The Old Street Lamp
Did you ever hear the story of the old
street lamp? It is not remarkably interesting, but for once in a way you
may as well listen to it. It was a most respectable old lamp, which had
seen many, many years of service, and now was to retire with a pension.
It was this evening at its post for the last time, giving light to the
street. His feelings were something like those of an old dancer at the
theatre, who is dancing for the last time, and knows that on the morrow
she will be in her garret, alone and forgotten. The lamp had very great
anxiety about the next day, for he knew that he had to appear for the
first time at the town hall, to be inspected by the mayor and the
council, who were to decide if he were fit for further service or
not;—whether the lamp was good enough to be used to light the inhabitants
of one of the suburbs, or in the country, at some factory; and if not, it
would be sent at once to an iron foundry, to be melted down. In this
latter case it might be turned into anything, and he wondered very much
whether he would then be able to remember that he had once been a street
lamp, and it troubled him exceedingly. Whatever might happen, one thing
seemed certain, that he would be separated from the watchman and his
wife, whose family he looked upon as his own. The lamp had first been
hung up on that very evening that the watchman, then a robust young man,
had entered upon the duties of his office. Ah, well, it was a very long
time since one became a lamp and the other a watchman. His wife had a
little pride in those days; she seldom condescended to glance at the
lamp, excepting when she passed by in the evening, never in the daytime.
But in later years, when all these,—the watchman, the wife, and the lamp—
had grown old, she had attended to it, cleaned it, and supplied it with
oil. The old people were thoroughly honest, they had never cheated the
lamp of a single drop of the oil provided for it.
This was the lamp’s last night in the street, and to-morrow he must go to
the town-hall,—two very dark things to think of. No wonder he did not
burn brightly. Many other thoughts also passed through his mind. How many
persons he had lighted on their way, and how much he had seen; as much,
very likely, as the mayor and corporation themselves! None of these
thoughts were uttered aloud, however; for he was a good, honorable old
lamp, who would not willingly do harm to any one, especially to those in
authority. As many things were recalled to his mind, the light would
flash up with sudden brightness; he had, at such moments, a conviction
that he would be remembered. “There was a handsome young man once,”
thought he; “it is certainly a long while ago, but I remember he had a
little note, written on pink paper with a gold edge; the writing was
elegant, evidently a lady’s hand: twice he read it through, and kissed
it, and then looked up at me, with eyes that said quite plainly, ‘I am
the happiest of men!’ Only he and I know what was written on this his
first letter from his lady-love. Ah, yes, and there was another pair of
eyes that I remember,—it is really wonderful how the thoughts jump from
one thing to another! A funeral passed through the street; a young and
beautiful woman lay on a bier, decked with garlands of flowers, and
attended by torches, which quite overpowered my light. All along the
street stood the people from the houses, in crowds, ready to join the
procession. But when the torches had passed from before me, and I could
look round, I saw one person alone, standing, leaning against my post,
and weeping. Never shall I forget the sorrowful eyes that looked up at
me.” These and similar reflections occupied the old street lamp, on this
the last time that his light would shine. The sentry, when he is relieved
from his post, knows at least who will succeed him, and may whisper a few
words to him, but the lamp did not know his successor, or he could have
given him a few hints respecting rain, or mist, and could have informed
him how far the moon’s rays would rest on the pavement, and from which
side the wind generally blew, and so on.
On the bridge over the canal stood three persons, who wished to recommend
themselves to the lamp, for they thought he could give the office to
whomsoever he chose. The first was a herring’s head, which could emit
light in the darkness. He remarked that it would be a great saving of oil
if they placed him on the lamp-post. Number two was a piece of rotten
wood, which also shines in the dark. He considered himself descended from
an old stem, once the pride of the forest. The third was a glow-worm, and
how he found his way there the lamp could not imagine, yet there he was,
and could really give light as well as the others. But the rotten wood
and the herring’s head declared most solemnly, by all they held sacred,
that the glow-worm only gave light at certain times, and must not be
allowed to compete with themselves. The old lamp assured them that not
one of them could give sufficient light to fill the position of a street
lamp; but they would believe nothing he said. And when they discovered
that he had not the power of naming his successor, they said they were
very glad to hear it, for the lamp was too old and worn-out to make a
proper choice.
At this moment the wind came rushing round the corner of the street, and
through the air-holes of the old lamp. “What is this I hear?” said he;
“that you are going away to-morrow? Is this evening the last time we
shall meet? Then I must present you with a farewell gift. I will blow
into your brain, so that in future you shall not only be able to remember
all that you have seen or heard in the past, but your light within shall
be so bright, that you shall be able to understand all that is said or
done in your presence.”
“Oh, that is really a very, very great gift,” said the old lamp; “I thank
you most heartily. I only hope I shall not be melted down.”
“That is not likely to happen yet,” said the wind; “and I will also blow
a memory into you, so that should you receive other similar presents your
old age will pass very pleasantly.”
“That is if I am not melted down,” said the lamp. “But should I in that
case still retain my memory?”
“Do be reasonable, old lamp,” said the wind, puffing away.
At this moment the moon burst forth from the clouds. “What will you give
the old lamp?” asked the wind.
“I can give nothing,” she replied; “I am on the wane, and no lamps have
ever given me light while I have frequently shone upon them.” And with
these words the moon hid herself again behind the clouds, that she might
be saved from further importunities. Just then a drop fell upon the lamp,
from the roof of the house, but the drop explained that he was a gift
from those gray clouds, and perhaps the best of all gifts. “I shall
penetrate you so thoroughly,” he said, “that you will have the power of
becoming rusty, and, if you wish it, to crumble into dust in one night.”
But this seemed to the lamp a very shabby present, and the wind thought
so too. “Does no one give any more? Will no one give any more?” shouted
the breath of the wind, as loud as it could. Then a bright falling star
came down, leaving a broad, luminous streak behind it.
“What was that?” cried the herring’s head. “Did not a star fall? I really
believe it went into the lamp. Certainly, when such high-born personages
try for the office, we may as well say ‘Good-night,’ and go home.”
And so they did, all three, while the old lamp threw a wonderfully strong
light all around him.
“This is a glorious gift,” said he; “the bright stars have always been a
joy to me, and have always shone more brilliantly than I ever could
shine, though I have tried with my whole might; and now they have noticed
me, a poor old lamp, and have sent me a gift that will enable me to see
clearly everything that I remember, as if it still stood before me, and
to be seen by all those who love me. And herein lies the truest pleasure,
for joy which we cannot share with others is only half enjoyed.”
“That sentiment does you honor,” said the wind; “but for this purpose wax
lights will be necessary. If these are not lighted in you, your
particular faculties will not benefit others in the least. The stars have
not thought of this; they suppose that you and every other light must be
a wax taper: but I must go down now.” So he laid himself to rest.
“Wax tapers, indeed!” said the lamp, “I have never yet had these, nor is
it likely I ever shall. If I could only be sure of not being melted
down!”
The next day. Well, perhaps we had better pass over the next day. The
evening had come, and the lamp was resting in a grandfather’s chair, and
guess where! Why, at the old watchman’s house. He had begged, as a favor,
that the mayor and corporation would allow him to keep the street lamp,
in consideration of his long and faithful service, as he had himself hung
it up and lit it on the day he first commenced his duties,
four-and-twenty years ago. He looked upon it almost as his own child; he
had no children, so the lamp was given to him. There it lay in the great
arm-chair near to the warm stove. It seemed almost as if it had grown
larger, for it appeared quite to fill the chair. The old people sat at
their supper, casting friendly glances at the old lamp, whom they would
willingly have admitted to a place at the table. It is quite true that
they dwelt in a cellar, two yards deep in the earth, and they had to
cross a stone passage to get to their room, but within it was warm and
comfortable and strips of list had been nailed round the door. The bed
and the little window had curtains, and everything looked clean and neat.
On the window seat stood two curious flower-pots which a sailor, named
Christian, had brought over from the East or West Indies. They were of
clay, and in the form of two elephants, with open backs; they were hollow
and filled with earth, and through the open space flowers bloomed. In one
grew some very fine chives or leeks; this was the kitchen garden. The
other elephant, which contained a beautiful geranium, they called their
flower garden. On the wall hung a large colored print, representing the
congress of Vienna, and all the kings and emperors at once. A clock, with
heavy weights, hung on the wall and went “tick, tick,” steadily enough;
yet it was always rather too fast, which, however, the old people said
was better than being too slow. They were now eating their supper, while
the old street lamp, as we have heard, lay in the grandfather’s arm-chair
near the stove. It seemed to the lamp as if the whole world had turned
round; but after a while the old watchman looked at the lamp, and spoke
of what they had both gone through together,—in rain and in fog; during
the short bright nights of summer, or in the long winter nights, through
the drifting snow-storms, when he longed to be at home in the cellar.
Then the lamp felt it was all right again. He saw everything that had
happened quite clearly, as if it were passing before him. Surely the wind
had given him an excellent gift. The old people were very active and
industrious, they were never idle for even a single hour. On Sunday
afternoons they would bring out some books, generally a book of travels
which they were very fond of. The old man would read aloud about Africa,
with its great forests and the wild elephants, while his wife would
listen attentively, stealing a glance now and then at the clay elephants,
which served as flower-pots.
“I can almost imagine I am seeing it all,” she said; and then how the
lamp wished for a wax taper to be lighted in him, for then the old woman
would have seen the smallest detail as clearly as he did himself. The
lofty trees, with their thickly entwined branches, the naked negroes on
horseback, and whole herds of elephants treading down bamboo thickets
with their broad, heavy feet.
“What is the use of all my capabilities,” sighed the old lamp, “when I
cannot obtain any wax lights; they have only oil and tallow here, and
these will not do.” One day a great heap of wax-candle ends found their
way into the cellar. The larger pieces were burnt, and the smaller ones
the old woman kept for waxing her thread. So there were now candles
enough, but it never occurred to any one to put a little piece in the
lamp.
“Here I am now with my rare powers,” thought the lamp, “I have faculties
within me, but I cannot share them; they do not know that I could cover
these white walls with beautiful tapestry, or change them into noble
forests, or, indeed, to anything else they might wish for.” The lamp,
however, was always kept clean and shining in a corner where it attracted
all eyes. Strangers looked upon it as lumber, but the old people did not
care for that; they loved the lamp. One day—it was the watchman’s
birthday—the old woman approached the lamp, smiling to herself, and said,
“I will have an illumination to-day in honor of my old man.” And the lamp
rattled in his metal frame, for he thought, “Now at last I shall have a
light within me,” but after all no wax light was placed in the lamp, but
oil as usual. The lamp burned through the whole evening, and began to
perceive too clearly that the gift of the stars would remain a hidden
treasure all his life. Then he had a dream; for, to one with his
faculties, dreaming was no difficulty. It appeared to him that the old
people were dead, and that he had been taken to the iron foundry to be
melted down. It caused him quite as much anxiety as on the day when he
had been called upon to appear before the mayor and the council at the
town-hall. But though he had been endowed with the power of falling into
decay from rust when he pleased, he did not make use of it. He was
therefore put into the melting-furnace and changed into as elegant an
iron candlestick as you could wish to see, one intended to hold a wax
taper. The candlestick was in the form of an angel holding a nosegay, in
the centre of which the wax taper was to be placed. It was to stand on a
green writing table, in a very pleasant room; many books were scattered
about, and splendid paintings hung on the walls. The owner of the room
was a poet, and a man of intellect; everything he thought or wrote was
pictured around him. Nature showed herself to him sometimes in the dark
forests, at others in cheerful meadows where the storks were strutting
about, or on the deck of a ship sailing across the foaming sea with the
clear, blue sky above, or at night the glittering stars. “What powers I
possess!” said the lamp, awaking from his dream; “I could almost wish to
be melted down; but no, that must not be while the old people live. They
love me for myself alone, they keep me bright, and supply me with oil. I
am as well off as the picture of the congress, in which they take so much
pleasure.” And from that time he felt at rest in himself, and not more so
than such an honorable old lamp really deserved to be.
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A beautiful tale about leaving behind a whole life (hopefully) well lived. I'm not sure if the author meant it to be about what comes after we die, since he was a Christian and therefore probably didn't believe in reincarnation, but it can also be interpreted like that. After all, the thought of death and what comes after is pretty obvious in this tale. Or perhaps it talks about retirement and its fears, that one might become useless (a death of sorts) or a different person. It might be talking about the gifts we can give our loved ones, if only we're given the chance. Either way, much like Kafka's "Metamorphosis", it seems to talk about that time in the autumn years of one's life when frightening changes approach and, even if we're lucky enough to be safe in the bosom of a loving family, we must deal with them on our own.
