

Trom, trom, trom! the alarm drum sounded, all the drums were beating the call to battle; war was declared. The soldiers started for the field and the drummer’s little son followed them.

“Red-head! my golden treasure!” sighed the mother, while the father’s imagination saw him already gloriously distinguished.

“Ah,” thought the town musician, he will not remain long at the seat of war, for already he appears as if he would rather stay and listen to the town music.”

“Red-head,” cried a soldier, but Peter laughed and quickly paid him back by exclaiming, saucily, “Foxy,” then grinding his teeth together and showing them, he ran off and was out of sight, almost as soon as the saucy word was out of his mouth.

“The boy is very bright and full of drollery, and a light heart is better than any canteen in the battle field,” said his comrade.

And it was quite true, for in rain or mist, and though wet through to the skin, he would persist in sleeping in the open air all night, but his happy temper he never lost. And when the drum beat to call to arms, “trommelom, trommelom,” you would have declared he was born to be a drummer boy.

The day on which the first fight in the battle field occurred, dawned, but the morning was grey, the air close, and the combat fierce. A mist lay over the battle field, and worse still the powder became damp, yet the shot and shells flew about over head, and were falling in every direction, maiming some and killing others, yet onward the soldiers marched, while here and there lay the wounded or dying, with faces deathly white. But the little drummer kept his rosy cheeks and met with no harm. He even whistled gaily to the dog of the regiment, who sprang upon him joyfully, wagged his tail, as if it was a splendid game, while the shots were falling around them in every direction.

“March! forward! march,” were the words of command from the drum, and these words did not imply a retreat, yet by some misunderstanding, the soldiers took the words to mean a retreat and were about to fly, when the drum beat again louder and correctly, “March forward, march!” Peter had understood and gave the right signal on the drum, which the soldiers then obeyed.

This was a glorious drum beating, for it prevented the soldiers from turing back, and won victory to the army.

Alas! many lives and limbs were lost on that terrible battle field, and for hours the wounded were obliged to lie without pity or aid, till the surgeons arrived, and then with many it was too late, yet death had released them from their sufferings.

These things are dreadful to think of, yet people will think of them even at a distance, or in the friendly town. No wonder, therefore, that the drummer and his wife should think about these honours, for still Peter was in the battle field.

“Now I am full of sorrow,” cried the alarm drum.

Another battle was expected at sunrise the next day, and the town drummer and his wife lay awake all night thinking of their son, of whom they had been talking, and who was still in the battle field, yet, as they knew, in God’s hands.

As morning dawned, however, they at last fell asleep and dreamed.

The father dreamt that the war was ended, and that the soldiers who had been healed of their wounds were entering the town, and that Peter, who was with them, wore a silver cross on his breast.

But the mother dreamed that she went into the church and was looking earnestly at the oil painting and the carved angel with the golden hair, when presently she saw her own heart’s darling standing under the angel. There he stood in a white surplice, singing beautifully with the angel, and then suddenly nodding to his mother with a loving smile, he flew away to heaven.

“My gold treasure!” cried the mother as she woke from her dream; “God has now called him to Himself,” and she folded her hands and wept as she spoke. “Is he resting now among a number in one large grave? which has been dug for the dead, very likely in slimy soil. No one will know his grave. No words of God’s book will be read upon his tombstone.”

At last the words of the Lord’s prayer fell silently from her lips; then she rested her head on the pillow in her sorrow, and a light slumber took her in its arms.

Time flies as swiftly in our waking hours as it does in dreams.

It was the evening hour. A rainbow arched itself over the battle field and rested at each edge on the forest and on the deep moor.

Some people believe, and the saying has been preserved, that wherever the edge of the rainbow rests on the ground, there lies buried a treasure a golden treasure—and here was one in reality.

No one had thought of the little drummer boy—yes, one had—his mother thought of him, and from this came her dream.

And time flies as swiftly in life as in dreams. “Peter is coming home!” Not a hair of his head had been ruffled, not a golden hair, as the drummer and his mother could have sung had they seen it or dreamt it.

With jubilee and song, and adorned with the laurels of victory, the soldiers returned gladly to the friendly shelter of home. The dog of the regiment rushed round them in great circles as if he would make the way longer.

Days and weeks had passed before the arrival of the men from the war, and at last Peter stepped suddenly into the room where his parents were seated. He was as brown as a berry, his eyes glistened and his face beamed like sunshine when his mother took him in her arms, kissed his eyes and his lips and his red hair, She had her heart’s darling with her again at last. He had no cross on his breast as his father had dreamed. He had, however, sound limbs, which his mother had not dreamed of, and this was a great joy. She laughed and wept in turns, while Peter embraced the old alarm drum.

“There it is still, and the old parchment is as good as ever,” he said, while his father took up the drum and beat a rat-tan upon it.

“People will think that a great fire has broken out,” said the alarm drum; “Fire in the roof! fire in the heart! Gold Treasure is come home. Rattan, rat-tan, rat-tan!”

“And now,—yes,—what now?” said the town musician, when he heard of his return. “Peter is getting too old for a drummer boy,” he said; “Peter will become as great as I am.” And yet he was the son of the royal silversmith. But what had taken him a whole life to acquire, Peter learnt in half a year.

‘That there was in him something so bright and so truthful, even with his brilliant eyes and his blazing hair, no one could deny. “Never mind the colour of his hair,” said the neighbours, “he must have it dyed. The daughter of the police inspector would be an excellent match for him, and he would be sure to succeed with her.”

“But if his hair is dyed it will become as green as duckweed, and require to be dyed again frequently,” they said.

“Well, she has plenty of means,” said the neighbours. “And so has Peter,” was the reply; “he teaches music at the principal houses, even the mayor’s house, and gives his daughter, Lottie, an hour’s lesson on the piano.”

And he could play,—yes, play music that went right to the heart, the most wonderfully beautiful melodies, and often without notes.

He played in the moonlight as well as in the dark. “He is certainly very persevering,” said the neighbours, and the alarm drum said the same. His playing made those who listened feel as if lifted above the earth to the music of heaven, and reminded them of that place of rest on high.

And he taught the mayor’s daughter Lottie, to play like himself. As she sat at the piano, and her delicate fingers glided over the keys, Peter’s heart would flutter and swell as if it were ready to burst, and this happened not only once but many times. And one day he suddenly took the delicate fingers and the beautifully formed hand in his own, and kissed it, and looking at her with his great brown eyes said something—but what it was we outsiders dare not guess.

Lottie stood up with a deep flush on her cheeks, and appeared speechless.

Strange footsteps were heard approaching, and the son of a member of the council entered. He had a high, white forehead, and carried himself very erect. Peter sat along time with them. Lottie, however, glanced at him with very friendly eyes.

That evening, in the family circle at home, he spoke of his experience in the world, and of the “Golden Treasure, whose heart was in his violin.”

“Glory! fame! tummelum, tummelum, tummelumst,” beat the alarm drum. “Peter is gone crazy, his house is on fire, I believe.”

His mother went the next day to the market. When she came back she said, “I have news for you, Peter,—such good news, the mayor’s daughter, Lottie, is engaged to the son of the councillor; it happened yesterday evening.”

«Impossible!” cried Peter, starting from his seat; but his mother said “It is true, for the barber’s wife told me, and her husband heard it from the lips of the mayor himself.”

Then Peter became pale as death and sat down again without a word.

“Oh, heavens! what is the matter?” cried the mother.

“Nothing! nothing! Leave me alone,” he said, while the tears rolled down his cheeks.

“My dearest child! my golden treasure!” said the mother, and wept: but the alarm drum sang—not indeed truly, but only in the house—

“Lottie is dead! Lottie is dead! see, that is the end of the song.”

But, however, it was not the end of the song, there were many long verses remaining, and indeed the most beautiful, for the subject was, “The Golden Treasure of a life.”

“Good gracious! how foolishly those drummer people are behaving,” said the neighbours. “The whole town is full of letters written by the ‘Golden Treasure’ from the seat of war. Everybody is reading them, as well as what the newspapers say about him and his fiddle. Money also has been sent to him, which was really necessary, for Peter’s mother is now a lonely widow.”

“He has played before emperors and kings,” said the town musician, “but I was not aware of this, and yet I fancied it would be so, and he will never forget his old teacher.”

His father’s dream came true, that Peter would return from the war with a silver cross on his breast. He did not obtain it at the war, there it is more difficult to keep; but they just gave him the Chevalier cross and made him a knight.

If his father had only lived to see this!

“Celebrated! glorious!” said the alarm drum; and in his native town people said, “Only imagine! the drummer’s son—red-haired Peter, the youngster who used to run about in wooden shoes.” And then the drum beat and performed a dance tune.—“Glorious!”

“He played before us ere he played before the king,” said the mayor’s wife; “he was at that time quite taken up with our Lottie; he would always look above himself, but she was saucy and would not listen. My husband laughed when he observed their childishness, and now Lottie is the wife of the councillor’s son.”

It was a “golden treasure” in the heart and soul of the daring child,— the little drummer boy, who beat on the drum, “March! forward! march!” a war cry of victory to those who were about to fly.

And in the breast of the “Golden Treasure” lay an inexhaustible richness of voice and musical power.

The sound of his violin was to him quite like the tones of an organ, to which the fairies dance on a summer night, and one could hear in them the notes of the thrush and the full tones of the human voice. Therefore the melody sank deep into the human heart like a sweet refreshing shower.

Music in him was a great passion—and in this was a true inspiration, which made his name known over land and sea.

“And through this he is so beautiful,” said the young ladies; and the old voices too, yes, even the oldest, would ask for a lock of his hair, and one and all wanted something written in their albums.

And sometimes they would accept a lock of hair that fell off, belonging to the young violinist—a “golden treasure,” for which they begged.

The widow’s son stepped into the humble house of the drummer, looking as fine as a prince, and as happy as a king. His eyes sparkled and his countenance was bright like sunshine. The mother held him in her arms, kissed him fondly, and wept over him tears of joy.

And then he nodded to the old furniture in the room, and to the old-fashioned bureau with the tea-cups and the flower-glass upon it; and also to the wooden bench on which he used to sleep when he was a little boy, to show that he remembered it all.

But the old alarm drum he pulled out of the corner in which it stood, and placing it in the middle of the room, he said to his mother, “My dear father would have beaten a tarantella on the drum to-day, and now I must do it;” and then he beat a rat-tan that was like a thunder storm.

“You see,” he said, “it feels so excited that it could really jump out of its skin.”

“He has beaten a clever rat-tan,” said the drum, “and now I shall never forget him, and I think his mother is so joyful over her ‘golden treasure,’ that she is almost ready to jump out of her skin also.”

And this is the story of the “Golden Treasure.”