II.
All day it rained. The white doves
Came not at Gerda’s call,
To flock about the casement
High up the palace wall,
To coo ’neath her caresses,
And plume their wings of snow,
And pick the crumbs she scattered
Upon the ledge below.
It rained all day. The sunbeams
Were weak and wan and rare—
The beams that seven summers
Had played with Gerda’s hair.
All day it rained unceasing.
The quaint old lofty room,
For lack of bird and sunbeam,
Was drear and full of gloom;
And left among the shadows,
The while the raindrops beat,
With restless little fingers,
With restless little feet,
Went Princess Gerda roaming
The quaint old room around,
And thus behind the tapestry,
It chanced, a picture found—
A painting blurred and faded:
Two men had fought, and one
Lay vanquished, while the other,
With foot his neck upon,
A murd’rous weapon brandished
Above the prostrate head.
“Thou hateful, hateful fellow!”
In anger Gerda said,
And clenched her small fist straightway
And smote the lifted hand.
Lo! backward swung the picture,
As tho’ a fairy’s wand
Obeying; and before her,
There in the masonry,
Black space and then a stairway—
So much did Gerda see.
“Where does it go?” she wondered,
And, no one being nigh,
Into the darkness ventured,
Nor waited for reply.
Down, down, and ever downward,
The granite steps led on;
With now and then a winding,
With ever and anon
A pause, a narrow landing,
But never ray of light.
On, on, went little Gerda,
And downward thro’ the night,
Recalling wondrous stories
The good nurse Hedvig told
Of a strange realm and dreamlike,
All paved and ceiled with gold,
Where ruled the merry elf-king—
A realm far underground,
That a few favored mortals
By patient search had found.
So, on and on went Gerda,
And downward through the night.
At length in maze of passages
That led to left and right,
The stony staircase ended;
And, searching in the dark,
She wandered hither, thither:
The elf-land, where? But hark!
What sound was that? She listened.
A moaning somewhere near!
Again, again, a moaning!
She fled away in fear.
From right to left she hurried;
She hurried to and fro;
She called: “O good nurse Hedvig,
Come to me here below!”
Came never word of answer.
She could not find the way.
In terror trembling, sobbing,
Still onward did she stray.
“Who weeps?” Again she listened.
The voice was low and kind.
“’Tis I—’tis Princess Gerda;
The way I cannot find.”
“Fear not, O Princess Gerda!
If thou wilt turn the key,
How gladly will I offer
To be a guide for thee.”
Her little fingers feeling
The slimy stones along,
Found out the door of iron—
The iron door so strong:
And standing there on tip-toe,
With all her might and main,
She, reaching, tried the rusty key,
But tried and tried in vain.
“Once more, once more, O Princess!”
At that she tried once more;
The hinges grated harshly,
And open flew the door;
And one came forth whose features
And form she could not see
For the deep darkness round her;
But never aught cared she,
Because the voice was pleasant
And drove away all fear—
The voice that softly questioned,
“How happened Gerda here?”
“Down, down the longest stairway
That ever yet was found,
I came to hunt for fairies
That dwell beneath the ground.”
“Now tell me, sweetest Gerda,
If I will show the way,
And lead thee from the darkness
Far up into the day,
Wilt never of thy venture,
Nor ever of thy guide,
To any speak? Wilt promise?”
She eagerly replied,
“Oh, yes, yes, yes! I promise!”
And, hand in hand, the two
The dank and dismal corridors
Went searching through and through.
A narrow length of passage,
Low-ceiled, at last they gained,
And midway in this passage
A narrow doorway framed;
And winding from this doorway
Stone steps, a narrow flight,
They found and followed—followed
Far up out of the night.
But when the little Gerda,
Safe in the dim old room,
That now seemed full of sunlight
After the greater gloom—
When quick she turned to see him
Who led—the pictured wall,
The overhanging tapestry
She saw—and that was all.
And many days she marveled,
And many nights did dream
Of that good guide and gentle,
Who came and went unseen.
But never more the stairway,
So long and dark, she tried.
She told not of her venture,
She told not of her guide.
The dungeon-keeper, bringing
The daily drink and bread,
The iron doors found open!
The prisoners had fled!
In doubt and wonder gazing,
He paled with sudden fear:
“Alack! the King will hear it!
Alack! the King will hear!”
Down fell the bread and water—
With flaming torch he sought
A narrow length of passage
Deep through the rough rock wrought;
And there for miles he wandered,
Lit by the torch’s ray,
Nor guessed how lately other feet
Had traveled the same way.
At last he reached a country
Beside the western sea—
A fair and goodly country.
There now in peace dwelt he.