a17-第1章

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1872
FAIRY　TALES　OF　HANS　CHRISTIAN　ANDERSEN
THE　WILL…O…THE　WISP　IS　IN　THE　TOWN；
SAYS　THE　MOOR　WOMAN
by　Hans　Christian　Andersen
　
THERE　was　a　man　who　once　knew　many　stories；　but　they　had　slipped　away　from　him…　so　he　said。　The　Story　that　used　to　visit　him　of　its　own　accord　no　longer　came　and　knocked　at　his　door。　And　why　did　it　come　no　longer？　It　is　true　enough　that　for　days　and　years　the　man　had　not　thought　of　it；　had　not　expected　it　to　come　and　knock；　and　if　he　had　expected　it；　it　would　certainly　not　have　come；　for　without　there　was　war；　and　within　was　the　care　and　sorrow　that　war　brings　with　it。

The　stork　and　the　swallows　came　back　from　their　long　journey；
for　they　thought　of　no　danger；　and；　behold；　when　they　arrived；　the
nest　was　burnt；　the　habitations　of　men　were　burnt；　the　hedges　were　all
in　disorder；　and　everything　seemed　gone；　and　the　enemy's　horses　were　stamping　in　the　old　graves。　Those　were　hard；　gloomy　times；　but　they　came　to　an　end。

And　now　they　were　past　and　gone…　so　people　said；　yet　no　Story　came
and　knocked　at　the　door；　or　gave　any　tidings　of　its　presence。
〃I　suppose　it　must　be　dead；　or　gone　away　with　many　other
things；〃　said　the　man。

But　the　story　never　dies。　And　more　than　a　whole　year　went　by；
and　he　longed…　oh；　so　very　much！…　for　the　Story。

〃I　wonder　if　the　Story　will　ever　come　back　again　and　knock？〃
And　he　remembered　it　so　well　in　all　the　various　forms　in　which
it　had　come　to　him；　sometimes　young　and　charming；　like　spring
itself；　sometimes　as　a　beautiful　maiden；　with　a　wreath　of　thyme　in　her
hair；　and　a　beechen　branch　in　her　hand；　and　with　eyes　that　gleamed
like　deep　woodland　lakes　in　the　bright　sunshine。

Sometimes　it　had　come　to　him　in　the　guise　of　a　peddler；　and　had
opened　its　box　and　let　silver　ribbon　come　fluttering　out；　with
verses　and　inscriptions　of　old　remembrances。

But　it　was　most　charming　of　all　when　it　came　as　an　old
grandmother；　with　silvery　hair；　and　such　large；　sensible　eyes。　She
knew　so　well　how　to　tell　about　the　oldest　times；　long　before　the
princesses　spun　with　the　golden　spindles；　and　the　dragons　lay
outside　the　castles；　guarding　them。　She　told　with　such　an　air　of
truth；　that　black　spots　danced　before　the　eyes　of　all　who　heard　her；
and　the　floor　became　black　with　human　blood；　terrible　to　see　and　to
hear；　and　yet　so　entertaining；　because　such　a　long　time　had　passed
since　it　all　happened。

〃Will　it　ever　knock　at　my　door　again？〃　said　the　man；　and　he
gazed　at　the　door；　so　that　black　spots　came　before　his　eyes　and　upon
the　floor；　he　did　not　know　if　it　was　blood；　or　mourning　crape　from　the　dark　heavy　days。

And　as　he　sat　thus；　the　thought　came　upon　him　whether　the　Story
might　not　have　hidden　itself；　like　the　princess　in　the　old　tale。　And
he　would　now　go　in　search　of　it；　if　he　found　it；　it　would　beam　in
new　splendor；　lovelier　than　ever。

〃Who　knows？　Perhaps　it　has　hidden　itself　in　the　straw　that
balances　on　the　margin　of　the　well。　Carefully；　carefully！　Perhaps　it
lies　hidden　in　a　certain　flower…　that　flower　in　one　of　the　great　books
on　the　book…shelf。〃

And　the　man　went　and　opened　one　of　the　newest　books；　to　gain
information　on　this　point；　but　there　was　no　flower　to　be　found。
There　he　read　about　Holger　Danske；　and　the　man　read　that　the　tale
had　been　invented　and　put　together　by　a　monk　in　France；　that　it　was
a　romance；　〃translated　into　Danish　and　printed　in　that　language；〃　that
Holger　Danske　had　never　really　lived；　and　consequently　could　never
come　again；　as　we　have　sung；　and　have　been　so　glad　to　believe。　And
William　Tell　was　treated　just　like　Holger　Danske。　These　were　all
only　myths…　nothing　on　which　we　could　depend；　and　yet　it　is　all
written　in　a　very　learned　book。

〃Well；　I　shall　believe　what　I　believe！〃　said　the　man。　〃There　grows
no　plantain　where　no　foot　has　trod。〃

And　he　closed　the　book　and　put　it　back　in　its　place；　and　went　to
the　fresh　flowers　at　the　window。　Perhaps　the　Story　might　have　hidden
itself　in　the　red　tulips；　with　the　golden　yellow　edges；　or　in　the
fresh　rose；　or　in　the　beaming　camellia。　The　sunshine　lay　among　the
flowers；　but　no　Story。

The　flowers　which　had　been　here　in　the　dark　troublous　time　had
been　much　more　beautiful；　but　they　had　been　cut　off；　one　after
another；　to　be　woven　into　wreaths　and　placed　in　coffins；　and　the
flag　had　waved　over　them！　Perhaps　the　Story　had　been　buried　with　the　flowers；　but　then　the　flowers　would　have　known　of　it；　and　the　coffin　would　have　heard　it；　and　every　little　blade　of　grass　that　shot　forth　would　have　told　of　it。　The　Story　never　dies。

Perhaps　it　has　been　here　once；　and　has　knocked；　but　who　had　eyes
or　ears　for　it　in　those　times？　People　looked　darkly；　gloomily；　and
almost　angrily　at　the　sunshine　of　spring；　at　the　twittering　birds；　and
all　the　cheerful　green；　the　tongue　could　not　even　bear　the　old
merry；　popular　songs；　and　they　were　laid　in　the　coffin　with　so　much
that　our　heart　held　dear。　The　Story　may　have　knocked　without　obtaining　a　hearing；　there　was　none　to　bid　it　welcome；　and　so　it　may　have　gone　away。

〃I　will　go　forth　and　seek　it。　Out　in　the　country！　out　in　the　wood！
and　on　the　open　sea　beach！〃

Out　in　the　country　lies　an　old　manor　house；　with　red　walls；
pointed　gables；　and　a　red　flag　that　floats　on　the　tower。　The
nightingale　sings　among　the　finely…fringed　beech…leaves；　looking　at
the　blooming　apple　trees　of　the　garden；　and　thinking　that　they　bear
roses。　Here　the　bees　are　mightily　busy　in　the　summer…time；　and　hover
round　their　queen　with　their　humming　song。　The　autumn　has　much　to　tell　of　the　wild　chase；　of　the　leaves　of　the　trees；　and　of　the　races　of　men　that　are　passing　away　together。　The　wild　swans　sing　at
Christmas…time　on　the　open　water；　while　in　the　old　hall　the　guests
by　the　fireside　gladly　listen　to　songs　and　to　old　legends。
Down　into　the　old　part　of　the　garden；　where　the　great　avenue　of
wild　chestnut　trees　lures　the　wanderer　to　tread　its　shades；　went　the
man　who　was　in　search　of　the　Story；　for　here　the　wind　had　once
murmured　something　to　him　of　〃Waldemar　Daa　and　his　Daughters。〃　
The　Dryad　in　the　tree；　who　was　the　Story…mother　herself；　had　here　told　him　the　〃Dream　of　the　Old　Oak　Tree。〃　Here；　in　the　time　of　the　ancestra　mother；　had　stood　clipped　hedges；　but　now　only　ferns　and　stinging　nettles　grew　there；　hiding　the　scattered　fragments　of　old　sculptured　figures；　the　moss　is　growing　in　their　eyes；　but　they　can　see　as　well　as　ever；　which　was　more　than　the　man　could　do　who　was　in　search　of　the　Story；　for　he　could　not　find　that。　Where　could　it　be？

The　crows　flew　past　him　by　hundreds　across　the　old　trees；　and
screamed；　〃Krah！　da！…　Krah！　da！〃

And　he　went　out　of　the　garden　and　over　the　grass…plot　of　the　yard；
into　the　alder　grove；　there　stood　a　little　six…sided　house；　with　a
poultry…yard　and　a　duck…yard。　In　the　middle　of　the　room　sat　the　old
woman　who　had　the　management　of　the　whole；　and　who　knew　accurately　about　every　egg　that　was　laid；　and　about　every　chicken　that　could　creep　out　of　an　egg。　But　she　was　not　the　Story　of　which　the　man　was　in　search；　that　she　could　attest　with　a　Christian　certificate　of
baptism　and　of　vaccination　that　lay　in　her　drawer。

Without；　not　far　from　the　house；　is　a　hill　covered　with
red…thorn　and　broom。　Here　lies　an　old　grave…stone；　which　was　brought　here　many　years　ago　from　the　churchyard　of　the　provincial　town；　a　remembrance　of　one　of　the　most　honored　councillors　of　the　place；　his　wife　and　his　five　daughters；　all　with　folded　hands　and　stiff　ruffs；　stand　round　him。　One　could　look　at　them　so　long；　that　it　had　an　effect　upon　the　thoughts；　and　these　reacted　upon　the　stones；　as　if　they
were　telling　of　old　times；　at　least　it　had　been　so　with　the　man　who
was　in　search　of　the　Story。

As　he　came　nearer；　he　noticed　a　living　butterfly　sitting　on　the
forehead　of　the　sculptured　councillor。　The　butterfly　flapped　its
wings；　and　flew　a　little　bit　farther；　and　then　returned　fatigued　to
sit　upon　the　grave…stone；　as　if　to　point　out　what　grew　there。

Four…leaved　shamrocks　grew　there；　there　were　seven　specimens　close
to　each　other。　When　fortune　comes；　it　comes　in　a　heap。　He　plucked
the　shamrocks　and　put　them　in　his　pocket。

〃Fortune　is　as　good　as　red　gold；　but　a　new　charming　story　would　be
better