Then Gerda told her everything,while the old woman shook her head,and said,“Hem-hem;”and when she had finished,Gerda asked if she had not seen little Kay,and the old woman told her he had not passed by that way,but he very likely would come.So she told Gerda not to be sorrowful,but to taste the cherries and look at the flowers;they were better than any picture-book,for each of them could tell a story.Then she took Gerda by the hand and led her into the little house,and the old woman closed the door.The windows were very high,and as the panes were red,blue,and yellow,the daylight shone through them in all sorts of singular colors.On the table stood beautiful cherries,and Gerda had permission to eat as many as she would.While she was eating them the old woman combed out her long flaxen ringlets with a golden comb,and the glossy curls hung down on each side of the little round pleasant face,which looked fresh and blooming as a rose.“I have long been wishing for a dear little maiden like you,”said the old woman,“and now you must stay with me,and see how happily we shall live together.”And while she went on combing little Gerda's hair,she thought less and less about her adopted brother Kay,for the old woman could conjure,although she was not a wicked witch;she conjured only a little for her own amusement,and now,because she wanted to keep Gerda.Therefore she went into the garden,and stretched out her crutch towards all the rose-trees,beautiful though they were;and they immediately sunk into the dark earth,so that no one could tell where they had once stood.The old woman was afraid that if little Gerda saw roses she would think of those at home,and then remember little Kay,and run away.Then she took Gerda into the flower-garden.How fragrant and beautiful it was!Every flower that could be thought of for every season of the year was here in full bloom;no picture-book could have more beautiful colors.Gerda jumped for joy,and played till the sun went down behind the tall cherry-trees;then she slept in an elegant bed with red silk pillows,embroidered with colored violets;and then she dreamed as pleasantly as a queen on her wedding day.The next day,and for many days after,Gerda played with the flowers in the warm sunshine.She knew every flower,and yet,although there were so many of them,it seemed as if one were missing,but which it was she could not tell.One day,however,as she sat looking at the old woman's hat with the painted flowers on it,she saw that the prettiest of them all was a rose.The old woman had forgotten to take it from her hat when she made all the roses sink into the earth.But it is difficult to keep the thoughts together in everything;one little mistake upsets all our arrangements.
“What,are there no roses here?”cried Gerda;and she ran out into the garden,and examined all the beds,and searched and searched.There was not one to be found.Then she sat down and wept,and her tears fell just on the place where one of the rose-trees had sunk down.The warm tears moistened the earth,and the rose-tree sprouted up at once,as blooming as when it had sunk;and Gerda embraced it and kissed the roses,and thought of the beautiful roses at home,and,with them,of little Kay.
“Oh,how I have been detained!”said the little maiden,“I wanted to seek for little Kay.Do you know where he is?”she asked the roses;“do you think he is dead?”
And the roses answered,“No,he is not dead.We have been in the ground where all the dead lie;but Kay is not there.”
“Thank you,”said little Gerda,and then she went to the other flowers,and looked into their little cups,and asked,“Do you know where little Kay is?”But each flower,as it stood in the sunshine,dreamed only of its own little fairy tale of history.Not one knew anything of Kay.Gerda heard many stories from the flowers,as she asked them one after another about him.
And what,said the tiger-lily?“Hark,do you hear the drum?—‘turn,turn,’—there are only two notes,always,‘turn,turn.’Listen to the women's song of mourning!Hear the cry of the priest!In her long red robe stands the Hindoo widow by the funeral pile.The flames rise around her as she places herself on the dead body of her husband;but the Hindoo woman is thinking of the living one in that circle;of him,her son,who lighted those flames.Those shining eyes trouble her heart more painfully than the flames which will soon consume her body to ashes.Can the fire of the heart be extinguished in the flames of the funeral pile?”
“I don't understand that at all,”said little Gerda.
“That is my story,”said the tiger-lily.
What,says the convolvulus?“Near yonder narrow road stands an old knight's castle;thick ivy creeps over the old ruined walls,leaf over leaf,even to the balcony,in which stands a beautiful maiden.She bends over the balustrades,and looks up the road.No rose on its stem is fresher than she;no apple-blossom,wafted by the wind,floats more lightly than she moves.Her rich silk rustles as she bends over and exclaims,‘Will he not come?’”
“Is it Kay you mean?”asked Gerda.
“I am only speaking of a story of my dream,”replied the flower.
