THE THIRD STORY
THE FLOWER GARDEN OF THE WOMAN WHO COULD CONJURE
But how did it fare with little Gerda when Kay did not return? What could have become of him? No one knew, no one could give information. The boys only told that they had seen him bind his sledge to another very large one, which had driven along the street and out at the town gate. Nobody knew what had become of him; many tears were shed, and little Gerda especially wept long and bitterly. Then she said he was dead—he had been drowned in the river which flowed close by their school. Oh, those were very dark, long winter days! But now spring came, with warmer sunshine.
"Kay is dead and gone," said little Gerda.
"I don't believe it," said the Sunshine.
"He is dead and gone," said she to the Sparrows. "We don't believe it," they replied; and at last little Gerda did not believe it herself.
"I will put on my new red shoes," she said one morning—"those that Kay has never seen; and then I will go down to the river, and ask for him."
It was still very early; she kissed the old grandmother, who was still asleep, put on her red shoes, and went quite alone out of the town gate toward the river.
"Is it true that you have taken my little playmate from me? I will give you my red shoes if you will give him back to me."
And it seemed to her as if the waves nodded quite strangely; and then she took her red shoes, which she liked best of anything she possessed, and threw them both into the river; but they fell close to the shore, and the little wavelets carried them back to her, to the land. It seemed as if the river would not take from her the dearest things she possessed because he had not her little Kay. But she thought she had not thrown the shoes far enough out, so she crept into a boat that lay among the reeds, went to the other end of the boat, and threw the shoes from thence into the water; but the boat was not bound fast, and at the movement she made it glided away from the shore. She noticed it, and hurried to get back; but before she reached the other end, the boat was a yard from the bank, and it drifted away faster than before.
Then little Gerda was very much frightened, and began to cry; but no one heard her except the Sparrows, and they could not carry her to land; but they flew along the shore, and sang, as if to console her, "Here we are! here we are!" The boat drove on with the stream, and little Gerda sat quite still, with only her stockings on her feet; her little red shoes floated along behind her, but they could not come up to the boat, for that made more way.
It was very pretty on both shores. There were beautiful flowers, old trees, and slopes with sheep and cows; but not ONE person was to be seen.
"Perhaps the river will carry me to little Kay," thought Gerda.
And then she became more cheerful, and rose up, and for many hours she watched the charming green banks; then she came to a great cherry orchard, in which stood a little house with remarkable blue and red windows; it had a thatched roof, and without stood two wooden soldiers, who presented arms to those who sailed past.
[Illustration: THEY FLEW OVER WOODS AND LAKES]
Gerda called to them, for she thought they were alive, but of course they did not answer. She came quite close to them. The river carried the boat toward the shore.
Gerda called still louder, and then there came out of the house an old woman leaning on a crutch; she had on a great velvet hat, painted over with the finest flowers.
"You poor little child!" said the old woman. "How did you manage to come on the great rolling river, and to float thus far out into the world?"
And then the old woman went quite into the water, seized the boat with her crutch stick, drew it to land, and lifted little Gerda out. And Gerda was glad to be on dry land again, though she felt a little afraid of the strange old woman.
"Come and tell me who you are, and how you came here," said the old lady. And Gerda told her everything; and the old woman shook her head, and said, "Hem! hem!" And when Gerda had told everything, and asked if she had not seen little Kay, the woman said that he had not yet come by, but that he probably would soon come. Gerda was not to be sorrowful, but to look at the flowers and taste the cherries, for they were better than any picture book, for each one of them could tell a story. Then she took Gerda by the hand and led her into the little house, and locked the door.
The windows were very high, and the panes were red, blue and yellow; the daylight shone in a remarkable way, with different colors. On the table stood the finest cherries, and Gerda ate as many of them as she liked, for she had leave to do so. While she was eating them, the old lady combed Gerda's hair with a golden comb, and the yellow hair hung softly round the friendly little face, which looked as blooming as a rose.
"I have long wished for such a dear little girl as you," said the old lady. "Now you shall see how well we shall live with one another."
And as the ancient dame combed her hair, Gerda forgot her adopted brother Kay more and more; for this old woman could conjure, but she was not a wicked witch. She only practiced a little magic for her own amusement, and wanted to keep little Gerda. Therefore she went into the garden, stretched out her crutch toward all the rosebushes, and, beautiful as they were, they all sank into the earth, and one could not tell where they had stood. The old woman was afraid that, if the little girl saw roses, she would think of her own, and remember little Kay, and run away.
Now Gerda was led out into the flower garden. What fragrance was there, and what loveliness! Every conceivable flower was there in full bloom; there were some for every season; no picture book could be gayer and prettier. Gerda jumped high for joy, and played till the sun went down behind the high cherry trees; then she was put into a lovely bed, with red silk pillows stuffed with blue violets, and she slept there, and dreamed as gloriously as a queen on her wedding day.
Next day she played again with the flowers in the warm sunshine; and thus many days went by. Gerda knew every flower; but, many as there were of them, it still seemed to her as if one were wanting, but which one she did not know. One day she sat looking at the old lady's hat with the painted flowers, and the prettiest of them all was a rose. The old lady had forgotten to efface it from her hat when she caused the others to disappear. But so it always is when one does not keep one's wits about one.
"What, are there no roses here?" cried Gerda.
And she went among the beds, and searched and searched, but there was not one to be found. Then she sat down and wept; her tears fell just upon a spot where a rosebush lay buried, and when the warm tears moistened the earth, the tree at once sprouted up as blooming as when it had sunk; and Gerda embraced it, kissed the roses, and thought of the beautiful roses at home, and also of little Kay.
"Oh, how I have been detained!" said the little girl. "I wanted to seek for little Kay! Do you not know where he is?" she asked the roses. "Do you think he is dead?"
"He is not dead," the roses answered. "We have been in the ground. All the dead people are there, but Kay is not there."
"Thank you," said little Gerda, and she went to the other flowers, looked into their cups, and asked, "Do you know where little Kay is?"
But every flower stood in the sun thinking only of her own story, or fancy tale. Gerda heard many, many, of them; but not one knew anything of Kay.
And what did the Tiger Lily say?
"Do you hear the drum, 'Rub-dub'? There are only two notes, always 'rub- dub'! Hear the mourning song of the women; hear the call of the priests. The Hindoo widow stands in her long red mantle on the funeral pile; the flames rise up around her and her dead husband; but the Hindoo woman is thinking of the living one here in the circle, of him whose eyes burn hotter than flames, whose fiery glances have burned into her soul more ardently than the flames themselves, which are soon to burn her body to ashes. Can the flame of the heart die in the flame of the funeral pile?"
"I don't understand that at all!" said little Gerda.
"That's my story," said the Lily.
What says the Convolvulus?
"Over the narrow road looms an old knightly castle; thickly the ivy grows over the crumbling red walls, leaf by leaf up to the balcony, where stands a beautiful girl; she bends over the balustrade and glances up the road. No rose on its branch is fresher than she; no apple blossom wafted onward by the wind floats more lightly along. How her costly silks rustle! 'Comes he not yet?'"
"Is it Kay whom you mean?" asked little Gerda.
"I'm only speaking of a story—my dream," replied the Convolvulus.
What said the little Snowdrop?
"Between the trees a long board hangs by ropes; that is a swing. Two pretty little girls, with clothes white as snow and long green silk ribbons on their hats, are sitting upon it, swinging. Their brother, who is greater than they, stands in the swing, and has slung his arm round the rope to hold himself, for in one hand he has a little saucer, and in the other a clay pipe. He is blowing bubbles. The swing flies, and the bubbles rise with beautiful, changing colors; the last still hangs from the pipe bowl, swaying in the wind. The swing flies on; the little black dog, light as the bubbles, stands up on his hind legs, and wants to be taken into the swing: it flies on, and the dog falls, barks, and grows angry, for he is teased, and the bubble bursts. A swinging board and a bursting bubble—that is my song."
"It may be very pretty, what you're telling, but you speak it so mournfully, and you don't mention little Kay at all."
[Illustration: "HE IS BLOWING BUBBLES">[
What do the Hyacinths say?
"There were three beautiful sisters, transparent and delicate. The dress of one was red, that of the second blue, and that of the third quite white; hand in hand they danced by the calm lake in the bright moonlight. They were not elves; they were human beings. It was so sweet and fragrant there! The girls disappeared in the forest, and the sweet fragrance became stronger: three coffins, with three beautiful maidens lying in them, glided from the wood-thicket across the lake; the glowworms flew gleaming about them like little hovering lights. Are the dancing girls sleeping, or are they dead? The flower scent says they are dead, and the evening bell tolls their knell."
"You make me quite sorrowful," said little Gerda. "You scent so strongly, I cannot help thinking of the dead maidens. Ah! is little Kay really dead? The Roses have been down in the earth, and they say he is not."
"Kling! klang!" tolled the Hyacinth bells. "We are not tolling for little Kay—we don't know him; we only sing our song, the only one we know."
And Gerda went to the Buttercup, gleaming forth from the green leaves.
"You are a little bright sun," said Gerda. "Tell me, if you know, where
I may find my companion."
And the Buttercup shone so gaily, and looked back at Gerda. What song might the Buttercup sing? It was not about Kay.
"In a little courtyard the clear sun shone warm on the first day of spring. The sunbeams glided down the white wall of the neighboring house; close by grew the first yellow flower, glancing like gold in the bright sun's ray. The old grandmother sat out of doors in her chair; her granddaughter, a poor, handsome maid-servant, was coming home for a short visit. She kissed her grandmother. There was gold, heart's gold, in that blessed kiss—gold in the mouth, gold in the south, gold in the morning hour. See, that's my little story," said the Buttercup.
"My poor old grandmother!" sighed Gerda. "Yes, she is surely longing for me and grieving for me, just as she did for little Kay. But I shall soon go home and take Kay with me. There is no use of my asking the flowers; they know only their own song, and give me no information." And then she tied her little frock round her, that she might run the faster; but the Jonquil struck against her leg as she sprang over it, and she stopped to look at the tall yellow flower, and asked, "Do you, perhaps, know anything of little Kay?"
And she bent quite down to the flower, and what did it say?
"I can see myself! I can see myself!" said the Jonquil. "Oh! oh! how I smell! Up in the little room in the gable stands a little dancing girl. She stands sometimes on one foot, sometimes on both; she seems to tread on all the world. She's nothing but an ocular delusion: she pours water out of a teapot on a bit of stuff—it is her bodice. 'Cleanliness is a fine thing,' she says; her white frock hangs on a hook; it has been washed in the teapot too, and dried on the roof. She puts it on and ties her saffron handkerchief round her neck, and the dress looks all the whiter. Point your toes! look how she seems to stand on a stalk. I can see myself! I can see myself!"
"I don't care at all about that," said Gerda. "You need not tell me that."
And then she ran to the end of the garden. The door was locked, but she pressed against the rusty lock, and it broke off, the door sprang open, and little Gerda ran with naked feet out into the wide world. She looked back three times, but no one was there to pursue her. At last she could run no longer, and seated herself on a great stone; and when she looked round the summer was over—it was late in autumn. One could not notice that in the beautiful garden, where there was always sunshine, and where the flowers of every season always bloomed.
"Alas! how I have loitered!" said little Gerda. "Autumn has come. I may not rest again."
And she rose up to go on. Oh! how sore and tired her little feet were. All around it looked cold and bleak; the long willow leaves were quite yellow, and the dew fell down like water; one leaf after another dropped; only the sloe-thorn still bore fruit, but the sloes were sour, and set the teeth on edge. Oh! how gray and gloomy it looked—the wide world!