Andersen's fairy tales
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All the songs of the east speak of the love of the nightingale for the rose in the silent starlight night. The winged songster serenades the fragrant flowers.
Not far from Smyrna, where the merchant drives his loaded camels, proudly arching their long necks as they journey beneath the lofty pines over holy ground, I saw a hedge of roses. The turtle-dove flew among the branches of the tall trees, and as the sunbeams fell upon her wings, they glistened as if they were mother-of-pearl. On the rose-bush grew a flower, more beautiful than them all, and to her the nightingale sung of his woes; but the rose remained silent, not even a dewdrop lay like a tear of sympathy on her leaves. At last she bowed her head over a heap of stones, and said, "Here rests the greatest singer in the world; over his tomb will I spread my fragrance, and on it I will let my leaves fall when the storm scatters them. He who sung of Troy became earth, and from that earth I have sprung. I, a rose from the grave of Homer, am too lofty to bloom for a nightingale." Then the nightingale sung himself to death. A camel-driver came by, with his loaded camels and his black slaves; his little son found the dead bird, and buried the lovely songster in the grave of the great Homer, while the rose trembled in the wind.
The evening came, and the rose wrapped her leaves more closely round her, and dreamed: and this was her dream.
It was a fair sunshiny day; a crowd of strangers drew near who had undertaken a pilgrimage to the grave of Homer. Among the strangers was a minstrel from the north, the home of the clouds and the brilliant lights of the aurora borealis. He plucked the rose and placed it in a book, and carried it away into a distant part of the world, his fatherland. The rose faded with grief, and lay between the leaves of the book, which he opened in his own home, saying, "Here is a rose from the grave of Homer."
Then the flower awoke from her dream, and trembled in the wind. A drop of dew fell from the leaves upon the singer's grave. The sun rose, and the flower bloomed more beautiful than ever. The day was hot, and she was still in her own warm Asia. Then footsteps approached, strangers, such as the rose had seen in her dream, came by, and among them was a poet from the north; he plucked the rose, pressed a kiss upon her fresh mouth, and carried her away to the home of the clouds and the northern lights. Like a mummy, the flower now rests in his "Iliad," and, as in her dream, she hears him say, as he opens the book, "Here is a rose from the grave of Homer."
I alle orientens sange klinger nattergalens kærlighed til rosen; i de tavse, stjerneklare nætter bringer den bevingede sanger sin duftende blomst en serenade.
Ikke langt fra Smyrna, under de høje plataner, hvor købmanden driver sine belæssede kameler, der hæver stolt deres lange hals og træder klodset på en jord, som er hellig, så jeg en blomstrende rosenhæk, vilde duer fløj mellem de høje træers grene, og deres vinger skinnede, idet en solstråle gled hen over dem, som var de et perlemor.
På rosenhækken var en blomst blandt dem alle skønnest, og for den sang nattergalen sin kærligheds smerte; men rosen var tavs, ikke en dugdråbe lå, som en medlidenheds tåre, på dens blade, den bøjede sig med grenen hen over nogle store sten.
"Her hviler Jordens største sanger!" sagde rosen, "over hans grav vil jeg dufte, på den vil jeg strø mine blade, når stormen river dem af! Iliadens sanger blev jord i denne jord, hvorfra jeg spirer! – jeg, en rose fra Homers grav, er for hellig til at blomstre for den fattige nattergal!"
Og nattergalen sang sig til døde.
Kameldriveren kom med sine belæssede kameler og sine sorte slaver; hans lille dreng fandt den døde fugl, den lille sanger jordede han i den store Homers grav; og rosen bævede i vinden. Aftnen kom, rosen foldede sine blade tættere og drømte – at det var en dejlig solskinsdag; en skare fremmede, frankiske mænd kom, en pilgrimsrejse havde de gjort til Homers grav; blandt de fremmede var en sanger fra Norden, fra tågernes og nordlysenes hjem; han brød rosen af, pressede den fast i en bog og førte den således med sig til en anden verdensdel, til sit fjerne fædreland. Og rosen visnede af sorg og lå i den snævre bog, som han åbnede i sit hjem, og han sagde: "Her er en rose fra Homers grav."
Se det drømte blomsten, og den vågnede og gøs i vinden; en dugdråbe faldt fra dens blade på sangerens grav, og solen stod op, dagen blev hed, og rosen blussede skønnere end før, den var i sit varme Asien. Da lød fodtrin, der kom fremmede frankerer, som rosen havde set dem i sin drøm, og mellem de fremmede var en digter fra Norden; han brød rosen af, trykkede et kys på dens friske mund og førte den med sig til tågernes og nordlysenes hjem.
Som en mumie hviler nu blomsterliget i hans Iliade, og som i drømme hører den ham åbne bogen og sige: "Her er en rose fra Homers grav!"