Andersen's Fairy Tales
coverlet filled with blue violets. She fell asleep, and had as pleasant
dreams as ever a queen on her wedding-day.
The next morning she went to play with the flowers in the warm sunshine,
and thus passed away a day. Gerda knew every flower; and, numerous as
they were, it still seemed to Gerda that one was wanting, though she
did not know which. One day while she was looking at the hat of the old
woman painted with flowers, the most beautiful of them all seemed to her
to be a rose. The old woman had forgotten to take it from her hat
when she made the others vanish in the earth. But so it is when one's
thoughts are not collected. “What!” said Gerda. “Are there no roses
here?” and she ran about amongst the flowerbeds, and looked, and looked,
but there was not one to be found. She then sat down and wept; but her
hot tears fell just where a rose-bush had sunk; and when her warm tears
watered the ground, the tree shot up suddenly as fresh and blooming as
when it had been swallowed up. Gerda kissed the roses, thought of her
own dear roses at home, and with them of little Kay.
“Oh, how long I have stayed!” said the little girl. “I intended to look
for Kay! Don't you know where he is?” she asked of the roses. “Do you
think he is dead and gone?”
“Dead he certainly is not,” said the Roses. “We have been in the earth
where all the dead are, but Kay was not there.”
“Many thanks!” said little Gerda; and she went to the other flowers,
looked into their cups, and asked, “Don't you know where little Kay is?”
But every flower stood in the sunshine, and dreamed its own fairy tale
or its own story: and they all told her very many things, but not one
knew anything of Kay.
Well, what did the Tiger-Lily say?
“Hearest thou not the drum? Bum! Bum! Those are the only two tones.
Always bum! Bum! Hark to the plaintive song of the old woman, to the
call of the priests! The Hindoo woman in her long robe stands upon the
funeral pile; the flames rise around her and her dead husband, but the
Hindoo woman thinks on the living one in the surrounding circle; on him
whose eyes burn hotter than the flames--on him, the fire of whose eyes
pierces her heart more than the flames which soon will burn her body to
ashes. Can the heart's flame die in the flame of the funeral pile?”
“I don't understand that at all,” said little Gerda.
“That is my story,” said the Lily.
What did the Convolvulus say?
“Projecting over a narrow mountain-path there hangs an old feudal
castle. Thick evergreens grow on the dilapidated walls, and around the
altar, where a lovely maiden is standing: she bends over the railing and
looks out upon the rose. No fresher rose hangs on the branches than she;
no appleblossom carried away by the wind is more buoyant! How her silken
robe is rustling!
“'Is he not yet come?'”
“Is it Kay that you mean?” asked little Gerda.
“I am speaking about my story--about my dream,” answered the
Convolvulus.
What did the Snowdrops say?
“Between the trees a long board is hanging--it is a swing. Two little
girls are sitting in it, and swing themselves backwards and forwards;
their frocks are as white as snow, and long green silk ribands flutter
from their bonnets. Their brother, who is older than they are, stands up
in the swing; he twines his arms round the cords to hold himself fast,
for in one hand he has a little cup, and in the other a clay-pipe. He is
blowing soap-bubbles. The swing moves, and the bubbles float in charming
changing colors: the last is still hanging to the end of the pipe, and
rocks in the breeze. The swing moves. The little black dog, as light as
a soap-bubble, jumps up on his hind legs to try to get into the swing.
It moves, the dog falls down, barks, and is angry. They tease him; the
bubble bursts! A swing, a bursting bubble--such is my song!”
“What you relate may be very pretty, but you tell it in so melancholy a
manner, and do not mention Kay.”
What do the Hyacinths say?
“There were once upon a time three sisters, quite transparent, and very
beautiful. The robe of the one was red, that of the second blue, and
that of the third white. They danced hand in hand beside the calm
lake in the clear moonshine. They were not elfin maidens, but mortal
children. A sweet fragrance was smelt, and the maidens vanished in the
wood; the fragrance grew stronger--three coffins, and in them three
lovely maidens, glided out of the forest and across the lake: the
shining glow-worms flew around like little floating lights. Do the
dancing maidens sleep, or are they dead? The odour of the flowers says
they are corpses; the evening bell tolls for the dead!”
“You make me quite sad,” said little Gerda. “I cannot help thinking of
the dead maidens. Oh! is little Kay really dead? The Roses have been in
the earth, and they say no.”
“Ding, dong!” sounded the Hyacinth bells. “We do not toll for little
Kay; we do not know him. That is our way of singing, the only one we
have.”
And Gerda went to the Ranunculuses, that looked forth from among the
shining green leaves.
“You are a little bright sun!” said Gerda. “Tell me if you know where I
can find my playfellow.”
And the Ranunculus shone brightly, and looked again at Gerda. What
song could the Ranunculus sing? It was one that said nothing about Kay
either.
“In a small court the bright sun was shining in the first days of
spring. The beams glided down the white walls of a neighbor's house, and
close by the fresh yellow flowers were growing, shining like gold in
the warm sun-rays. An old grandmother was sitting in the air; her
grand-daughter, the poor and lovely servant just come for a short visit.
She knows her grandmother. There was gold, pure virgin gold in that
blessed kiss. There, that is my little story,” said the Ranunculus.
“My poor old grandmother!” sighed Gerda. “Yes, she is longing for me,
no doubt: she is sorrowing for me, as she did for little Kay. But I
will soon come home, and then I will bring Kay with me. It is of no use
asking the flowers; they only know their own old rhymes, and can tell me
nothing.” And she tucked up her frock, to enable her to run quicker; but
the Narcissus gave her a knock on the leg, just as she was going to
jump over it. So she stood still, looked at the long yellow flower, and
asked, “You perhaps know something?” and she bent down to the Narcissus.
And what did it say?
“I can see myself--I can see myself! Oh, how odorous I am! Up in the
little garret there stands, half-dressed, a little Dancer. She stands
now on one leg, now on both; she despises the whole world; yet she lives
only in imagination. She pours water out of the teapot over a piece of
stuff which she holds in her hand; it is the bodice; cleanliness is a
fine thing. The white dress is hanging on the hook; it was washed in the
teapot, and dried on the roof. She puts it on, ties a saffron-colored
kerchief round her neck, and then the gown looks whiter. I can see
myself--I can see myself!”
“That's nothing to me,” said little Gerda. “That does not concern me.”
And then off she ran to the further end of the garden.
The gate was locked, but she shook the rusted bolt till it was loosened,
and the gate opened; and little Gerda ran off barefooted into the wide
world. She looked round her thrice, but no one followed her. At last she
could run no longer; she sat down on a large stone, and when she looked
about her, she saw that the summer had passed; it was late in the
autumn, but that one could not remark in the beautiful garden, where
there was always sunshine, and where there were flowers the whole year
round.
“Dear me, how long I have staid!” said Gerda. “Autumn is come. I must
not rest any longer.” And she got up to go further.
Oh, how tender and wearied her little feet were! All around it looked
so cold and raw: the long willow-leaves were quite yellow, and the fog
dripped from them like water; one leaf fell after the other: the sloes
only stood full of fruit, which set one's teeth on edge. Oh, how dark
and comfortless it was in the dreary world!
FOURTH STORY. The Prince and Princess
Gerda was obliged to rest herself again, when, exactly opposite to her,
a large Raven came hopping over the white snow. He had long been looking
at Gerda and shaking his head; and now he said, “Caw! Caw!” Good day!
Good day! He could not say it better; but he felt a sympathy for the
little girl, and asked her where she was going all alone. The word
“alone” Gerda understood quite well, and felt how much was expressed
by it; so she told the Raven her whole history, and asked if he had not
seen Kay.
The Raven nodded very gravely, and said, “It may be--it may be!”
“What, do you really think so?” cried the little girl; and she nearly
squeezed the Raven to death, so much did she kiss him.
“Gently, gently,” said the Raven. “I think I know; I think that it may
be little Kay. But now he has forgotten you for the Princess.”
“Does he live with a Princess?” asked Gerda.
“Yes--listen,” said the Raven; “but it will be difficult for me to
speak your language. If you understand the Raven language I can tell you
better.”
“No, I have not learnt it,” said Gerda; “but my grandmother understands
it, and she can speak gibberish too. I wish I had learnt it.”
“No matter,” said the Raven; “I will tell you as well as I can; however,
it will be bad enough.” And then he told all he knew.
“In the kingdom where we now are there lives a Princess, who is
extraordinarily clever; for she has read all the newspapers in the whole
world, and has forgotten them again--so clever is she. She was lately,
it is said, sitting on her throne--which is not very amusing after
all--when she began humming an old tune, and it was just, 'Oh, why
should I not be married?' 'That song is not without its meaning,' said
she, and so then she was determined to marry; but she would have a
husband who knew how to give an answer when he was spoken to--not
one who looked only as if he were a great personage, for that is so
tiresome. She then had all the ladies of the court drummed together; and
when they heard her intention, all were very pleased, and said, 'We are
very glad to hear it; it is the very thing we were thinking of.' You may
believe every word I say,” said the Raven; “for I have a tame sweetheart
that hops about in the palace quite free, and it was she who told me all
this.
“The newspapers appeared forthwith with a border of hearts and the
initials of the Princess; and therein you might read that every
good-looking young man was at liberty to come to the palace and speak to
the Princess; and he who spoke in such wise as showed he felt himself at
home there, that one the Princess would choose for her husband.
“Yes, Yes,” said the Raven, “you may believe it; it is as true as I am
sitting here. People came in crowds; there was a crush and a hurry, but
no one was successful either on the first or second day. They could all
talk well enough when they were out in the street; but as soon as
they came inside the palace gates, and saw the guard richly dressed
in silver, and the lackeys in gold on the staircase, and the large
illuminated saloons, then they were abashed; and when they stood before
the throne on which the Princess was sitting, all they could do was
to repeat the last word they had uttered, and to hear it again did not
interest her very much. It was just as if the people within were under
a charm, and had fallen into a trance till they came out again into the
street; for then--oh, then--they could chatter enough. There was a whole
row of them standing from the town-gates to the palace. I was there
myself to look,” said the Raven. “They grew hungry and thirsty; but from
the palace they got nothing whatever, not even a glass of water. Some