安徒生童话-第198章

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uld　give　her　would　have　pleased　her　more。　She　continuedher　task　with　joy；　and　prayed　for　help；　while　the　street…boys　sangjeering　songs　about　her；　and　not　a　soul　forted　her　with　a　kindword。　Towards　evening；　she　heard　at　the　grating　the　flutter　of　aswan's　wing；　it　was　her　youngest　brother…　he　had　found　his　sister；　andshe　sobbed　for　joy；　although　she　knew　that　very　likely　this　would　bethe　last　night　she　would　have　to　live。　But　still　she　could　hope；　forher　task　was　almost　finished；　and　her　brothers　were　e。　Then　thearchbishop　arrived；　to　be　with　her　during　her　last　hours；　as　he　hadpromised　the　king。　But　she　shook　her　head；　and　begged　him；　by　looksand　gestures；　not　to　stay；　for　in　this　night　she　knew　she　mustfinish　her　task；　otherwise　all　her　pain　and　tears　and　sleepless　nightswould　have　been　suffered　in　vain。　The　archbishop　withdrew；　utteringbitter　words　against　her；　but　poor　Eliza　knew　that　she　was　innocent；and　diligently　continued　her　work。

The　little　mice　ran　about　the　floor；　they　dragged　the　tles　toher　feet；　to　help　as　well　as　they　could；　and　the　thrush　sat　outsidethe　grating　of　the　window；　and　sang　to　her　the　whole　night　long；　assweetly　as　possible；　to　keep　up　her　spirits。

It　was　still　twilight；　and　at　least　an　hour　before　sunrise；　whenthe　eleven　brothers　stood　at　the　castle　gate；　and　demanded　to　bebrought　before　the　king。　They　were　told　it　could　not　be；　it　was　yetalmost　night；　and　as　the　king　slept　they　dared　not　disturb　him。　Theythreatened；　they　entreated。　Then　the　guard　appeared；　and　even　the　kinghimself；　inquiring　what　all　the　noise　meant。　At　this　moment　the　sunrose。　The　eleven　brothers　were　seen　no　more；　but　eleven　wild　swansflew　away　over　the　castle。

And　now　all　the　people　came　streaming　forth　from　the　gates　ofthe　city；　to　see　the　witch　burnt。　An　old　horse　drew　the　cart　onwhich　she　sat。　They　had　dressed　her　in　a　garment　of　coarsesackcloth。　Her　lovely　hair　hung　loose　on　her　shoulders；　her　cheekswere　deadly　pale；　her　lips　moved　silently；　while　her　fingers　stillworked　at　the　green　flax。　Even　on　the　way　to　death；　she　would　not　giveup　her　task。　The　ten　coats　of　mail　lay　at　her　feet；　she　was　workinghard　at　the　eleventh；　while　the　mob　jeered　her　and　said；　〃See　thewitch；　how　she　mutters！　She　has　no　hymn…book　in　her　hand。　She　sitsthere　with　her　ugly　sorcery。　Let　us　tear　it　in　a　thousand　pieces。〃

And　then　they　pressed　towards　her；　and　would　have　destroyed　thecoats　of　mail；　but　at　the　same　moment　eleven　wild　swans　flew　over　her；and　alighted　on　the　cart。　Then　they　flapped　their　large　wings；　and　thecrowd　drew　on　one　side　in　alarm。

〃It　is　a　sign　from　heaven　that　she　is　innocent；〃　whispered　many　ofthem；　but　they　ventured　not　to　say　it　aloud。

As　the　executioner　seized　her　by　the　hand；　to　lift　her　out　ofthe　cart；　she　hastily　threw　the　eleven　coats　of　mail　over　the　swans；and　they　immediately　became　eleven　handsome　princes；　but　theyoungest　had　a　swan's　wing；　instead　of　an　arm；　for　she　had　not　beenable　to　finish　the　last　sleeve　of　the　coat。

〃Now　I　may　speak；〃　she　exclaimed。　〃I　am　innocent。〃

Then　the　people；　who　saw　what　happened；　bowed　to　her；　as　beforea　saint；　but　she　sank　lifeless　in　her　brothers'　arms；　overe　withsuspense；　anguish；　and　pain。

〃Yes；　she　is　innocent；〃　said　the　eldest　brother；　and　then　herelated　all　that　had　taken　place；　and　while　he　spoke　there　rose　in　theair　a　fragrance　as　from　millions　of　roses。　Every　piece　of　faggot　inthe　pile　had　taken　root；　and　threw　out　branches；　and　appeared　athick　hedge；　large　and　high；　covered　with　roses；　while　above　allbloomed　a　white　and　shining　flower；　that　glittered　like　a　star。　Thisflower　the　king　plucked；　and　placed　in　Eliza's　bosom；　when　she　awokefrom　her　swoon；　with　peace　and　happiness　in　her　heart。　And　all　thechurch　bells　rang　of　themselves；　and　the　birds　came　in　great　troops。And　a　marriage　procession　returned　to　the　castle；　such　as　no　kinghad　ever　before　seen。

THE　END。

　　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　slippedaway　from　him…　so　he　said。　The　Story　that　used　to　visit　him　of　its　ownaccord　no　longer　came　and　knocked　at　his　door。　And　why　did　it　eno　longer？　It　is　true　enough　that　for　days　and　years　the　man　had　notthought　of　it；　had　not　expected　it　to　e　and　knock；　and　if　he　hadexpected　it；　it　would　certainly　not　have　e；　for　without　there　waswar；　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；　thenest　was　burnt；　the　habitations　of　men　were　burnt；　the　hedges　were　allin　disorder；　and　everything　seemed　gone；　and　the　enemy's　horses　werestamping　in　the　old　graves。　Those　were　hard；　gloomy　times；　but　theycame　to　an　end。

And　now　they　were　past　and　gone…　so　people　said；　yet　no　Story　cameand　knocked　at　the　door；　or　gave　any　tidings　of　its　presence。

〃I　suppose　it　must　be　dead；　or　gone　away　with　many　otherthings；〃　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　e　back　again　and　knock？〃

And　he　remembered　it　so　well　in　all　the　various　forms　in　whichit　had　e　to　him；　sometimes　young　and　charming；　like　springitself；　sometimes　as　a　beautiful　maiden；　with　a　wreath　of　thyme　in　herhair；　and　a　beechen　branch　in　her　hand；　and　with　eyes　that　gleamedlike　deep　woodland　lakes　in　the　bright　sunshine。

Sometimes　it　had　e　to　him　in　the　guise　of　a　peddler；　and　hadopened　its　box　and　let　silver　ribbon　e　fluttering　out；　withverses　and　inscriptions　of　old　remembrances。

But　it　was　most　charming　of　all　when　it　came　as　an　oldgrandmother；　with　silvery　hair；　and　such　large；　sensible　eyes。　Sheknew　so　well　how　to　tell　about　the　oldest　times；　long　before　theprincesses　spun　with　the　golden　spindles；　and　the　dragons　layoutside　the　castles；　guarding　them。　She　told　with　such　an　air　oftruth；　that　black　spots　danced　before　the　eyes　of　all　who　heard　her；and　the　floor　became　black　with　human　blood；　terrible　to　see　and　tohear；　and　yet　so　entertaining；　because　such　a　long　time　had　passedsince　it　all　happened。

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps　it　has　been　here　once；　and　has　knocked；　but　who　had　eyesor　ears　for　it　in　those　times？　People　looked　darkly；　gloomily；　andalmost　angrily　at　the　sunshine　of　spring；　at　the　twittering　birds；　andall　the　cheerful　green；　the　tongue　could　not　even　bear　the　oldmerry；　popular　songs；　and　they　were　laid　in　the　coffin　with　so　muchthat　our　heart　held　dear。　The　Story　may　have　knocked　without　obtaininga　hearing；　there　was　none　to　bid　it　wele；　and　so　it　may　have　goneaway。

〃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。　Thenightingale　sings　among　the　finely…fringed　beech…leaves；　looking　atthe　blooming　apple　trees　of　the　garden；　and　thinking　that　they　bearroses。　Here　the　bees　are　mightily　busy　in　the　summer…time；　and　hoverround　their　queen　with　their　hu