“From the shop opposite,” he replied. “Many portraits hang there that
none seem to trouble themselves about. The persons they represent have
been dead and buried long since. But I knew this lady many years ago, and
she has been dead nearly half a century.”
Under a glass beneath the picture hung a nosegay of withered flowers,
which were no doubt half a century old too, at least they appeared so.
And the pendulum of the old clock went to and fro, and the hands turned
round; and as time passed on, everything in the room grew older, but no one
seemed to notice it.
“They say at home,” said the little boy, “that you are very lonely.”
“Oh,” replied the old man, “I have pleasant thoughts of all that has
passed, recalled by memory; and now you are come to visit me, and that is
very pleasant.”
Then he took from the book-case, a book full of pictures representing
long processions of wonderful coaches, such as are never seen at the present
time. Soldiers like the knave of clubs, and citizens with waving banners.
The tailors had a flag with a pair of scissors supported by two lions, and on
the shoemakers’ flag there were not boots, but an eagle with two heads, for
the shoemakers must have everything arranged so that they can say, “This is
a pair.” What a picture-book it was; and then the old man went into another
room to fetch apples and nuts. It was very pleasant, certainly, to be in that
old house.
“I cannot endure it,” said the tin soldier, who stood on a shelf, “it is so
lonely and dull here. I have been accustomed to live in a family, and I
cannot get used to this life. I cannot bear it. The whole day is long enough,
but the evening is longer. It is not here like it was in your house opposite,
when your father and mother talked so cheerfully together, while you and
all the dear children made such a delightful noise. No, it is all lonely in the
old man’s house. Do you think he gets any kisses? Do you think he ever has
friendly looks, or a Christmas tree? He will have nothing now but the grave.
Oh, I cannot bear it.”
