Years passed away; and at last the linen was so worn it could scarcely hold together. “It must end very soon,” said the pieces to each other. “We would gladly have held together a little longer, but we must not forget that there is an end to all things.” And at length they fell into rags and tatters, and thought it was all over with them, for they were torn to shreds, and steeped in water and made into a pulp, and dried, and they knew not what besides, till all at once they found themselves beautiful white paper.
“Well, now, this is a surprise; a glorious surprise, too,” said the paper. “I am now finer than ever, and I shall be written upon, and who can tell what fine things I may have written upon me? This is wonderful luck!” And sure enough, the most beautiful stories and poetry were written upon it. Then people heard the stories and poetry read, and it made them wiser and better; for all that was written was sensible and good, and a great blessing was contained in the words on the paper.
“I never imagined anything like this,” said the paper, “when I was only a little blue flower, growing in the fields. How could I imagine that I should ever be the means of bringing knowledge and joy to men? I cannot understand it myself, and yet it is really so. I suppose now I shall be sent on my travels about the world, so that people may read me. It cannot be otherwise; indeed, it is more than probable, for I have more splendid thoughts written upon me than I had pretty flowers in olden times. I am happier than ever.”
But the paper did not go on its travels. It was sent to the printer, and all the words written upon it were set up in type, to make a book, or rather hundreds of books; for so many more persons could gain pleasure from a printed book than from the written paper; and if the paper had been sent about the world, it would have been worn out before it had got half through its journey.
“This is certainly the wisest plan,” said the written paper; “I really did not think of that. I shall remain at home and be held in honor, like some old grandfather, as I really am to all these new books. They shall do some good. I could not have wandered about as they do. Yet he who wrote all this has looked at me as every word flowed from his pen upon my surface. I am the most honored of all.”
Then the paper was tied in a bundle with other papers, and thrown into a tub that stood in the wash-house. “After work, it is well to rest,” said the paper. “Now I am able for the first time to think of my life and all the good that I have done. What shall be done with me now, I wonder? No doubt I shall still go forward.”
Now it happened one day that all the paper in the tub was taken out, and laid on the hearth to be burnt. People said it could not be sold at the shop, to wrap up butter and sugar, because it had been written upon. The children in the house stood round the stove; for they wished to see the paper burn, because it flamed up so prettily, and afterwards, among the ashes, so many red sparks could be seen running one after the other, here and there, as quick as the wind.
The whole bundle of paper had been placed on the fire, and was soon alight. “Oh, oh!” cried the paper, as it burst into a bright flame. It was certainly not very pleasant to be burning; but when the whole was wrapped in flames, the flames mounted up into the air, higher than the flax had ever been able to raise its little blue flower; and they gleamed as the white linen had never been able to gleam. All the written letters became quite red in a moment, and all the words and thoughts turned into fire.
“Now I am mounting straight up to the sun,” said a voice in the flames, and it was as if a thousand voices echoed the words; and the flames darted up through the chimney, and went out at the top. Nothing remained of the paper but black ashes with the red sparks dancing over them. The children thought that this was the end, but the sparks sang, “The most beautiful is yet to come.”
—Hans Christian Andersen.