安徒生童话- 第255部分

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　humming　song。　The　autumn　has　much　to　tellof　the　wild　chase；　of　the　leaves　of　the　trees；　and　of　the　races　of　menthat　are　passing　away　together。　The　wild　swans　sing　atChristmas…time　on　the　open　water；　while　in　the　old　hall　the　guestsby　the　fireside　gladly　listen　to　songs　and　to　old　legends。

Down　into　the　old　part　of　the　garden；　where　the　great　avenue　ofwild　chestnut　trees　lures　the　wanderer　to　tread　its　shades；　went　theman　who　was　in　search　of　the　Story；　for　here　the　wind　had　oncemurmured　something　to　him　of　〃Waldemar　Daa　and　his　Daughters。〃　TheDryad　in　the　tree；　who　was　the　Story…mother　herself；　had　here　told　himthe　〃Dream　of　the　Old　Oak　Tree。〃　Here；　in　the　time　of　the　ancestralmother；　had　stood　clipped　hedges；　but　now　only　ferns　and　stingingtles　grew　there；　hiding　the　scattered　fragments　of　old　sculpturedfigures；　the　moss　is　growing　in　their　eyes；　but　they　can　see　as　wellas　ever；　which　was　more　than　the　man　could　do　who　was　in　search　of　theStory；　for　he　could　not　find　that。　Where　could　it　be？

The　crows　flew　past　him　by　hundreds　across　the　old　trees；　andscreamed；　〃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　apoultry…yard　and　a　duck…yard。　In　the　middle　of　the　room　sat　the　oldwoman　who　had　the　management　of　the　whole；　and　who　knew　accuratelyabout　every　egg　that　was　laid；　and　about　every　chicken　that　couldcreep　out　of　an　egg。　But　she　was　not　the　Story　of　which　the　man　was　insearch；　that　she　could　attest　with　a　Christian　certificate　ofbaptism　and　of　vaccination　that　lay　in　her　drawer。

Without；　not　far　from　the　house；　is　a　hill　covered　withred…thorn　and　broom。　Here　lies　an　old　grave…stone；　which　was　broughthere　many　years　ago　from　the　churchyard　of　the　provincial　town；　aremembrance　of　one　of　the　most　honored　councillors　of　the　place；　hiswife　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　effectupon　the　thoughts；　and　these　reacted　upon　the　stones；　as　if　theywere　telling　of　old　times；　at　least　it　had　been　so　with　the　man　whowas　in　search　of　the　Story。

As　he　came　nearer；　he　noticed　a　living　butterfly　sitting　on　theforehead　of　the　sculptured　councillor。　The　butterfly　flapped　itswings；　and　flew　a　little　bit　farther；　and　then　returned　fatigued　tosit　upon　the　grave…stone；　as　if　to　point　out　what　grew　there。Four…leaved　shamrocks　grew　there；　there　were　seven　specimens　closeto　each　other。　When　fortune　es；　it　es　in　a　heap。　He　pluckedthe　shamrocks　and　put　them　in　his　pocket。

〃Fortune　is　as　good　as　red　gold；　but　a　new　charming　story　would　bebetter　still；〃　thought　the　man；　but　he　could　not　find　it　here。

And　the　sun　went　down；　round　and　large；　the　meadow　was　coveredwith　vapor。　The　moor…woman　was　at　her　brewing。

It　was　evening。　He　stood　alone　in　his　room；　and　looked　out　uponthe　sea；　over　the　meadow；　over　moor　and　coast。　The　moon　shonebright；　a　mist　was　over　the　meadow；　making　it　look　like　a　greatlake