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ANNE LISBETH
Anne Lisbeth was a beautiful young woman, with a red and white
complexion, glittering white teeth, and clear soft eyes; and her
footstep was light in the dance, but her mind was lighter still. She
had a little child, not at all pretty; so he was put out to be
nursed by a laborer's wife, and his mother went to the count's castle.
She sat in splendid rooms, richly decorated with silk and velvet;
not a breath of air was allowed to blow upon her, and no one was
allowed to speak to her harshly, for she was nurse to the count's
child. He was fair and delicate as a prince, and beautiful as an
angel; and how she loved this child! Her own boy was provided for by
being at the laborer's where the mouth watered more frequently than
the pot boiled, and where in general no one was at home to take care
of the child. Then he would cry, but what nobody knows nobody cares
for; so he would cry till he was tired, and then fall asleep; and
while we are asleep we can feel neither hunger nor thirst. Ah, yes;
sleep is a capital invention.
As years went on, Anne Lisbeth's child grew apace like weeds,
although they said his growth had been stunted. He had become quite
a member of the family in which he dwelt; they received money to
keep him, so that his mother got rid of him altogether. She had become
quite a lady; she had a comfortable home of her own in the town; and
out of doors, when she went for a walk, she wore a bonnet; but she
never walked out to see the laborer: that was too far from the town,
and, indeed, she had nothing to go for, the boy now belonged to
these laboring people. He had food, and he could also do something
towards earning his living; he took care of Mary's red cow, for he
knew how to tend cattle and make himself useful.
The great dog by the yard gate of a nobleman's mansion sits
proudly on the top of his kennel when the sun shines, and barks at
every one that passes; but if it rains, he creeps into his house,
and there he is warm and dry. Anne Lisbeth's boy also sat in the
sunshine on the top of the fence, cutting out a little toy. If it
was spring-time, he knew of three strawberry-plants in blossom,
which would certainly bear fruit. This was his most hopeful thought,
though it often came to nothing. And he had to sit out in the rain
in the worst weather, and get wet to the skin, and let the cold wind
dry the clothes on his back afterwards. If he went near the farmyard
belonging to the count, he was pushed and knocked about, for the men
and the maids said he was so horrible ugly; but he was used to all
this, for nobody loved him. This was how the world treated Anne
Lisbeth's boy, and how could it be otherwise. It was his fate to be
beloved by no one. Hitherto he had been a land crab; the land at
last cast him adrift. He went to sea in a wretched vessel, and sat
at the helm, while the skipper sat over the grog-can. He was dirty and
ugly, half-frozen and half-starved; he always looked as if he never
had enough to eat, which was really the case.
Late in the autumn, when the weather was rough, windy, and wet,
and the cold penetrated through the thickest clothing, especially at
sea, a wretched boat went out to sea with only two men on board, or,
more correctly, a man and a half, for it was the skipper and his
boy. There had only been a kind of twilight all day, and it soon
grew quite dark, and so bitterly cold, that the skipper took a dram to
warm him. The bottle was old, and the glass too. It was perfect in the
upper part, but the foot was broken off, and it had therefore been
fixed upon a little carved block of wood, painted blue. A dram is a
great comfort, and two are better still, thought the skipper, while
the boy sat at the helm, which he held fast in his hard seamed
hands. He was ugly, and his hair was matted, and he looked crippled
and stunted; they called him the field-laborer's boy, though in the
church register he was entered as Anne Lisbeth's son. The wind cut
through the rigging, and the boat cut through the sea. The sails,
filled by the wind, swelled out and carried them along in wild career.
It was wet and rough above and below, and might still be worse.
Hold! what is that? What has struck the boat? Was it a waterspout,
or a heavy sea rolling suddenly upon them?
"Heaven help us!" cried the boy at the helm, as the boat heeled
over and lay on its beam ends. It had struck on a rock, which rose
from the depths of the sea, and sank at once, like an old shoe in a
puddle. "It sank at once with mouse and man," as the saying is.
There might have been mice on board, but only one man and a half,
the skipper and the laborer's boy. No one saw it but the skimming
sea-gulls and the fishes beneath the water; and even they did not
see it properly, for they darted back with terror as the boat filled
with water and sank. There it lay, scarcely a fathom below the
surface, and those two were provided for, buried, and forgotten. The
glass with the foot of blue wood was the only thing that did not sink,
for the wood floated and the glass drifted away to be cast upon the
shore and broken; where and when, is indeed of no consequence. It
had served its purpose, and it had been loved, which Anne Lisbeth's
boy had not been. But in heaven no soul will be able to say, "Never
loved."
Anne Lisbeth had now lived in the town many years; she was
called "Madame," and felt dignified in consequence; she remembered the
old, noble days, in which she had driven in the carriage, and had
associated with countess and baroness. Her beautiful, noble child
had been a dear angel, and possessed the kindest heart; he had loved
her so much, and she had loved him in return; they had kissed and
loved each other, and the boy had been her joy, her second life. Now
he was fourteen years of age, tall, handsome, and clever. She had
not seen him since she carried him in her arms; neither had she been
for years to the count's palace; it was quite a journey thither from
the town.
"I must make one effort to go," said Anne Lisbeth, "to see my
darling, the count's sweet child, and press him to my heart. Certainly
he must long to see me, too, the young count; no doubt he thinks of me
and loves me, as in those days when he would fling his angel-arms
round my neck, and lisp 'Anne Liz.' It was music to my ears. Yes, I
must make an effort to see him again." She drove across the country in
a grazier's cart, and then got out, and continued her journey on foot,
and thus reached the count's castle. It was as great and magnificent
as it had always been, and the garden looked the same as ever; all the
servants were strangers to her, not one of them knew Anne Lisbeth, nor
of what consequence she had once been there; but she felt sure the
countess would soon let them know it, and her darling boy, too: how
she longed to see him!
Now that Anne Lisbeth was at her journey's end, she was kept
waiting a long time; and for those who wait, time passes slowly. But
before the great people went in to dinner, she was called in and
spoken to very graciously. She was to go in again after dinner, and
then she would see her sweet boy once more. How tall, and slender, and
thin he had grown; but the eyes and the sweet angel mouth were still
beautiful. He looked at her, but he did not speak, he certainly did
not know who she was. He turned round and was going away, but she
seized his hand and pressed it to her lips.
"Well, well," he said; and with that he walked out of the room. He
who filled her every thought! he whom she loved best, and who was
her whole earthly pride!
Anne Lisbeth went forth from the castle into the public road,
feeling mournful and sad; he whom she had nursed day and night, and
even now carried about in her dreams, had been cold and strange, and
had not a word or thought respecting her. A great black raven darted
down in front of her on the high road, and croaked dismally.
"Ah," said she, "what bird of ill omen art thou?" Presently she
passed the laborer's hut; his wife stood at the door, and the two
women spoke to each other.
"You look well," said the woman; "you're fat and plump; you are
well off."
"Oh yes," answered Anne Lisbeth.
"The boat went down with them," continued the woman; "Hans the
skipper and the boy were both drowned; so there's an end of them. I
always thought the boy would be able to help me with a few dollars.
He'll never cost you anything more, Anne Lisbeth."
"So they were drowned," repeated Anne Lisbeth; but she said no
more, and the subject was dropped. She felt very low-spirited, because
her count-child had shown no inclination to speak to her who loved him
so well, and who had travelled so far to see him. The journey had cost
money too, and she had derived no great pleasure from it. Still she
said not a word of all this; she could not relieve her heart by
telling the laborer's wife, lest the latter should think she did not
enjoy her former position at the castle. Then the raven flew over her,
screaming again as he flew.
"The black wretch!" said Anne Lisbeth, "he will end by frightening
me today." She had brought coffee and chicory with her, for she
thought it would be a charity to the poor woman to give them to her to
boil a cup of coffee, and then she would take a cup herself.
The woman prepared the coffee, and in the meantime Anne Lisbeth
seated her in a chair and fell asleep. Then she dreamed of something
which she had never dreamed before; singularly enough she dreamed of
her own child, who had wept and hungered in the laborer's hut, and had
been knocked about in heat and in cold, and who was now lying in the
depths of the sea, in a spot only known by God. She fancied she was
still sitting in the hut, where the woman was busy preparing the
coffee, for she could smell the coffee-berries roasting. But
suddenly it seemed to her that there stood on the threshold a
beautiful young form, as beautiful as the count's child, and this
apparition said to her, "The world is passing away; hold fast to me,
for you are my mother after all; you have an angel in heaven, hold
me fast;" and the child-angel stretched out his hand and seized her.
Then there was a terrible crash, as of a world crumbling to pieces,
and the angel-child was rising from the earth, and holding her by
the sleeve so tightly that she felt herself lifted from the ground;
but, on the other hand, something heavy hung to her feet and dragged
her down, and it seemed as if hundreds of women were clinging to
her, and crying, "If thou art to be saved, we must be saved too.
Hold fast, hold fast." And then they all hung on her, but there were
too many; and as they clung the sleeve was torn, and Anne Lisbeth fell
down in horror, and awoke. Indeed she was on the point of falling over
in reality with the chair on which she sat; but she was so startled
and alarmed that she could not remember what she had dreamed, only
that it was something very dreadful.
They drank their coffee and had a chat together, and then Anne
Lisbeth went away towards the little town where she was to meet the
carrier, who was to drive her back to her own home. But when she
came to him she found that he would not be ready to start till the
evening of the next day. Then she began to think of the expense, and
what the distance would be to walk. She remembered that the route by
the sea-shore was two miles shorter than by the high road; and as
the weather was clear, and there would be moonlight, she determined to
make her way on foot, and to start at once, that she might reach
home the next day.
The sun had set, and the evening bells sounded through the air
from the tower of the village church, but to her it was not the bells,
but the cry of the frogs in the marshes. Then they ceased, and all
around became still; not a bird could be heard, they were all at rest,
even the owl had not left her hiding place; deep silence reigned on
the margin of the wood by the sea-shore. As Anne Lisbeth walked on she
could hear her own footsteps in the sands; even the waves of the sea
were at rest, and all in the deep waters had sunk into silence.
There was quiet among the dead and the living in the deep sea. Anne
Lisbeth walked on, thinking of nothing at all, as people say, or
rather her thoughts wandered, but not away from her, for thought is
never absent from us, it only slumbers. Many thoughts that have lain
dormant are roused at the proper time, and begin to stir in the mind
and the heart, and seem even to come upon us from above. It is
written, that a good deed bears a blessing for its fruit; and it is
also written, that the wages of sin is death. Much has been said and
much written which we pass over or know nothing of. A light arises
within us, and then forgotten things make themselves remembered; and
thus it was with Anne Lisbeth. The germ of every vice and every virtue
lies in our heart, in yours and in mine; they lie like little grains
of seed, till a ray of sunshine, or the touch of an evil hand, or
you turn the corner to the right or to the left, and the decision is
made. The little seed is stirred, it swells and shoots up, and pours
its sap into your blood, directing your course either for good or
evil. Troublesome thoughts often exist in the mind, fermenting
there, which are not realized by us while the senses are as it were
slumbering; but still they are there. Anne Lisbeth walked on thus with
her senses half asleep, but the thoughts were fermenting within her.
From one Shrove Tuesday to another, much may occur to weigh down
the heart; it is the reckoning of a whole year; much may be forgotten,
sins against heaven in word and thought, sins against our neighbor,
and against our own conscience. We are scarcely aware of their
existence; and Anne Lisbeth did not think of any of her errors. She
had committed no crime against the law of the land; she was an
honorable person, in a good position�that she knew.
She continued her walk along by the margin of the sea. What was it
she saw lying there? An old hat; a man's hat. Now when might that have
been washed overboard? She drew nearer, she stopped to look at the
hat; "Ha! what was lying yonder?" She shuddered; yet it was nothing
save a heap of grass and tangled seaweed flung across a long stone,
but it looked like a corpse. Only tangled grass, and yet she was
frightened at it. As she turned to walk away, much came into her
mind that she had heard in her childhood: old superstitions of
spectres by the sea-shore; of the ghosts of drowned but unburied
people, whose corpses had been washed up on the desolate beach. The
body, she knew, could do no harm to any one, but the spirit could
pursue the lonely wanderer, attach itself to him, and demand to be
carried to the churchyard, that it might rest in consecrated ground.
"Hold fast! hold fast!" the spectre would cry; and as Anne Lisbeth
murmured these words to herself, the whole of her dream was suddenly
recalled to her memory, when the mother had clung to her, and
uttered these words, when, amid the crashing of worlds, her sleeve had
been torn, and she had slipped from the grasp of her child, who wanted
to hold her up in that terrible hour. Her child, her own child,
which she had never loved, lay now buried in the sea, and might rise
up, like a spectre, from the waters, and cry, "Hold fast; carry me
to consecrated ground!"
As these thoughts passed through her mind, fear gave speed to
her feet, so that she walked faster and faster. Fear came upon her
as if a cold, clammy hand had been laid upon her heart, so that she
almost fainted. As she looked across the sea, all there grew darker; a
heavy mist came rolling onwards, and clung to bush and tree,
distorting them into fantastic shapes. She turned and glanced at the
moon, which had risen behind her. It looked like a pale, rayless
surface, and a deadly weight seemed to hang upon her limbs. "Hold,"
thought she; and then she turned round a second time to look at the
moon. A white face appeared quite close to her, with a mist, hanging
like a garment from its shoulders. "Stop! carry me to consecrated
earth," sounded in her ears, in strange, hollow tones. The sound did
not come from frogs or ravens; she saw no sign of such creatures. "A
grave! dig me a grave!" was repeated quite loud. Yes, it was indeed
the spectre of her child. The child that lay beneath the ocean, and
whose spirit could have no rest until it was carried to the
churchyard, and until a grave had been dug for it in consecrated
ground. She would go there at once, and there she would dig. She
turned in the direction of the church, and the weight on her heart
seemed to grow lighter, and even to vanish altogether; but when she
turned to go home by the shortest way, it returned. "Stop! stop!"
and the words came quite clear, though they were like the croak of a
frog, or the wail of a bird. "A grave! dig me a grave!"
The mist was cold and damp, her hands and face were moist and
clammy with horror, a heavy weight again seized her and clung to
her, her mind became clear for thoughts that had never before been
there.
In these northern regions, a beech-wood often buds in a single
night and appears in the morning sunlight in its full glory of
youthful green. So, in a single instant, can the consciousness of
the sin that has been committed in thoughts, words, and actions of our
past life, be unfolded to us. When once the conscience is awakened, it
springs up in the heart spontaneously, and God awakens the
conscience when we least expect it. Then we can find no excuse for
ourselves; the deed is there and bears witness against us. The
thoughts seem to become words, and to sound far out into the world. We
are horrified at the thought of what we have carried within us, and at
the consciousness that we have not overcome the evil which has its
origin in thoughtlessness and pride. The heart conceals within
itself the vices as well as the virtues, and they grow in the
shallowest ground. Anne Lisbeth now experienced in thought what we
have clothed in words. She was overpowered by them, and sank down
and crept along for some distance on the ground. "A grave! dig me a
grave!" sounded again in her ears, and she would have gladly buried
herself, if in the grave she could have found forgetfulness of her
actions.
It was the first hour of her awakening, full of anguish and
horror. Superstition made her alternately shudder with cold or burn
with the heat of fever. Many things, of which she had feared even to
speak, came into her mind. Silently, as the cloud-shadows in the
moonshine, a spectral apparition flitted by her; she had heard of it
before. Close by her galloped four snorting steeds, with fire flashing
from their eyes and nostrils. They dragged a burning coach, and within
it sat the wicked lord of the manor, who had ruled there a hundred
years before. The legend says that every night, at twelve o'clock,
he drove into his castleyard and out again. He was not as pale as dead
men are, but black as a coal. He nodded, and pointed to Anne
Lisbeth, crying out, "Hold fast! hold fast! and then you may ride
again in a nobleman's carriage, and forget your child."
She gathered herself up, and hastened to the churchyard; but black
crosses and black ravens danced before her eyes, and she could not
distinguish one from the other. The ravens croaked as the raven had
done which she saw in the daytime, but now she understood what they
said. "I am the raven-mother; I am the raven-mother," each raven
croaked, and Anne Lisbeth felt that the name also applied to her;
and she fancied she should be transformed into a black bird, and
have to cry as they cried, if she did not dig the grave. And she threw
herself upon the earth, and with her hands dug a grave in the hard
ground, so that the blood ran from her fingers. "A grave! dig me a
grave!" still sounded in her ears; she was fearful that the cock might
crow, and the first red streak appear in the east, before she had
finished her work; and then she would be lost. And the cock crowed,
and the day dawned in the east, and the grave was only half dug. An
icy hand passed over her head and face, and down towards her heart.
"Only half a grave," a voice wailed, and fled away. Yes, it fled
away over the sea; it was the ocean spectre; and, exhausted and
overpowered, Anne Lisbeth sunk to the ground, and her senses left her.
It was a bright day when she came to herself, and two men were
raising her up; but she was not lying in the churchyard, but on the
sea-shore, where she had dug a deep hole in the sand, and cut her hand
with a piece of broken glass, whose sharp stern was stuck in a
little block of painted wood. Anne Lisbeth was in a fever.
Conscience had roused the memories of superstitions, and had so
acted upon her mind, that she fancied she had only half a soul, and
that her child had taken the other half down into the sea. Never would
she be able to cling to the mercy of Heaven till she had recovered
this other half which was now held fast in the deep water.
Anne Lisbeth returned to her home, but she was no longer the woman
she had been. Her thoughts were like a confused, tangled skein; only
one thread, only one thought was clear to her, namely that she must
carry the spectre of the sea-shore to the churchyard, and dig a
grave for him there; that by so doing she might win back her soul.
Many a night she was missed from her home, and was always found on the
sea-shore waiting for the spectre.
In this way a whole year passed; and then one night she vanished
again, and was not to be found. The whole of the next day was spent in
a useless search after her.
Towards evening, when the clerk entered the church to toll the
vesper bell, he saw by the altar Anne Lisbeth, who had spent the whole
day there. Her powers of body were almost exhausted, but her eyes
flashed brightly, and on her cheeks was a rosy flush. The last rays of
the setting sun shone upon her, and gleamed over the altar upon the
shining clasps of the Bible, which lay open at the words of the
prophet Joel, "Rend your hearts and not your garments, and turn unto
the Lord."
"That was just a chance," people said; but do things happen by
chance? In the face of Anne Lisbeth, lighted up by the evening sun,
could be seen peace and rest. She said she was happy now, for she
had conquered. The spectre of the shore, her own child, had come to
her the night before, and had said to her, "Thou hast dug me only half
a grave: but thou hast now, for a year and a day, buried me altogether
in thy heart, and it is there a mother can best hide her child!" And
then he gave her back her lost soul, and brought her into the
church. "Now I am in the house of God," she said, "and in that house
we are happy."
When the sun set, Anne Lisbeth's soul had risen to that region
where there is no more pain; and Anne Lisbeth's troubles were at an
end. |
THE PSYCHE
In the fresh morning dawn, in the rosy air gleams a great Star,
the brightest Star of the morning. His rays tremble on the white wall,
as if he wished to write down on it what he can tell, what he has seen
there and elsewhere during thousands of years in our rolling world.
Let us hear one of his stories.
"A short time ago"�the Star's "short time ago" is called among
men "centuries ago"�"my rays followed a young artist. It was in the
city of the Popes, in the world-city, Rome. Much has been changed
there in the course of time, but the changes have not come so
quickly as the change from youth to old age. Then already the palace
of the Caesars was a ruin, as it is now; fig trees and laurels grew
among the fallen marble columns, and in the desolate bathing-halls,
where the gilding still clings to the wall; the Coliseum was a
gigantic ruin; the church bells sounded, the incense sent up its
fragrant cloud, and through the streets marched processions with
flaming tapers and glowing canopies. Holy Church was there, and art
was held as a high and holy thing. In Rome lived the greatest
painter in the world, Raphael; there also dwelt the first of
sculptors, Michael Angelo. Even the Pope paid homage to these two, and
honored them with a visit. Art was recognized and honored, and was
rewarded also. But, for all that, everything great and splendid was
not seen and known.
"In a narrow lane stood an old house. Once it had been a temple; a
young sculptor now dwelt there. He was young and quite unknown. He
certainly had friends, young artists, like himself, young in spirit,
young in hopes and thoughts; they told him he was rich in talent,
and an artist, but that he was foolish for having no faith in his
own power; for he always broke what he had fashioned out of clay,
and never completed anything; and a work must be completed if it is to
be seen and to bring money.
"'You are a dreamer,' they went on to say to him, 'and that's your
misfortune. But the reason of this is, that you have never lived,
you have never tasted life, you have never enjoyed it in great
wholesome draughts, as it ought to be enjoyed. In youth one must
mingle one's own personality with life, that they may become one. Look
at the great master Raphael, whom the Pope honors and the world
admires. He's no despiser of wine and bread.'
"'And he even appreciates the baker's daughter, the pretty
Fornarina,' added Angelo, one of the merriest of the young friends.
"Yes, they said a good many things of the kind, according to their
age and their reason. They wanted to draw the young artist out with
them into the merry wild life, the mad life as it might also be
called; and at certain times he felt an inclination for it. He had
warm blood, a strong imagination, and could take part in the merry
chat, and laugh aloud with the rest; but what they called 'Raphael's
merry life' disappeared before him like a vapor when he saw the divine
radiance that beamed forth from the pictures of the great master;
and when he stood in the Vatican, before the forms of beauty which the
masters had hewn out of marble thousands of years since, his breast
swelled, and he felt within himself something high, something holy,
something elevating, great and good, and he wished that he could
produce similar forms from the blocks of marble. He wished to make a
picture of that which was within him, stirring upward from his heart
to the realms of the Infinite; but how, and in what form? The soft
clay was fashioned under his fingers into forms of beauty, but the
next day he broke what he had fashioned, according to his wont.
"One day he walked past one of those rich palaces of which Rome
has many to show. He stopped before the great open portal, and
beheld a garden surrounded by cloistered walks. The garden bloomed
with a goodly show of the fairest roses. Great white lilies with green
juicy leaves shot upward from the marble basin in which the clear
water was splashing; and a form glided past, the daughter of the
princely house, graceful, delicate, and wonderfully fair. Such a
form of female loveliness he had never before beheld�yet stay: he had
seen it, painted by Raphael, painted as a Psyche, in one of the
Roman palaces. Yes, there it had been painted; but here it passed by
him in living reality.
"The remembrance lived in his thoughts, in his heart. He went home
to his humble room, and modelled a Psyche of clay. It was the rich
young Roman girl, the noble maiden; and for the first time he looked
at his work with satisfaction. It had a meaning for him, for it was
she. And the friends who saw his work shouted aloud for joy; they
declared that this work was a manifestation of his artistic power,
of which they had long been aware, and that now the world should be
made aware of it too.
"The clay figure was lifelike and beautiful, but it had not the
whiteness or the durability of marble. So they declared that the
Psyche must henceforth live in marble. He already possessed a costly
block of that stone. It had been lying for years, the property of
his parents, in the courtyard. Fragments of glass, climbing weeds, and
remains of artichokes had gathered about it and sullied its purity;
but under the surface the block was as white as the mountain snow; and
from this block the Psyche was to arise."
Now, it happened one morning�the bright Star tells nothing
about this, but we know it occurred�that a noble Roman company came
into the narrow lane. The carriage stopped at the top of the lane, and
the company proceeded on foot towards the house, to inspect the
young sculptor's work, for they had heard him spoken of by chance. And
who were these distinguished guests? Poor young man! or fortunate
young man he might be called. The noble young lady stood in the room
and smiled radiantly when her father said to her, "It is your living
image." That smile could not be copied, any more than the look could
be reproduced, the wonderful look which she cast upon the young
artist. It was a fiery look, that seemed at once to elevate and to
crush him.
"The Psyche must be executed in marble," said the wealthy
patrician. And those were words of life for the dead clay and the
heavy block of marble, and words of life likewise for the deeply-moved
artist. "When the work is finished I will purchase it," continued
the rich noble.
A new era seemed to have arisen in the poor studio. Life and
cheerfulness gleamed there, and busy industry plied its work. The
beaming Morning Star beheld how the work progressed. The clay itself
seemed inspired since she had been there, and moulded itself, in
heightened beauty, to a likeness of the well-known features.
"Now I know what life is," cried the artist rejoicingly; "it is
Love! It is the lofty abandonment of self for the dawning of the
beautiful in the soul! What my friends call life and enjoyment is a
passing shadow; it is like bubbles among seething dregs, not the
pure heavenly wine that consecrates us to life."
The marble block was reared in its place. The chisel struck
great fragments from it; the measurements were taken, points and lines
were made, the mechanical part was executed, till gradually the
stone assumed a human female form, a shape of beauty, and became
converted into the Psyche, fair and glorious�a divine being in
human shape. The heavy stone appeared as a gliding, dancing, airy
Psyche, with the heavenly innocent smile�the smile that had
mirrored itself in the soul of the young artist.
The Star of the roseate dawn beheld and understood what was
stirring within the young man, and could read the meaning of the
changing color of his cheek, of the light that flashed from his eye,
as he stood busily working, reproducing what had been put into his
soul from above.
"Thou art a master like those masters among the ancient Greeks,"
exclaimed his delighted friends; "soon shall the whole world admire
thy Psyche."
"My Psyche!" he repeated. "Yes, mine. She must be mine. I, too, am
an artist, like those great men who are gone. Providence has granted
me the boon, and has made me the equal of that lady of noble birth."
And he knelt down and breathed a prayer of thankfulnesss to
Heaven, and then he forgot Heaven for her sake�for the sake of her
picture in stone�for her Psyche which stood there as if formed of
snow, blushing in the morning dawn.
He was to see her in reality, the living, graceful Psyche, whose
words sounded like music in his ears. He could now carry the news into
the rich palace that the marble Psyche was finished. He betook himself
thither, strode through the open courtyard where the waters ran
splashing from the dolphin's jaws into the marble basins, where the
snowy lilies and the fresh roses bloomed in abundance. He stepped into
the great lofty hall, whose walls and ceilings shone with gilding
and bright colors and heraldic devices. Gayly-dressed serving-men,
adorned with trappings like sleigh horses, walked to and fro, and some
reclined at their ease upon the carved oak seats, as if they were
the masters of the house. He told them what had brought him to the
palace, and was conducted up the shining marble staircase, covered
with soft carpets and adorned with many a statue. Then he went on
through richly-furnished chambers, over mosaic floors, amid gorgeous
pictures. All this pomp and luxury seemed to weary him; but soon he
felt relieved, for the princely old master of the house received him
most graciously, almost heartily; and when he took his leave he was
requested to step into the Signora's apartment, for she, too, wished
to see him. The servants led him through more luxurious halls and
chambers into her room, where she appeared the chief and leading
ornament.
She spoke to him. No hymn of supplication, no holy chant, could
melt his soul like the sound of her voice. He took her hand and lifted
it to his lips. No rose was softer, but a fire thrilled through him
from this rose�a feeling of power came upon him, and words poured
from his tongue�he knew not what he said. Does the crater of the
volcano know that the glowing lava is pouring from it? He confessed
what he felt for her. She stood before him astonished, offended,
proud, with contempt in her face, an expression of disgust, as if
she had suddenly touched a cold unclean reptile. Her cheeks
reddened, her lips grew white, and her eyes flashed fire, though
they were dark as the blackness of night.
"Madman!" she cried, "away! begone!"
And she turned her back upon him. Her beautiful face wore an
expression like that of the stony countenance with the snaky locks.
Like a stricken, fainting man, he tottered down the staircase
and out into the street. Like a man walking in his sleep, he found his
way back to his dwelling. Then he woke up to madness and agony, and
seized his hammer, swung it high in the air, and rushed forward to
shatter the beautiful marble image. But, in his pain, he had not
noticed that his friend Angelo stood beside him; and Angelo held
back his arm with a strong grasp, crying,
"Are you mad? What are you about?"
They struggled together. Angelo was the stronger; and, with a deep
sigh of exhaustion, the young artist threw himself into a chair.
"What has happened?" asked Angelo. "Command yourself. Speak!"
But what could he say? How could he explain? And as Angelo could
make no sense of his friend's incoherent words, he forbore to question
him further, and merely said,
"Your blood grows thick from your eternal dreaming. Be a man, as
all others are, and don't go on living in ideals, for that is what
drives men crazy. A jovial feast will make you sleep quietly and
happily. Believe me, the time will come when you will be old, and your
sinews will shrink, and then, on some fine sunshiny day, when
everything is laughing and rejoicing, you will lie there a faded
plant, that will grow no more. I do not live in dreams, but in
reality. Come with me. Be a man!"
And he drew the artist away with him. At this moment he was able
to do so, for a fire ran in the blood of the young sculptor; a
change had taken place in his soul; he felt a longing to tear from the
old, the accustomed�to forget, if possible, his own individuality;
and therefore it was that he followed Angelo.
In an out-of-the-way suburb of Rome lay a tavern much visited by
artists. It was built on the ruins of some ancient baths. The great
yellow citrons hung down among the dark shining leaves, and covered
a part of the old reddish-yellow walls. The tavern consisted of a
vaulted chamber, almost like a cavern, in the ruins. A lamp burned
there before the picture of the Madonna. A great fire gleamed on the
hearth, and roasting and boiling was going on there; without, under
the citron trees and laurels, stood a few covered tables.
The two artists were received by their friends with shouts of
welcome. Little was eaten, but much was drunk, and the spirits of
the company rose. Songs were sung and ditties were played on the
guitar; presently the Salterello sounded, and the merry dance began.
Two young Roman girls, who sat as models to the artists, took part
in the dance and in the festivity. Two charming Bacchantes were
they; certainly not Psyches�not delicate, beautiful roses, but fresh,
hearty, glowing carnations.
How hot it was on that day! Even after sundown it was hot. There
was fire in the blood, fire in every glance, fire everywhere. The
air gleamed with gold and roses, and life seemed like gold and roses.
"At last you have joined us, for once," said his friends. "Now let
yourself be carried by the waves within and around you."
"Never yet have I felt so well, so merry!" cried the young artist.
"You are right�you are all of you right. I was a fool�a dreamer. Man
belongs to reality, and not to fancy."
With songs and with sounding guitars the young people returned
that evening from the tavern, through the narrow streets; the two
glowing carnations, daughters of the Campagna, went with them.
In Angelo's room, among a litter of colored sketches (studies) and
glowing pictures, the voices sounded mellower, but not less merrily.
On the ground lay many a sketch that resembled the daughters of the
Campagna, in their fresh, hearty comeliness, but the two originals
were far handsomer than their portraits. All the burners of the
six-armed lamp flared and flamed; and the human flamed up from within,
and appeared in the glare as if it were divine.
"Apollo! Jupiter! I feel myself raised to our heaven�to your
glory! I feel as if the blossom of life were unfolding itself in my
veins at this moment!"
Yes, the blossom unfolded itself, and then burst and fell, and
an evil vapor arose from it, blinding the sight, leading astray the
fancy; the firework of the senses went out, and it became dark.
He was again in his own room. There he sat down on his bed and
collected his thoughts.
"Fie on thee!" these were the words that sounded out of his
mouth from the depths of his heart. "Wretched man, go, begone!" And
a deep painful sigh burst from his bosom.
"Away! begone!" These, her words, the words of the living
Psyche, echoed through his heart, escaped from his lips. He buried his
head in the pillows, his thoughts grew confused, and he fell asleep.
In the morning dawn he started up, and collected his thoughts
anew. What had happened? Had all the past been a dream? The visit to
her, the feast at the tavern, the evening with the purple carnations
of the Campagna? No, it was all real�a reality he had never before
experienced.
In the purple air gleamed the bright Star, and its beams fell upon
him and upon the marble Psyche. He trembled as he looked at that
picture of immortality, and his glance seemed impure to him. He
threw the cloth over the statue, and then touched it once more to
unveil the form�but he was not able to look again at his own work.
Gloomy, quiet, absorbed in his own thoughts, he sat there
through the long day; he heard nothing of what was going on around
him, and no man guessed what was passing in this human soul.
And days and weeks went by, but the nights passed more slowly than
the days. The flashing Star beheld him one morning as he rose, pale
and trembling with fever, from his sad couch; then he stepped
towards the statue, threw back the covering, took one long,
sorrowful gaze at his work, and then, almost sinking beneath the
burden, he dragged the statue out into the garden. In that place was
an old dry well, now nothing but a hole. Into this he cast the Psyche,
threw earth in above her, and covered up the spot with twigs and
nettles.
"Away! begone!" Such was the short epitaph he spoke.
The Star beheld all this from the pink morning sky, and its beam
trembled upon two great tears upon the pale feverish cheeks of the
young man; and soon it was said that he was sick unto death, and he
lay stretched upon a bed of pain.
The convent Brother Ignatius visited him as a physician and a
friend, and brought him words of comfort, of religion, and spoke to
him of the peace and happiness of the church, of the sinfulness of
man, of rest and mercy to be found in heaven.
And the words fell like warm sunbeams upon a teeming soil. The
soil smoked and sent up clouds of mist, fantastic pictures, pictures
in which there was reality; and from these floating islands he
looked across at human life. He found it vanity and delusion�and
vanity and delusion it had been to him. They told him that art was a
sorcerer, betraying us to vanity and to earthly lusts; that we are
false to ourselves, unfaithful to our friends, unfaithful towards
Heaven; and that the serpent was always repeating within us, "Eat, and
thou shalt become as God."
And it appeared to him as if now, for the first time, he knew
himself, and had found the way that leads to truth and to peace. In
the church was the light and the brightness of God�in the monk's cell
he should find the rest through which the tree of human life might
grow on into eternity.
Brother Ignatius strengthened his longings, and the
determination became firm within him. A child of the world became a
servant of the church�the young artist renounced the world, and
retired into the cloister.
The brothers came forward affectionately to welcome him, and his
inauguration was as a Sunday feast. Heaven seemed to him to dwell in
the sunshine of the church, and to beam upon him from the holy
pictures and from the cross. And when, in the evening, at the sunset
hour, he stood in his little cell, and, opening the window, looked out
upon old Rome, upon the desolated temples, and the great dead
Coliseum�when he saw all this in its spring garb, when the acacias
bloomed, and the ivy was fresh, and roses burst forth everywhere,
and the citron and orange were in the height of their beauty, and
the palm trees waved their branches�then he felt a deeper emotion
than had ever yet thrilled through him. The quiet open Campagna spread
itself forth towards the blue snow-covered mountains, which seemed
to be painted in the air; all the outlines melting into each other,
breathing peace and beauty, floating, dreaming�and all appearing like
a dream!
Yes, this world was a dream, and the dream lasts for hours, and
may return for hours; but convent life is a life of years�long years,
and many years.
From within comes much that renders men sinful and impure. He
fully realized the truth of this. What flames arose up in him at
times! What a source of evil, of that which we would not, welled up
continually! He mortified his body, but the evil came from within.
One day, after the lapse of many years, he met Angelo, who
recognized him.
"Man!" exclaimed Angelo. "Yes, it is thou! Art thou happy now?
Thou hast sinned against God, and cast away His boon from thee�hast
neglected thy mission in this world! Read the parable of the intrusted
talent! The MASTER, who spoke that parable, spoke the truth! What hast
thou gained? What hast thou found? Dost thou not fashion for thyself a
religion and a dreamy life after thine own idea, as almost all do?
Suppose all this is a dream, a fair delusion!"
"Get thee away from me, Satan!" said the monk; and he quitted
Angelo.
"There is a devil, a personal devil! This day I have seen him!"
said the monk to himself. "Once I extended a finger to him, and he
took my whole hand. But now," he sighed, "the evil is within me, and
it is in yonder man; but it does not bow him down; he goes abroad with
head erect, and enjoys his comfort; and I grasped at comfort in the
consolations of religion. If it were nothing but a consolation?
Supposing everything here were, like the world I have quitted, only
a beautiful fancy, a delusion like the beauty of the evening clouds,
like the misty blue of the distant hills!�when you approach them,
they are very different! O eternity! Thou actest like the great calm
ocean, that beckons us, and fills us with expectation�and when we
embark upon thee, we sink, disappear, and cease to be. Delusion!
away with it! begone!"
And tearless, but sunk in bitter reflection, he sat upon his
hard couch, and then knelt down�before whom? Before the stone cross
fastened to the wall? No, it was only habit that made him take this
position.
The more deeply he looked into his own heart, the blacker did
the darkness seem. "Nothing within, nothing without�this life
squandered and cast away!" And this thought rolled and grew like a
snowball, until it seemed to crush him.
"I can confide my griefs to none. I may speak to none of the
gnawing worm within. My secret is my prisoner; if I let the captive
escape, I shall be his!"
And the godlike power that dwelt within him suffered and strove.
"O Lord, my Lord!" he cried, in his despair, "be merciful and
grant me faith. I threw away the gift thou hadst vouchsafed to me, I
left my mission unfulfilled. I lacked strength, and strength thou
didst not give me. Immortality�the Psyche in my breast�away with
it!�it shall be buried like that Psyche, the best gleam of my life;
never will it arise out of its grave!"
The Star glowed in the roseate air, the Star that shall surely
be extinguished and pass away while the soul still lives on; its
trembling beam fell upon the white wall, but it wrote nothing there
upon being made perfect in God, nothing of the hope of mercy, of the
reliance on the divine love that thrills through the heart of the
believer.
"The Psyche within can never die. Shall it live in
consciousness? Can the incomprehensible happen? Yes, yes. My being
is incomprehensible. Thou art unfathomable, O Lord. Thy whole world is
incomprehensible�a wonder-work of power, of glory and of love."
His eyes gleamed, and then closed in death. The tolling of the
church bell was the last sound that echoed above him, above the dead
man; and they buried him, covering him with earth that had been
brought from Jerusalem, and in which was mingled the dust of many of
the pious dead.
When years had gone by his skeleton was dug up, as the skeletons
of the monks who had died before him had been; it was clad in a
brown frock, a rosary was put into the bony hand, and the form was
placed among the ranks of other skeletons in the cloisters of the
convent. And the sun shone without, while within the censers were
waved and the Mass was celebrated.
And years rolled by.
The bones fell asunder and became mingled with others. Skulls were
piled up till they formed an outer wall around the church; and there
lay also his head in the burning sun, for many dead were there, and no
one knew their names, and his name was forgotten also. And see,
something was moving in the sunshine, in the sightless cavernous eyes!
What might that be? A sparkling lizard moved about in the skull,
gliding in and out through the sightless holes. The lizard now
represented all the life left in that head, in which once great
thoughts, bright dreams, the love of art and of the glorious, had
arisen, whence hot tears had rolled down, where hope and immortality
had had their being. The lizard sprang away and disappeared, and the
skull itself crumbled to pieces and became dust among dust.
Centuries passed away. The bright Star gleamed unaltered,
radiant and large, as it had gleamed for thousands of years, and the
air glowed red with tints fresh as roses, crimson like blood.
There, where once had stood the narrow lane containing the ruins
of the temple, a nunnery was now built. A grave was being dug in the
convent garden for a young nun who had died, and was to be laid in the
earth this morning. The spade struck against a hard substance; it
was a stone, that shone dazzling white. A block of marble soon
appeared, a rounded shoulder was laid bare; and now the spade was
plied with a more careful hand, and presently a female head was
seen, and butterflies' wings. Out of the grave in which the young
nun was to be laid they lifted, in the rosy morning, a wonderful
statue of a Psyche carved in white marble.
"How beautiful, how perfect it is!" cried the spectators. "A relic
of the best period of art."
And who could the sculptor have been? No one knew; no one
remembered him, except the bright star that had gleamed for
thousands of years. The star had seen the course of that life on
earth, and knew of the man's trials, of his weakness�in fact, that he
had been but human. The man's life had passed away, his dust had
been scattered abroad as dust is destined to be; but the result of his
noblest striving, the glorious work that gave token of the divine
element within him�the Psyche that never dies, that lives beyond
posterity�the brightness even of this earthly Psyche remained here
after him, and was seen and acknowledged and appreciated.
The bright Morning Star in the roseate air threw its glancing
ray downward upon the Psyche, and upon the radiant countenances of the
admiring spectators, who here beheld the image of the soul portrayed
in marble.
What is earthly will pass away and be forgotten, and the Star in
the vast firmament knows it. What is heavenly will shine brightly
through posterity; and when the ages of posterity are past, the
Psyche�the soul�will still live on! |
THE SHEPHERDESS AND THE SHEEP
Have you ever seen an old wooden cupboard quite black with age,
and ornamented with carved foliage and curious figures? Well, just
such a cupboard stood in a parlor, and had been left to the family
as a legacy by the great-grandmother. It was covered from top to
bottom with carved roses and tulips; the most curious scrolls were
drawn upon it, and out of them peeped little stags' heads, with
antlers. In the middle of the cupboard door was the carved figure of a
man most ridiculous to look at. He grinned at you, for no one could
call it laughing. He had goat's legs, little horns on his head, and
a long beard; the children in the room always called him, "Major
general-field-sergeant-commander Billy-goat's-legs." It was
certainly a very difficult name to pronounce, and there are very few
who ever receive such a title, but then it seemed wonderful how he
came to be carved at all; yet there he was, always looking at the
table under the looking-glass, where stood a very pretty little
shepherdess made of china. Her shoes were gilt, and her dress had a
red rose or an ornament. She wore a hat, and carried a crook, that
were both gilded, and looked very bright and pretty. Close by her side
stood a little chimney-sweep, as black as coal, and also made of
china. He was, however, quite as clean and neat as any other china
figure; he only represented a black chimney-sweep, and the china
workers might just as well have made him a prince, had they felt
inclined to do so. He stood holding his ladder quite handily, and
his face was as fair and rosy as a girl's; indeed, that was rather a
mistake, it should have had some black marks on it. He and the
shepherdess had been placed close together, side by side; and, being
so placed, they became engaged to each other, for they were very
well suited, being both made of the same sort of china, and being
equally fragile. Close to them stood another figure, three times as
large as they were, and also made of china. He was an old Chinaman,
who could nod his head, and used to pretend that he was the
grandfather of the shepherdess, although he could not prove it. He
however assumed authority over her, and therefore when
"Major-general-field-sergeant-commander Billy-goat's-legs" asked for
the little shepherdess to be his wife, he nodded his head to show that
he consented. "You will have a husband," said the old Chinaman to her,
"who I really believe is made of mahogany. He will make you a lady
of Major-general-field-sergeant-commander Billy-goat's-legs. He has
the whole cupboard full of silver plate, which he keeps locked up in
secret drawers."
"I won't go into the dark cupboard," said the little
shepherdess. "I have heard that he has eleven china wives there
already."
"Then you shall be the twelfth," said the old Chinaman.
"To-night as soon as you hear a rattling in the old cupboard, you
shall be married, as true as I am a Chinaman;" and then he nodded
his head and fell asleep.
Then the little shepherdess cried, and looked at her sweetheart,
the china chimney-sweep. "I must entreat you," said she, "to go out
with me into the wide world, for we cannot stay here."
"I will do whatever you wish," said the little chimney-sweep; "let
us go immediately: I think I shall be able to maintain you with my
profession."
"If we were but safely down from the table!" said she; "I shall
not be happy till we are really out in the world."
Then he comforted her, and showed her how to place her little foot
on the carved edge and gilt-leaf ornaments of the table. He brought
his little ladder to help her, and so they contrived to reach the
floor. But when they looked at the old cupboard, they saw it was all
in an uproar. The carved stags pushed out their heads, raised their
antlers, and twisted their necks. The major-general sprung up in the
air; and cried out to the old Chinaman, "They are running away! they
are running away!" The two were rather frightened at this, so they
jumped into the drawer of the window-seat. Here were three or four
packs of cards not quite complete, and a doll's theatre, which had
been built up very neatly. A comedy was being performed in it, and all
the queens of diamonds, clubs, and hearts, and spades, sat in the
first row fanning themselves with tulips, and behind them stood all
the knaves, showing that they had heads above and below as playing
cards generally have. The play was about two lovers, who were not
allowed to marry, and the shepherdess wept because it was so like
her own story. "I cannot bear it," said she, "I must get out of the
drawer;" but when they reached the floor, and cast their eyes on the
table, there was the old Chinaman awake and shaking his whole body,
till all at once down he came on the floor, "plump." "The old Chinaman
is coming," cried the little shepherdess in a fright, and down she
fell on one knee.
"I have thought of something," said the chimney-sweep; "let us get
into the great pot-pourri jar which stands in the corner; there we can
lie on rose-leaves and lavender, and throw salt in his eyes if he
comes near us."
"No, that will never do," said she, "because I know that the
Chinaman and the pot-pourri jar were lovers once, and there always
remains behind a feeling of good-will between those who have been so
intimate as that. No, there is nothing left for us but to go out
into the wide world."
"Have you really courage enough to go out into the wide world with
me?" said the chimney-sweep; "have you thought how large it is, and
that we can never come back here again?"
"Yes, I have," she replied.
When the chimney-sweep saw that she was quite firm, he said, "My
way is through the stove and up the chimney. Have you courage to creep
with me through the fire-box, and the iron pipe? When we get to the
chimney I shall know how to manage very well. We shall soon climb
too high for any one to reach us, and we shall come through a hole
in the top out into the wide world." So he led her to the door of
the stove.
"It looks very dark," said she; still she went in with him through
the stove and through the pipe, where it was as dark as pitch.
"Now we are in the chimney," said he; "and look, there is a
beautiful star shining above it." It was a real star shining down upon
them as if it would show them the way. So they clambered, and crept
on, and a frightful steep place it was; but the chimney-sweep helped
her and supported her, till they got higher and higher. He showed
her the best places on which to set her little china foot, so at
last they reached the top of the chimney, and sat themselves down, for
they were very tired, as may be supposed. The sky, with all its stars,
was over their heads, and below were the roofs of the town. They could
see for a very long distance out into the wide world, and the poor
little shepherdess leaned her head on her chimney-sweep's shoulder,
and wept till she washed the gilt off her sash; the world was so
different to what she expected. "This is too much," she said; "I
cannot bear it, the world is too large. Oh, I wish I were safe back on
the table again, under the looking glass; I shall never be happy till
I am safe back again. Now I have followed you out into the wide world,
you will take me back, if you love me."
Then the chimney-sweep tried to reason with her, and spoke of
the old Chinaman, and of the Major-general-field-sergeant-commander
Billy-goat's legs; but she sobbed so bitterly, and kissed her little
chimney-sweep till he was obliged to do all she asked, foolish as it
was. And so, with a great deal of trouble, they climbed down the
chimney, and then crept through the pipe and stove, which were
certainly not very pleasant places. Then they stood in the dark
fire-box, and listened behind the door, to hear what was going on in
the room. As it was all quiet, they peeped out. Alas! there lay the
old Chinaman on the floor; he had fallen down from the table as he
attempted to run after them, and was broken into three pieces; his
back had separated entirely, and his head had rolled into a corner
of the room. The major-general stood in his old place, and appeared
lost in thought.
"This is terrible," said the little shepherdess. "My poor old
grandfather is broken to pieces, and it is our fault. I shall never
live after this;" and she wrung her little hands.
"He can be riveted," said the chimney-sweep; "he can be riveted.
Do not be so hasty. If they cement his back, and put a good rivet in
it, he will be as good as new, and be able to say as many disagreeable
things to us as ever."
"Do you think so?" said she; and then they climbed up to the
table, and stood in their old places.
"As we have done no good," said the chimney-sweep, "we might as
well have remained here, instead of taking so much trouble."
"I wish grandfather was riveted," said the shepherdess. "Will it
cost much, I wonder?"
And she had her wish. The family had the Chinaman's back mended,
and a strong rivet put through his neck; he looked as good as new, but
he could no longer nod his head.
"You have become proud since your fall broke you to pieces,"
said Major-general-field-sergeant-commander Billy-goat's-legs. "You
have no reason to give yourself such airs. Am I to have her or not?"
The chimney-sweep and the little shepherdess looked piteously at
the old Chinaman, for they were afraid he might nod; but he was not
able: besides, it was so tiresome to be always telling strangers he
had a rivet in the back of his neck.
And so the little china people remained together, and were glad of
the grandfather's rivet, and continued to love each other till they
were broken to pieces. |
A STORY
In the garden all the apple-trees were in blossom. They had
hastened to bring forth flowers before they got green leaves, and in
the yard all the ducklings walked up and down, and the cat too: it
basked in the sun and licked the sunshine from its own paws. And
when one looked at the fields, how beautifully the corn stood and
how green it shone, without comparison! and there was a twittering and
a fluttering of all the little birds, as if the day were a great
festival; and so it was, for it was Sunday. All the bells were
ringing, and all the people went to church, looking cheerful, and
dressed in their best clothes. There was a look of cheerfulness on
everything. The day was so warm and beautiful that one might well have
said: "God's kindness to us men is beyond all limits." But inside
the church the pastor stood in the pulpit, and spoke very loudly and
angrily. He said that all men were wicked, and God would punish them
for their sins, and that the wicked, when they died, would be cast
into hell, to burn for ever and ever. He spoke very excitedly,
saying that their evil propensities would not be destroyed, nor
would the fire be extinguished, and they should never find rest.
That was terrible to hear, and he said it in such a tone of
conviction; he described hell to them as a miserable hole where all
the refuse of the world gathers. There was no air beside the hot
burning sulphur flame, and there was no ground under their feet; they,
the wicked ones, sank deeper and deeper, while eternal silence
surrounded them! It was dreadful to hear all that, for the preacher
spoke from his heart, and all the people in the church were terrified.
Meanwhile, the birds sang merrily outside, and the sun was shining
so beautifully warm, it seemed as though every little flower said:
"God, Thy kindness towards us all is without limits." Indeed,
outside it was not at all like the pastor's sermon.
The same evening, upon going to bed, the pastor noticed his wife
sitting there quiet and pensive.
"What is the matter with you?" he asked her.
"Well, the matter with me is," she said, "that I cannot collect my
thoughts, and am unable to grasp the meaning of what you said to-day
in church�that there are so many wicked people, and that they
should burn eternally. Alas! eternally�how long! I am only a woman
and a sinner before God, but I should not have the heart to let even
the worst sinner burn for ever, and how could our Lord to do so, who
is so infinitely good, and who knows how the wickedness comes from
without and within? No, I am unable to imagine that, although you
say so."
It was autumn; the trees dropped their leaves, the earnest and
severe pastor sat at the bedside of a dying person. A pious,
faithful soul closed her eyes for ever; she was the pastor's wife.
..."If any one shall find rest in the grave and mercy before our
Lord you shall certainly do so," said the pastor. He folded her
hands and read a psalm over the dead woman.
She was buried; two large tears rolled over the cheeks of the
earnest man, and in the parsonage it was empty and still, for its
sun had set for ever. She had gone home.
It was night. A cold wind swept over the pastor's head; he
opened his eyes, and it seemed to him as if the moon was shining
into his room. It was not so, however; there was a being standing
before his bed, and looking like the ghost of his deceased wife. She
fixed her eyes upon him with such a kind and sad expression, just as
if she wished to say something to him. The pastor raised himself in
bed and stretched his arms towards her, saying, "Not even you can find
eternal rest! You suffer, you best and most pious woman?"
The dead woman nodded her head as if to say "Yes," and put her
hand on her breast.
"And can I not obtain rest in the grave for you?"
"Yes," was the answer.
"And how?"
"Give me one hair�only one single hair�from the head of the
sinner for whom the fire shall never be extinguished, of the sinner
whom God will condemn to eternal punishment in hell."
"Yes, one ought to be able to redeem you so easily, you pure,
pious woman," he said.
"Follow me," said the dead woman. "It is thus granted to us. By my
side you will be able to fly wherever your thoughts wish to go.
Invisible to men, we shall penetrate into their most secret
chambers; but with sure hand you must find out him who is destined
to eternal torture, and before the cock crows he must be found!" As
quickly as if carried by the winged thoughts they were in the great
city, and from the walls the names of the deadly sins shone in flaming
letters: pride, avarice, drunkenness, wantonness�in short, the
whole seven-coloured bow of sin.
"Yes, therein, as I believed, as I knew it," said the pastor, "are
living those who are abandoned to the eternal fire." And they were
standing before the magnificently illuminated gate; the broad steps
were adorned with carpets and flowers, and dance music was sounding
through the festive halls. A footman dressed in silk and velvet
stood with a large silver-mounted rod near the entrance.
"Our ball can compare favourably with the king's," he said, and
turned with contempt towards the gazing crowd in the street. What he
thought was sufficiently expressed in his features and movements:
"Miserable beggars, who are looking in, you are nothing in
comparison to me."
"Pride," said the dead woman; "do you see him?"
"The footman?" asked the pastor. "He is but a poor fool, and not
doomed to be tortured eternally by fire!"
"Only a fool!" It sounded through the whole house of pride: they
were all fools there.
Then they flew within the four naked walls of the miser. Lean as a
skeleton, trembling with cold, and hunger, the old man was clinging
with all his thoughts to his money. They saw him jump up feverishly
from his miserable couch and take a loose stone out of the wall; there
lay gold coins in an old stocking. They saw him anxiously feeling over
an old ragged coat in which pieces of gold were sewn, and his clammy
fingers trembled.
"He is ill! That is madness�a joyless madness�besieged by fear
and dreadful dreams!"
They quickly went away and came before the beds of the
criminals; these unfortunate people slept side by side, in long
rows. Like a ferocious animal, one of them rose out of his sleep and
uttered a horrible cry, and gave his comrade a violent dig in the ribs
with his pointed elbow, and this one turned round in his sleep:
"Be quiet, monster�sleep! This happens every night!"
"Every night!" repeated the other. "Yes, every night he comes
and tortures me! In my violence I have done this and that. I was
born with an evil mind, which has brought me hither for the second
time; but if I have done wrong I suffer punishment for it. One
thing, however, I have not yet confessed. When I came out a little
while ago, and passed by the yard of my former master, evil thoughts
rose within me when I remembered this and that. I struck a match a
little bit on the wall; probably it came a little too close to the
thatched roof. All burnt down�a great heat rose, such as sometimes
overcomes me. I myself helped to rescue cattle and things, nothing
alive burnt, except a flight of pigeons, which flew into the fire, and
the yard dog, of which I had not thought; one could hear him howl
out of the fire, and this howling I still hear when I wish to sleep;
and when I have fallen asleep, the great rough dog comes and places
himself upon me, and howls, presses, and tortures me. Now listen to
what I tell you! You can snore; you are snoring the whole night, and I
hardly a quarter of an hour!" And the blood rose to the head of the
excited criminal; he threw himself upon his comrade, and beat him with
his clenched fist in the face.
"Wicked Matz has become mad again!" they said amongst
themselves. The other criminals seized him, wrestled with him, and
bent him double, so that his head rested between his knees, and they
tied him, so that the blood almost came out of his eyes and out of all
his pores.
"You are killing the unfortunate man," said the pastor, and as
he stretched out his hand to protect him who already suffered too
much, the scene changed. They flew through rich halls and wretched
hovels; wantonness and envy, all the deadly sins, passed before
them. An angel of justice read their crimes and their defence; the
latter was not a brilliant one, but it was read before God, Who
reads the heart, Who knows everything, the wickedness that comes
from within and from without, Who is mercy and love personified. The
pastor's hand trembled; he dared not stretch it out, he did not
venture to pull a hair out of the sinner's head. And tears gushed from
his eyes like a stream of mercy and love, the cooling waters of
which extinguished the eternal fire of hell.
Just then the cock crowed.
"Father of all mercy, grant Thou to her the peace that I was
unable to procure for her!"
"I have it now!" said the dead woman. "It was your hard words,
your despair of mankind, your gloomy belief in God and His creation,
which drove me to you. Learn to know mankind! Even in the wicked one
lives a part of God�and this extinguishes and conquers the flame of
hell!"
The pastor felt a kiss on his lips; a gleam of light surrounded
him�God's bright sun shone into the room, and his wife, alive,
sweet and full of love, awoke him from a dream which God had sent him! |
LITTLE IDA'S FLOWERS
"My poor flowers are quite dead," said little Ida, "they were so
pretty yesterday evening, and now all the leaves are hanging down
quite withered. What do they do that for," she asked, of the student
who sat on the sofa; she liked him very much, he could tell the most
amusing stories, and cut out the prettiest pictures; hearts, and
ladies dancing, castles with doors that opened, as well as flowers; he
was a delightful student. "Why do the flowers look so faded to-day?"
she asked again, and pointed to her nosegay, which was quite withered.
"Don't you know what is the matter with them?" said the student.
"The flowers were at a ball last night, and therefore, it is no wonder
they hang their heads."
"But flowers cannot dance?" cried little Ida.
"Yes indeed, they can," replied the student. "When it grows
dark, and everybody is asleep, they jump about quite merrily. They
have a ball almost every night."
"Can children go to these balls?"
"Yes," said the student, "little daisies and lilies of the
valley."
"Where do the beautiful flowers dance?" asked little Ida.
"Have you not often seen the large castle outside the gates of the
town, where the king lives in summer, and where the beautiful garden
is full of flowers? And have you not fed the swans with bread when
they swam towards you? Well, the flowers have capital balls there,
believe me."
"I was in the garden out there yesterday with my mother," said
Ida, "but all the leaves were off the trees, and there was not a
single flower left. Where are they? I used to see so many in the
summer."
"They are in the castle," replied the student. "You must know that
as soon as the king and all the court are gone into the town, the
flowers run out of the garden into the castle, and you should see
how merry they are. The two most beautiful roses seat themselves on
the throne, and are called the king and queen, then all the red
cockscombs range themselves on each side, and bow, these are the
lords-in-waiting. After that the pretty flowers come in, and there
is a grand ball. The blue violets represent little naval cadets, and
dance with hyacinths and crocuses which they call young ladies. The
tulips and tiger-lilies are the old ladies who sit and watch the
dancing, so that everything may be conducted with order and
propriety."
"But," said little Ida, "is there no one there to hurt the flowers
for dancing in the king's castle?"
"No one knows anything about it," said the student. "The old
steward of the castle, who has to watch there at night, sometimes
comes in; but he carries a great bunch of keys, and as soon as the
flowers hear the keys rattle, they run and hide themselves behind
the long curtains, and stand quite still, just peeping their heads
out. Then the old steward says, 'I smell flowers here,' but he
cannot see them."
"Oh how capital," said little Ida, clapping her hands. "Should I
be able to see these flowers?"
"Yes," said the student, "mind you think of it the next time you
go out, no doubt you will see them, if you peep through the window.
I did so to-day, and I saw a long yellow lily lying stretched out on
the sofa. She was a court lady."
"Can the flowers from the Botanical Gardens go to these balls?"
asked Ida. "It is such a distance!"
"Oh yes," said the student, "whenever they like, for they can
fly. Have you not seen those beautiful red, white, and yellow
butterflies, that look like flowers? They were flowers once. They have
flown off their stalks into the air, and flap their leaves as if
they were little wings to make them fly. Then, if they behave well,
they obtain permission to fly about during the day, instead of being
obliged to sit still on their stems at home, and so in time their
leaves become real wings. It may be, however, that the flowers in
the Botanical Gardens have never been to the king's palace, and,
therefore, they know nothing of the merry doings at night, which
take place there. I will tell you what to do, and the botanical
professor, who lives close by here, will be so surprised. You know him
very well, do you not? Well, next time you go into his garden, you
must tell one of the flowers that there is going to be a grand ball at
the castle, then that flower will tell all the others, and they will
fly away to the castle as soon as possible. And when the professor
walks into his garden, there will not be a single flower left. How
he will wonder what has become of them!"
"But how can one flower tell another? Flowers cannot speak?"
"No, certainly not," replied the student; "but they can make
signs. Have you not often seen that when the wind blows they nod at
one another, and rustle all their green leaves?"
"Can the professor understand the signs?" asked Ida.
"Yes, to be sure he can. He went one morning into his garden,
and saw a stinging nettle making signs with its leaves to a
beautiful red carnation. It was saying, 'You are so pretty, I like you
very much.' But the professor did not approve of such nonsense, so
he clapped his hands on the nettle to stop it. Then the leaves,
which are its fingers, stung him so sharply that he has never ventured
to touch a nettle since."
"Oh how funny!" said Ida, and she laughed.
"How can anyone put such notions into a child's head?" said a
tiresome lawyer, who had come to pay a visit, and sat on the sofa.
He did not like the student, and would grumble when he saw him cutting
out droll or amusing pictures. Sometimes it would be a man hanging
on a gibbet and holding a heart in his hand as if he had been stealing
hearts. Sometimes it was an old witch riding through the air on a
broom and carrying her husband on her nose. But the lawyer did not
like such jokes, and he would say as he had just said, "How can anyone
put such nonsense into a child's head! what absurd fancies there are!"
But to little Ida, all these stories which the student told her
about the flowers, seemed very droll, and she thought over them a
great deal. The flowers did hang their heads, because they had been
dancing all night, and were very tired, and most likely they were ill.
Then she took them into the room where a number of toys lay on a
pretty little table, and the whole of the table drawer besides was
full of beautiful things. Her doll Sophy lay in the doll's bed asleep,
and little Ida said to her, "You must really get up Sophy, and be
content to lie in the drawer to-night; the poor flowers are ill, and
they must lie in your bed, then perhaps they will get well again."
So she took the doll out, who looked quite cross, and said not a
single word, for she was angry at being turned out of her bed. Ida
placed the flowers in the doll's bed, and drew the quilt over them.
Then she told them to lie quite still and be good, while she made some
tea for them, so that they might be quite well and able to get up
the next morning. And she drew the curtains close round the little
bed, so that the sun might not shine in their eyes. During the whole
evening she could not help thinking of what the student had told
her. And before she went to bed herself, she was obliged to peep
behind the curtains into the garden where all her mother's beautiful
flowers grew, hyacinths and tulips, and many others. Then she
whispered to them quite softly, "I know you are going to a ball
to-night." But the flowers appeared as if they did not understand, and
not a leaf moved; still Ida felt quite sure she knew all about it. She
lay awake a long time after she was in bed, thinking how pretty it
must be to see all the beautiful flowers dancing in the king's garden.
"I wonder if my flowers have really been there," she said to
herself, and then she fell asleep. In the night she awoke; she had
been dreaming of the flowers and of the student, as well as of the
tiresome lawyer who found fault with him. It was quite still in
Ida's bedroom; the night-lamp burnt on the table, and her father and
mother were asleep. "I wonder if my flowers are still lying in Sophy's
bed," she thought to herself; "how much I should like to know." She
raised herself a little, and glanced at the door of the room where all
her flowers and playthings lay; it was partly open, and as she
listened, it seemed as if some one in the room was playing the
piano, but softly and more prettily than she had ever before heard it.
"Now all the flowers are certainly dancing in there," she thought, "oh
how much I should like to see them," but she did not dare move for
fear of disturbing her father and mother. "If they would only come
in here," she thought; but they did not come, and the music
continued to play so beautifully, and was so pretty, that she could
resist no longer. She crept out of her little bed, went softly to
the door and looked into the room. Oh what a splendid sight there
was to be sure! There was no night-lamp burning, but the room appeared
quite light, for the moon shone through the window upon the floor, and
made it almost like day. All the hyacinths and tulips stood in two
long rows down the room, not a single flower remained in the window,
and the flower-pots were all empty. The flowers were dancing
gracefully on the floor, making turns and holding each other by
their long green leaves as they swung round. At the piano sat a
large yellow lily which little Ida was sure she had seen in the
summer, for she remembered the student saying she was very much like
Miss Lina, one of Ida's friends. They all laughed at him then, but now
it seemed to little Ida as if the tall, yellow flower was really
like the young lady. She had just the same manners while playing,
bending her long yellow face from side to side, and nodding in time to
the beautiful music. Then she saw a large purple crocus jump into
the middle of the table where the playthings stood, go up to the
doll's bedstead and draw back the curtains; there lay the sick
flowers, but they got up directly, and nodded to the others as a
sign that they wished to dance with them. The old rough doll, with the
broken mouth, stood up and bowed to the pretty flowers. They did not
look ill at all now, but jumped about and were very merry, yet none of
them noticed little Ida. Presently it seemed as if something fell from
the table. Ida looked that way, and saw a slight carnival rod
jumping down among the flowers as if it belonged to them; it was,
however, very smooth and neat, and a little wax doll with a broad
brimmed hat on her head, like the one worn by the lawyer, sat upon it.
The carnival rod hopped about among the flowers on its three red
stilted feet, and stamped quite loud when it danced the Mazurka; the
flowers could not perform this dance, they were too light to stamp
in that manner. All at once the wax doll which rode on the carnival
rod seemed to grow larger and taller, and it turned round and said
to the paper flowers, "How can you put such things in a child's
head? they are all foolish fancies;" and then the doll was exactly
like the lawyer with the broad brimmed hat, and looked as yellow and
as cross as he did; but the paper dolls struck him on his thin legs,
and he shrunk up again and became quite a little wax doll. This was
very amusing, and Ida could not help laughing. The carnival rod went
on dancing, and the lawyer was obliged to dance also. It was no use,
he might make himself great and tall, or remain a little wax doll with
a large black hat; still he must dance. Then at last the other flowers
interceded for him, especially those who had lain in the doll's bed,
and the carnival rod gave up his dancing. At the same moment a loud
knocking was heard in the drawer, where Ida's doll Sophy lay with many
other toys. Then the rough doll ran to the end of the table, laid
himself flat down upon it, and began to pull the drawer out a little
way.
Then Sophy raised himself, and looked round quite astonished,
"There must be a ball here to-night," said Sophy. "Why did not
somebody tell me?"
"Will you dance with me?" said the rough doll.
"You are the right sort to dance with, certainly," said she,
turning her back upon him.
Then she seated herself on the edge of the drawer, and thought
that perhaps one of the flowers would ask her to dance; but none of
them came. Then she coughed, "Hem, hem, a-hem;" but for all that not
one came. The shabby doll now danced quite alone, and not very
badly, after all. As none of the flowers seemed to notice Sophy, she
let herself down from the drawer to the floor, so as to make a very
great noise. All the flowers came round her directly, and asked if she
had hurt herself, especially those who had lain in her bed. But she
was not hurt at all, and Ida's flowers thanked her for the use of
the nice bed, and were very kind to her. They led her into the
middle of the room, where the moon shone, and danced with her, while
all the other flowers formed a circle round them. Then Sophy was
very happy, and said they might keep her bed; she did not mind lying
in the drawer at all. But the flowers thanked her very much, and
said,�
"We cannot live long. To-morrow morning we shall be quite dead;
and you must tell little Ida to bury us in the garden, near to the
grave of the canary; then, in the summer we shall wake up and be
more beautiful than ever."
"No, you must not die," said Sophy, as she kissed the flowers.
Then the door of the room opened, and a number of beautiful
flowers danced in. Ida could not imagine where they could come from,
unless they were the flowers from the king's garden. First came two
lovely roses, with little golden crowns on their heads; these were the
king and queen. Beautiful stocks and carnations followed, bowing to
every one present. They had also music with them. Large poppies and
peonies had pea-shells for instruments, and blew into them till they
were quite red in the face. The bunches of blue hyacinths and the
little white snowdrops jingled their bell-like flowers, as if they
were real bells. Then came many more flowers: blue violets, purple
heart's-ease, daisies, and lilies of the valley, and they all danced
together, and kissed each other. It was very beautiful to behold.
At last the flowers wished each other good-night. Then little
Ida crept back into her bed again, and dreamt of all she had seen.
When she arose the next morning, she went quickly to the little table,
to see if the flowers were still there. She drew aside the curtains of
the little bed. There they all lay, but quite faded; much more so than
the day before. Sophy was lying in the drawer where Ida had placed
her; but she looked very sleepy.
"Do you remember what the flowers told you to say to me?" said
little Ida. But Sophy looked quite stupid, and said not a single word.
"You are not kind at all," said Ida; "and yet they all danced with
you."
Then she took a little paper box, on which were painted
beautiful birds, and laid the dead flowers in it.
"This shall be your pretty coffin," she said; "and by and by, when
my cousins come to visit me, they shall help me to bury you out in the
garden; so that next summer you may grow up again more beautiful
than ever."
Her cousins were two good-tempered boys, whose names were James
and Adolphus. Their father had given them each a bow and arrow, and
they had brought them to show Ida. She told them about the poor
flowers which were dead; and as soon as they obtained permission, they
went with her to bury them. The two boys walked first, with their
crossbows on their shoulders, and little Ida followed, carrying the
pretty box containing the dead flowers. They dug a little grave in the
garden. Ida kissed her flowers and then laid them, with the box, in
the earth. James and Adolphus then fired their crossbows over the
grave, as they had neither guns nor cannons. |
THE PRINCESS AND THE PEA
Once upon a time there was a prince who wanted to marry a
princess; but she would have to be a real princess. He travelled all
over the world to find one, but nowhere could he get what he wanted.
There were princesses enough, but it was difficult to find out whether
they were real ones. There was always something about them that was
not as it should be. So he came home again and was sad, for he would
have liked very much to have a real princess.
One evening a terrible storm came on; there was thunder and
lightning, and the rain poured down in torrents. Suddenly a knocking
was heard at the city gate, and the old king went to open it.
It was a princess standing out there in front of the gate. But,
good gracious! what a sight the rain and the wind had made her look.
The water ran down from her hair and clothes; it ran down into the
toes of her shoes and out again at the heels. And yet she said that
she was a real princess.
"Well, we'll soon find that out," thought the old queen. But she
said nothing, went into the bed-room, took all the bedding off the
bedstead, and laid a pea on the bottom; then she took twenty
mattresses and laid them on the pea, and then twenty eider-down beds
on top of the mattresses.
On this the princess had to lie all night. In the morning she
was asked how she had slept.
"Oh, very badly!" said she. "I have scarcely closed my eyes all
night. Heaven only knows what was in the bed, but I was lying on
something hard, so that I am black and blue all over my body. It's
horrible!"
Now they knew that she was a real princess because she had felt
the pea right through the twenty mattresses and the twenty
eider-down beds.
Nobody but a real princess could be as sensitive as that.
So the prince took her for his wife, for now he knew that he had a
real princess; and the pea was put in the museum, where it may still
be seen, if no one has stolen it.
There, that is a true story. |
THE DUMB BOOK
In the high-road which led through a wood stood a solitary
farm-house; the road, in fact, ran right through its yard. The sun was
shining and all the windows were open; within the house people were
very busy. In the yard, in an arbour formed by lilac bushes in full
bloom, stood an open coffin; thither they had carried a dead man,
who was to be buried that very afternoon. Nobody shed a tear over him;
his face was covered over with a white cloth, under his head they
had placed a large thick book, the leaves of which consisted of folded
sheets of blotting-paper, and withered flowers lay between them; it
was the herbarium which he had gathered in various places and was to
be buried with him, according to his own wish. Every one of the
flowers in it was connected with some chapter of his life.
"Who is the dead man?" we asked.
"The old student," was the reply. "They say that he was once an
energetic young man, that he studied the dead languages, and sang
and even composed many songs; then something had happened to him,
and in consequence of this he gave himself up to drink, body and mind.
When at last he had ruined his health, they brought him into the
country, where someone paid for his board and residence. He was gentle
as a child as long as the sullen mood did not come over him; but
when it came he was fierce, became as strong as a giant, and ran about
in the wood like a chased deer. But when we succeeded in bringing
him home, and prevailed upon him to open the book with the dried-up
plants in it, he would sometimes sit for a whole day looking at this
or that plant, while frequently the tears rolled over his cheeks.
God knows what was in his mind; but he requested us to put the book
into his coffin, and now he lies there. In a little while the lid will
be placed upon the coffin, and he will have sweet rest in the grave!"
The cloth which covered his face was lifted up; the dead man's
face expressed peace�a sunbeam fell upon it. A swallow flew with
the swiftness of an arrow into the arbour, turning in its flight,
and twittered over the dead man's head.
What a strange feeling it is�surely we all know it�to look
through old letters of our young days; a different life rises up out
of the past, as it were, with all its hopes and sorrows. How many of
the people with whom in those days we used to be on intimate terms
appear to us as if dead, and yet they are still alive�only we have
not thought of them for such a long time, whom we imagined we should
retain in our memories for ever, and share every joy and sorrow with
them.
The withered oak leaf in the book here recalled the friend, the
schoolfellow, who was to be his friend for life. He fixed the leaf
to the student's cap in the green wood, when they vowed eternal
friendship. Where does he dwell now? The leaf is kept, but the
friendship does no longer exist. Here is a foreign hothouse plant, too
tender for the gardens of the North. It is almost as if its leaves
still smelt sweet! She gave it to him out of her own garden�a
nobleman's daughter.
Here is a water-lily that he had plucked himself, and watered with
salt tears�a lily of sweet water. And here is a nettle: what may
its leaves tell us? What might he have thought when he plucked and
kept it? Here is a little snowdrop out of the solitary wood; here is
an evergreen from the flower-pot at the tavern; and here is a simple
blade of grass.
The lilac bends its fresh fragrant flowers over the dead man's
head; the swallow passes again�"twit, twit;" now the men come with
hammer and nails, the lid is placed over the dead man, while his
head rests on the dumb book�so long cherished, now closed for ever! |
THE PUPPET-SHOW MAN
On board a steamer I once met an elderly man, with such a merry
face that, if it was really an index of his mind, he must have been
the happiest fellow in creation; and indeed he considered himself
so, for I heard it from his own mouth. He was a Dane, the owner of a
travelling theatre. He had all his company with him in a large box,
for he was the proprietor of a puppet-show. His inborn cheerfulness,
he said, had been tested by a member of the Polytechnic Institution,
and the experiment had made him completely happy. I did not at first
understand all this, but afterwards he explained the whole story to
me; and here it is:�
"I was giving a representation," he said, "in the hall of the
posting-house in the little town of Slagelse; there was a splendid
audience, entirely juvenile excepting two respectable matrons. All
at once, a person in black, of student-like appearance, entered the
room, and sat down; he laughed aloud at the telling points, and
applauded quite at the proper time. This was a very unusual
spectator for me, and I felt anxious to know who he was. I heard
that he was a member of the Polytechnic Institution in Copenhagen, who
had been sent out to lecture to the people in the provinces.
Punctually at eight o'clock my performance closed, for children must
go early to bed, and a manager must also consult the convenience of
the public.
"At nine o'clock the lecturer commenced his lecture and his
experiments, and then I formed a part of his audience. It was
wonderful both to hear and to see. The greater part of it was beyond
my comprehension, but it led me to think that if we men can acquire so
much, we must surely be intended to last longer than the little span
which extends only to the time when we are hidden away under the
earth. His experiments were quite miracles on a small scale, and yet
the explanations flowed as naturally as water from his lips. At the
time of Moses and the prophets, such a man would have been placed
among the sages of the land; in the middle ages they would have
burnt him at the stake.
"All night long I could not sleep; and the next evening when I
gave another performance and the lecturer was present, I was in one of
my best moods.
"I once heard of an actor, who, when he had to act the part of a
lover, always thought of one particular lady in the audience; he
only played for her, and forgot all the rest of the house, and now the
Polytechnic lecturer was my she, my only auditor, for whom alone I
played.
"When the performance was over, and the puppets removed behind the
curtain, the Polytechnic lecturer invited me into his room to take a
glass of wine. He talked of my comedies, and I of his science, and I
believe we were both equally pleased. But I had the best of it, for
there was much in what he did that he could not always explain to
me. For instance, why a piece of iron which is rubbed on a cylinder,
should become magnetic. How does this happen? The magnetic sparks come
to it,�but how? It is the same with people in the world; they are
rubbed about on this spherical globe till the electric spark comes
upon them, and then we have a Napoleon, or a Luther, or some one of
the kind.
"'The whole world is but a series of miracles,' said the lecturer,
'but we are so accustomed to them that we call them everyday matters.'
And he went on explaining things to me till my skull seemed lifted
from my brain, and I declared that were I not such an old fellow, I
would at once become a member of the Polytechnic Institution, that I
might learn to look at the bright side of everything, although I was
one of the happiest of men.
"'One of the happiest!' said the lecturer, as if the idea
pleased him; 'are you really happy?'
"'Yes,' I replied; 'for I am welcomed in every town, when I arrive
with my company; but I certainly have one wish which sometimes
weighs upon my cheerful temper like a mountain of lead. I should
like to become the manager of a real theatre, and the director of a
real troupe of men and women.'
"'I understand,' he said; 'you would like to have life breathed
into your puppets, so that they might be living actors, and you
their director. And would you then be quite happy?'
"I said I believed so. But he did not; and we talked it over in
all manner of ways, yet could not agree on the subject. However, the
wine was excellent, and we clanked our glasses together as we drank.
There must have been magic in it, or I should most certainly become
tipsy; but that did not happen, for my mind seemed quite clear; and,
indeed, a kind of sunshine filled the room, and beamed from the eyes
of the Polytechnic lecturer. It made me think of the old stories
when the gods, in their immortal youth, wandered upon this earth,
and paid visits to mankind. I said so to him, and he smiled; and I
could have sworn that he was one of these ancient deities in disguise,
or, at all events, that he belonged to the race of the gods. The
result seemed to prove I was right in my suspicions; for it was
arranged that my highest wish should be granted, that my puppets
were to be gifted with life, and that I was to be the manager of a
real company. We drank to my success, and clanked our glasses. Then he
packed all my dolls into the box, and fastened it on my back, and I
felt as if I were spinning round in a circle, and presently found
myself lying on the floor. I remember that quite well. And then the
whole company sprang from the box. The spirit had come upon us all;
the puppets had become distinguished actors�at least, so they said
themselves�and I was their director.
"When all was ready for the first representation, the whole
company requested permission to speak to me before appearing in
public. The dancing lady said the house could not be supported
unless she stood on one leg; for she was a great genius, and begged to
be treated as such. The lady who acted the part of the queen
expected to be treated as a queen off the stage, as well as on it,
or else she said she should get out of practice. The man whose duty it
was to deliver a letter gave himself as many airs as he who took the
part of first lover in the piece; he declared that the inferior
parts were as important as the great ones, and deserving equal
consideration, as parts of an artistic whole. The hero of the piece
would only play in a part containing points likely to bring down the
applause of the house. The 'prima donna' would only act when the
lights were red, for she declared that a blue light did not suit her
complexion. It was like a company of flies in a bottle, and I was in
the bottle with them; for I was their director. My breath was taken
away, my head whirled, and I was as miserable as a man could be. It
was quite a novel, strange set of beings among whom I now found
myself. I only wished I had them all in my box again, and that I had
never been their director. So I told them roundly that, after all,
they were nothing but puppets; and then they killed me. After a
while I found myself lying on my bed in my room; but how I got
there, or how I got away at all from the Polytechnic professor, he may
perhaps know, I don't. The moon shone upon the floor, the box lay
open, and the dolls were all scattered about in great confusion; but I
was not idle. I jumped off the bed, and into the box they all had to
go, some on their heads, some on their feet. Then I shut down the lid,
and seated myself upon the box. 'Now you'll have to stay,' said I,
'and I shall be cautious how I wish you flesh and blood again.'
"I felt quite light, my cheerfulness had returned, and I was the
happiest of mortals. The Polytechnic professor had fully cured me. I
was as happy as a king, and went to sleep on the box. Next
morning�correctly speaking, it was noon, for I slept remarkably late
that day�I found myself still sitting there, in happy consciousness that
my former wish had been a foolish one. I inquired for the Polytechnic
professor; but he had disappeared like the Greek and Roman gods;
from that time I have been the happiest man in the world. I am a happy
director; for none of my company ever grumble, nor the public
either, for I always make them merry. I can arrange my pieces just
as I please. I choose out of every comedy what I like best, and no one
is offended. Plays that are neglected now-a-days by the great public
were ran after thirty years ago, and listened to till the tears ran
down the cheeks of the audience. These are the pieces I bring forward.
I place them before the little ones, who cry over them as papa and
mamma used to cry thirty years ago. But I make them shorter, for the
youngsters don't like long speeches; and if they have anything
mournful, they like it to be over quickly." |
THE PEA BLOSSOM
There were once five peas in one shell, they were green, the shell
was green, and so they believed that the whole world must be green
also, which was a very natural conclusion. The shell grew, and the
peas grew, they accommodated themselves to their position, and sat all
in a row. The sun shone without and warmed the shell, and the rain
made it clear and transparent; it was mild and agreeable in broad
daylight, and dark at night, as it generally is; and the peas as
they sat there grew bigger and bigger, and more thoughtful as they
mused, for they felt there must be something else for them to do.
"Are we to sit here forever?" asked one; "shall we not become hard
by sitting so long? It seems to me there must be something outside,
and I feel sure of it."
And as weeks passed by, the peas became yellow, and the shell
became yellow.
"All the world is turning yellow, I suppose," said they,�and
perhaps they were right.
Suddenly they felt a pull at the shell; it was torn off, and
held in human hands, then slipped into the pocket of a jacket in
company with other full pods.
"Now we shall soon be opened," said one,�just what they all
wanted.
"I should like to know which of us will travel furthest," said the
smallest of the five; "we shall soon see now."
"What is to happen will happen," said the largest pea.
"Crack" went the shell as it burst, and the five peas rolled out
into the bright sunshine. There they lay in a child's hand. A little
boy was holding them tightly, and said they were fine peas for his
pea-shooter. And immediately he put one in and shot it out.
"Now I am flying out into the wide world," said he; "catch me if
you can;" and he was gone in a moment.
"I," said the second, "intend to fly straight to the sun, that
is a shell that lets itself be seen, and it will suit me exactly;" and
away he went.
"We will go to sleep wherever we find ourselves," said the two
next, "we shall still be rolling onwards;" and they did certainly fall
on the floor, and roll about before they got into the pea-shooter; but
they were put in for all that. "We shall go farther than the
others," said they.
"What is to happen will happen," exclaimed the last, as he was
shot out of the pea-shooter; and as he spoke he flew up against an old
board under a garret-window, and fell into a little crevice, which was
almost filled up with moss and soft earth. The moss closed itself
round him, and there he lay, a captive indeed, but not unnoticed by
God.
"What is to happen will happen," said he to himself.
Within the little garret lived a poor woman, who went out to clean
stoves, chop wood into small pieces and perform such-like hard work,
for she was strong and industrious. Yet she remained always poor,
and at home in the garret lay her only daughter, not quite grown up,
and very delicate and weak. For a whole year she had kept her bed, and
it seemed as if she could neither live nor die.
"She is going to her little sister," said the woman; "I had but
the two children, and it was not an easy thing to support both of
them; but the good God helped me in my work, and took one of them to
Himself and provided for her. Now I would gladly keep the other that
was left to me, but I suppose they are not to be separated, and my
sick girl will very soon go to her sister above." But the sick girl
still remained where she was, quietly and patiently she lay all the
day long, while her mother was away from home at her work.
Spring came, and one morning early the sun shone brightly
through the little window, and threw its rays over the floor of the
room. Just as the mother was going to her work, the sick girl fixed
her gaze on the lowest pane of the window�"Mother," she exclaimed,
"what can that little green thing be that peeps in at the window? It
is moving in the wind."
The mother stepped to the window and half opened it. "Oh!" she
said, "there is actually a little pea which has taken root and is
putting out its green leaves. How could it have got into this crack?
Well now, here is a little garden for you to amuse yourself with."
So the bed of the sick girl was drawn nearer to the window, that she
might see the budding plant; and the mother went out to her work.
"Mother, I believe I shall get well," said the sick child in the
evening, "the sun has shone in here so brightly and warmly to-day, and
the little pea is thriving so well: I shall get on better, too, and go
out into the warm sunshine again."
"God grant it!" said the mother, but she did not believe it
would be so. But she propped up with the little stick the green
plant which had given her child such pleasant hopes of life, so that
it might not be broken by the winds; she tied the piece of string to
the window-sill and to the upper part of the frame, so that the
pea-tendrils might twine round it when it shot up. And it did shoot
up, indeed it might almost be seen to grow from day to day.
"Now really here is a flower coming," said the old woman one
morning, and now at last she began to encourage the hope that her sick
daughter might really recover. She remembered that for some time the
child had spoken more cheerfully, and during the last few days had
raised herself in bed in the morning to look with sparkling eyes at
her little garden which contained only a single pea-plant. A week
after, the invalid sat up for the first time a whole hour, feeling
quite happy by the open window in the warm sunshine, while outside
grew the little plant, and on it a pink pea-blossom in full bloom. The
little maiden bent down and gently kissed the delicate leaves. This
day was to her like a festival.
"Our heavenly Father Himself has planted that pea, and made it
grow and flourish, to bring joy to you and hope to me, my blessed
child," said the happy mother, and she smiled at the flower, as if
it had been an angel from God.
But what became of the other peas? Why the one who flew out into
the wide world, and said, "Catch me if you can," fell into a gutter
on the roof of a house, and ended his travels in the crop of a
pigeon. The two lazy ones were carried quite as far, for they also
were eaten by pigeons, so they were at least of some use; but the
fourth, who wanted to reach the sun, fell into a sink and lay there
in the dirty water for days and weeks, till he had swelled to a great
size.
"I am getting beautifully fat," said the pea, "I expect I shall
burst at last; no pea could do more that that, I think; I am the
most remarkable of all the five which were in the shell." And the sink
confirmed the opinion.
But the young maiden stood at the open garret window, with
sparkling eyes and the rosy hue of health on her cheeks, she folded
her thin hands over the pea-blossom, and thanked God for what He had
done.
"I," said the sink, "shall stand up for my pea." |
THE TOAD
The well was deep, and therefore the rope had to be a long one; it
was heavy work turning the handle when any one had to raise a
bucketful of water over the edge of the well. Though the water was
clear, the sun never looked down far enough into the well to mirror
itself in the waters; but as far as its beams could reach, green
things grew forth between the stones in the sides of the well.
Down below dwelt a family of the Toad race. They had, in fact,
come head-over-heels down the well, in the person of the old
Mother-Toad, who was still alive. The green Frogs, who had been
established there a long time, and swam about in the water, called
them "well-guests." But the new-comers seemed determined to stay where
they were, for they found it very agreeable living "in a dry place,"
as they called the wet stones.
The Mother-Frog had once been a traveller. She happened to be in
the water-bucket when it was drawn up, but the light became too strong
for her, and she got a pain in her eyes. Fortunately she scrambled out
of the bucket; but she fell into the water with a terrible flop, and
had to lie sick for three days with pains in her back. She certainly
had not much to tell of the things up above, but she knew this, and
all the Frogs knew it, that the well was not all the world. The
Mother-Toad might have told this and that, if she had chosen, but
she never answered when they asked her anything, and so they left
off asking.
"She's thick, and fat and ugly," said the young green Frogs;
"and her children will be just as ugly as she is."
"That may be," retorted the mother-Toad, "but one of them has a
jewel in his head, or else I have the jewel."
The young frogs listened and stared; and as these words did not
please them, they made grimaces and dived down under the water. But
the little Toads kicked up their hind legs from mere pride, for each
of them thought that he must have the jewel; and then they sat and
held their heads quite still. But at length they asked what it was
that made them so proud, and what kind of a thing a jewel might be.
"Oh, it is such a splendid and precious thing, that I cannot
describe it," said the Mother-Toad. "It's something which one
carries about for one's own pleasure, and that makes other people
angry. But don't ask me any questions, for I shan't answer you."
"Well, I haven't got the jewel," said the smallest of the Toads;
she was as ugly as a toad can be. "Why should I have such a precious
thing? And if it makes others angry, it can't give me any pleasure.
No, I only wish I could get to the edge of the well, and look out;
it must be beautiful up there."
"You'd better stay where you are," said the old Mother-Toad,
"for you know everything here, and you can tell what you have. Take
care of the bucket, for it will crush you to death; and even if you
get into it safely, you may fall out. And it's not every one who falls
so cleverly as I did, and gets away with whole legs and whole bones.
"Quack!" said the little Toad; and that's just as if one of us
were to say, "Aha!"
She had an immense desire to get to the edge of the well, and to
look over; she felt such a longing for the green, up there; and the
next morning, when it chanced that the bucket was being drawn up,
filled with water, and stopped for a moment just in front of the stone
on which the Toad sat, the little creature's heart moved within it,
and our Toad jumped into the filled bucket, which presently was
drawn to the top, and emptied out.
"Ugh, you beast!" said the farm laborer who emptied the bucket,
when he saw the toad. "You're the ugliest thing I've seen for one
while." And he made a kick with his wooden shoe at the toad, which
just escaped being crushed by managing to scramble into the nettles
which grew high by the well's brink. Here she saw stem by stem, but
she looked up also; the sun shone through the leaves, which were quite
transparent; and she felt as a person would feel who steps suddenly
into a great forest, where the sun looks in between the branches and
leaves.
"It's much nicer here than down in the well! I should like to stay
here my whole life long!" said the little Toad. So she lay there for
an hour, yes, for two hours. "I wonder what is to be found up here? As
I have come so far, I must try to go still farther." And so she
crawled on as fast as she could crawl, and got out upon the highway,
where the sun shone upon her, and the dust powdered her all over as
she marched across the way.
"I've got to a dry place now, and no mistake," said the Toad.
"It's almost too much of a good thing here; it tickles one so."
She came to the ditch; and forget-me-nots were growing there,
and meadow-sweet; and a very little way off was a hedge of whitethorn,
and elder bushes grew there, too, and bindweed with white flowers. Gay
colors were to be seen here, and a butterfly, too, was flitting by.
The Toad thought it was a flower which had broken loose that it
might look about better in the world, which was quite a natural
thing to do.
"If one could only make such a journey as that!" said the Toad.
"Croak! how capital that would be."
Eight days and eight nights she stayed by the well, and
experienced no want of provisions. On the ninth day she thought,
"Forward! onward!" But what could she find more charming and
beautiful? Perhaps a little toad or a few green frogs. During the last
night there had been a sound borne on the breeze, as if there were
cousins in the neighborhood.
"It's a glorious thing to live! glorious to get out of the well,
and to lie among the stinging-nettles, and to crawl along the dusty
road. But onward, onward! that we may find frogs or a little toad.
We can't do without that; nature alone is not enough for one." And
so she went forward on her journey.
She came out into the open field, to a great pond, round about
which grew reeds; and she walked into it.
"It will be too damp for you here," said the Frogs; "but you are
very welcome! Are you a he or a she? But it doesn't matter; you are
equally welcome."
And she was invited to the concert in the evening�the family
concert; great enthusiasm and thin voices; we know the sort of
thing. No refreshments were given, only there was plenty to drink, for
the whole pond was free.
"Now I shall resume my journey," said the little Toad; for she
always felt a longing for something better.
She saw the stars shining, so large and so bright, and she saw the
moon gleaming; and then she saw the sun rise, and mount higher and
higher.
"Perhaps after all, I am still in a well, only in a larger well. I
must get higher yet; I feel a great restlessness and longing." And
when the moon became round and full, the poor creature thought, "I
wonder if that is the bucket which will be let down, and into which
I must step to get higher up? Or is the sun the great bucket? How
great it is! how bright it is! It can take up all. I must look out,
that I may not miss the opportunity. Oh, how it seems to shine in my
head! I don't think the jewel can shine brighter. But I haven't the
jewel; not that I cry about that�no, I must go higher up, into
splendor and joy! I feel so confident, and yet I am afraid. It's a
difficult step to take, and yet it must be taken. Onward, therefore,
straight onward!"
She took a few steps, such as a crawling animal may take, and soon
found herself on a road beside which people dwelt; but there were
flower gardens as well as kitchen gardens. And she sat down to rest by
a kitchen garden.
"What a number of different creatures there are that I never knew!
and how beautiful and great the world is! But one must look round in
it, and not stay in one spot." And then she hopped into the kitchen
garden. "How green it is here! how beautiful it is here!"
"I know that," said the Caterpillar, on the leaf, "my leaf is
the largest here. It hides half the world from me, but I don't care
for the world."
"Cluck, cluck!" And some fowls came. They tripped about in the
cabbage garden. The Fowl who marched at the head of them had a long
sight, and she spied the Caterpillar on the green leaf, and pecked
at it, so that the Caterpillar fell on the ground, where it twisted
and writhed.
The Fowl looked at it first with one eye and then with the
other, for she did not know what the end of this writhing would be.
"It doesn't do that with a good will," thought the Fowl, and
lifted up her head to peck at the Caterpillar.
The Toad was so horrified at this, that she came crawling straight
up towards the Fowl.
"Aha, it has allies," quoth the Fowl. "Just look at the crawling
thing!" And then the Fowl turned away. "I don't care for the little
green morsel; it would only tickle my throat." The other fowls took
the same view of it, and they all turned away together.
"I writhed myself free," said the Caterpillar. "What a good
thing it is when one has presence of mind! But the hardest thing
remains to be done, and that is to get on my leaf again. Where is it?"
And the little Toad came up and expressed her sympathy. She was
glad that in her ugliness she had frightened the fowls.
"What do you mean by that?" cried the Caterpillar. "I wriggled
myself free from the Fowl. You are very disagreeable to look at.
Cannot I be left in peace on my own property? Now I smell cabbage; now
I am near my leaf. Nothing is so beautiful as property. But I must
go higher up."
"Yes, higher up," said the little Toad; "higher-up! She feels just
as I do; but she's not in a good humor to-day. That's because of the
fright. We all want to go higher up." And she looked up as high as
ever she could.
The stork sat in his nest on the roof of the farm-house. He
clapped with his beak, and the Mother-stork clapped with hers.
"How high up they live!" thought the Toad. "If one could only
get as high as that!"
In the farm-house lived two young students; the one was a poet and
the other a scientific searcher into the secrets of nature. The one
sang and wrote joyously of everything that God had created, and how it
was mirrored in his heart. He sang it out clearly, sweetly, richly, in
well-sounding verses; while the other investigated created matter
itself, and even cut it open where need was. He looked upon God's
creation as a great sum in arithmetic�subtracted, multiplied, and
tried to know it within and without, and to talk with understanding
concerning it; and that was a very sensible thing; and he spoke
joyously and cleverly of it. They were good, joyful men, those two.
"There sits a good specimen of a toad," said the naturalist. "I
must have that fellow in a bottle of spirits."
"You have two of them already," replied the poet. "Let the thing
sit there and enjoy its life."
"But it's so wonderfully ugly," persisted the first.
"Yes, if we could find the jewel in its head," said the poet, "I
too should be for cutting it open.'
"A jewel!" cried the naturalist. "You seem to know a great deal
about natural history."
"But is there not something beautiful in the popular belief that
just as the toad is the ugliest of animals, it should often carry
the most precious jewel in its head? Is it not just the same thing
with men? What a jewel that was that Aesop had, and still more,
Socrates!"
The Toad did not hear any more, nor did she understand half of
what she had heard. The two friends walked on, and thus she escaped
the fate of being bottled up in spirits.
"Those two also were speaking of the jewel," said the Toad to
herself. "What a good thing that I have not got it! I might have
been in a very disagreeable position."
Now there was a clapping on the roof of the farm-house.
Father-Stork was making a speech to his family, and his family was
glancing down at the two young men in the kitchen garden.
"Man is the most conceited creature!" said the Stork. "Listen
how their jaws are wagging; and for all that they can't clap properly.
They boast of their gifts of eloquence and their language! Yes, a fine
language truly! Why, it changes in every day's journey we make. One of
them doesn't understand another. Now, we can speak our language over
the whole earth�up in the North and in Egypt. And then men are not
able to fly, moreover. They rush along by means of an invention they
call 'railway;' but they often break their necks over it. It makes
my beak turn cold when I think of it. The world could get on without
men. We could do without them very well, so long as we only keep frogs
and earth-worms."
"That was a powerful speech," thought the little Toad. "What a
great man that is yonder! and how high he sits! Higher than ever I saw
any one sit yet; and how he can swim!" she cried, as the Stork
soared away through the air with outspread pinions.
And the Mother-Stork began talking in the nest, and told about
Egypt and the waters of the Nile, and the incomparable mud that was to
be found in that strange land; and all this sounded new and very
charming to the little Toad.
"I must go to Egypt!" said she. "If the Stork or one of his
young ones would only take me! I would oblige him in return. Yes, I
shall get to Egypt, for I feel so happy! All the longing and all the
pleasure that I feel is much better than having a jewel in one's
head."
And it was just she who had the jewel. That jewel was the
continual striving and desire to go upward�ever upward. It gleamed in
her head, gleamed in joy, beamed brightly in her longing.
Then, suddenly, up came the Stork. He had seen the Toad in the
grass, and stooped down and seized the little creature anything but
gently. The Stork's beak pinched her, and the wind whistled; it was
not exactly agreeable, but she was going upward�upward towards
Egypt�and she knew it; and that was why her eyes gleamed, and a spark
seemed to fly out of them.
"Quunk!�ah!"
The body was dead�the Toad was killed! But the spark that had
shot forth from her eyes; what became of that?
The sunbeam took it up; the sunbeam carried the jewel from the
head of the toad. Whither?
Ask not the naturalist; rather ask the poet. He will tell it
thee under the guise of a fairy tale; and the Caterpillar on the
cabbage, and the Stork family belong to the story. Think! the
Caterpillar is changed, and turns into a beautiful butterfly; the
Stork family flies over mountains and seas, to the distant Africa, and
yet finds the shortest way home to the same country�to the same roof.
Nay, that is almost too improbable; and yet it is true. You may ask
the naturalist, he will confess it is so; and you know it yourself,
for you have seen it.
But the jewel in the head of the toad?
Seek it in the sun; see it there if you can.
The brightness is too dazzling there. We have not yet such eyes as
can see into the glories which God has created, but we shall receive
them by-and-by; and that will be the most beautiful story of all,
and we shall all have our share in it. |
THE ELF OF THE ROSE
In the midst of a garden grew a rose-tree, in full blossom, and in
the prettiest of all the roses lived an elf. He was such a little
wee thing, that no human eye could see him. Behind each leaf of the
rose he had a sleeping chamber. He was as well formed and as beautiful
as a little child could be, and had wings that reached from his
shoulders to his feet. Oh, what sweet fragrance there was in his
chambers! and how clean and beautiful were the walls! for they were
the blushing leaves of the rose.
During the whole day he enjoyed himself in the warm sunshine, flew
from flower to flower, and danced on the wings of the flying
butterflies. Then he took it into his head to measure how many steps
he would have to go through the roads and cross-roads that are on
the leaf of a linden-tree. What we call the veins on a leaf, he took
for roads; ay, and very long roads they were for him; for before he
had half finished his task, the sun went down: he had commenced his
work too late. It became very cold, the dew fell, and the wind blew;
so he thought the best thing he could do would be to return home. He
hurried himself as much as he could; but he found the roses all closed
up, and he could not get in; not a single rose stood open. The poor
little elf was very much frightened. He had never before been out at
night, but had always slumbered secretly behind the warm
rose-leaves. Oh, this would certainly be his death. At the other end
of the garden, he knew there was an arbor, overgrown with beautiful
honey-suckles. The blossoms looked like large painted horns; and he
thought to himself, he would go and sleep in one of these till the
morning. He flew thither; but "hush!" two people were in the arbor,�a
handsome young man and a beautiful lady. They sat side by side, and
wished that they might never be obliged to part. They loved each other
much more than the best child can love its father and mother.
"But we must part," said the young man; "your brother does not
like our engagement, and therefore he sends me so far away on
business, over mountains and seas. Farewell, my sweet bride; for so
you are to me."
And then they kissed each other, and the girl wept, and gave him a
rose; but before she did so, she pressed a kiss upon it so fervently
that the flower opened. Then the little elf flew in, and leaned his
head on the delicate, fragrant walls. Here he could plainly hear
them say, "Farewell, farewell;" and he felt that the rose had been
placed on the young man's breast. Oh, how his heart did beat! The
little elf could not go to sleep, it thumped so loudly. The young
man took it out as he walked through the dark wood alone, and kissed
the flower so often and so violently, that the little elf was almost
crushed. He could feel through the leaf how hot the lips of the
young man were, and the rose had opened, as if from the heat of the
noonday sun.
There came another man, who looked gloomy and wicked. He was the
wicked brother of the beautiful maiden. He drew out a sharp knife, and
while the other was kissing the rose, the wicked man stabbed him to
death; then he cut off his head, and buried it with the body in the
soft earth under the linden-tree.
"Now he is gone, and will soon be forgotten," thought the wicked
brother; "he will never come back again. He was going on a long
journey over mountains and seas; it is easy for a man to lose his life
in such a journey. My sister will suppose he is dead; for he cannot
come back, and she will not dare to question me about him."
Then he scattered the dry leaves over the light earth with his
foot, and went home through the darkness; but he went not alone, as he
thought,�the little elf accompanied him. He sat in a dry rolled-up
linden-leaf, which had fallen from the tree on to the wicked man's
head, as he was digging the grave. The hat was on the head now,
which made it very dark, and the little elf shuddered with fright
and indignation at the wicked deed.
It was the dawn of morning before the wicked man reached home;
he took off his hat, and went into his sister's room. There lay the
beautiful, blooming girl, dreaming of him whom she loved so, and who
was now, she supposed, travelling far away over mountain and sea.
Her wicked brother stopped over her, and laughed hideously, as
fiends only can laugh. The dry leaf fell out of his hair upon the
counterpane; but he did not notice it, and went to get a little
sleep during the early morning hours. But the elf slipped out of the
withered leaf, placed himself by the ear of the sleeping girl, and
told her, as in a dream, of the horrid murder; described the place
where her brother had slain her lover, and buried his body; and told
her of the linden-tree, in full blossom, that stood close by.
"That you may not think this is only a dream that I have told
you," he said, "you will find on your bed a withered leaf."
Then she awoke, and found it there. Oh, what bitter tears she
shed! and she could not open her heart to any one for relief.
The window stood open the whole day, and the little elf could
easily have reached the roses, or any of the flowers; but he could not
find it in his heart to leave one so afflicted. In the window stood
a bush bearing monthly roses. He seated himself in one of the flowers,
and gazed on the poor girl. Her brother often came into the room,
and would be quite cheerful, in spite of his base conduct; so she dare
not say a word to him of her heart's grief.
As soon as night came on, she slipped out of the house, and went
into the wood, to the spot where the linden-tree stood; and after
removing the leaves from the earth, she turned it up, and there
found him who had been murdered. Oh, how she wept and prayed that
she also might die! Gladly would she have taken the body home with
her; but that was impossible; so she took up the poor head with the
closed eyes, kissed the cold lips, and shook the mould out of the
beautiful hair.
"I will keep this," said she; and as soon as she had covered the
body again with the earth and leaves, she took the head and a little
sprig of jasmine that bloomed in the wood, near the spot where he
was buried, and carried them home with her. As soon as she was in
her room, she took the largest flower-pot she could find, and in
this she placed the head of the dead man, covered it up with earth,
and planted the twig of jasmine in it.
"Farewell, farewell," whispered the little elf. He could not any
longer endure to witness all this agony of grief, he therefore flew
away to his own rose in the garden. But the rose was faded; only a few
dry leaves still clung to the green hedge behind it.
"Alas! how soon all that is good and beautiful passes away,"
sighed the elf.
After a while he found another rose, which became his home, for
among its delicate fragrant leaves he could dwell in safety. Every
morning he flew to the window of the poor girl, and always found her
weeping by the flower pot. The bitter tears fell upon the jasmine
twig, and each day, as she became paler and paler, the sprig
appeared to grow greener and fresher. One shoot after another sprouted
forth, and little white buds blossomed, which the poor girl fondly
kissed. But her wicked brother scolded her, and asked her if she was
going mad. He could not imagine why she was weeping over that
flower-pot, and it annoyed him. He did not know whose closed eyes were
there, nor what red lips were fading beneath the earth. And one day
she sat and leaned her head against the flower-pot, and the little elf
of the rose found her asleep. Then he seated himself by her ear,
talked to her of that evening in the arbor, of the sweet perfume of
the rose, and the loves of the elves. Sweetly she dreamed, and while
she dreamt, her life passed away calmly and gently, and her spirit was
with him whom she loved, in heaven. And the jasmine opened its large
white bells, and spread forth its sweet fragrance; it had no other way
of showing its grief for the dead. But the wicked brother considered
the beautiful blooming plant as his own property, left to him by his
sister, and he placed it in his sleeping room, close by his bed, for
it was very lovely in appearance, and the fragrance sweet and
delightful. The little elf of the rose followed it, and flew from
flower to flower, telling each little spirit that dwelt in them the
story of the murdered young man, whose head now formed part of the
earth beneath them, and of the wicked brother and the poor sister. "We
know it," said each little spirit in the flowers, "we know it, for
have we not sprung from the eyes and lips of the murdered one. We know
it, we know it," and the flowers nodded with their heads in a peculiar
manner. The elf of the rose could not understand how they could rest
so quietly in the matter, so he flew to the bees, who were gathering
honey, and told them of the wicked brother. And the bees told it to
their queen, who commanded that the next morning they should go and
kill the murderer. But during the night, the first after the
sister's death, while the brother was sleeping in his bed, close to
where he had placed the fragrant jasmine, every flower cup opened, and
invisibly the little spirits stole out, armed with poisonous spears.
They placed themselves by the ear of the sleeper, told him dreadful
dreams and then flew across his lips, and pricked his tongue with
their poisoned spears. "Now have we revenged the dead," said they, and
flew back into the white bells of the jasmine flowers. When the
morning came, and as soon as the window was opened, the rose elf, with
the queen bee, and the whole swarm of bees, rushed in to kill him. But
he was already dead. People were standing round the bed, and saying
that the scent of the jasmine had killed him. Then the elf of the rose
understood the revenge of the flowers, and explained it to the queen
bee, and she, with the whole swarm, buzzed about the flower-pot. The
bees could not be driven away. Then a man took it up to remove it, and
one of the bees stung him in the hand, so that he let the flower-pot
fall, and it was broken to pieces. Then every one saw the whitened
skull, and they knew the dead man in the bed was a murderer. And the
queen bee hummed in the air, and sang of the revenge of the flowers,
and of the elf of the rose and said that behind the smallest leaf
dwells One, who can discover evil deeds, and punish them also. |
DELAYING IS NOT FORGETTING
There was an old mansion surrounded by a marshy ditch with a
drawbridge which was but seldom let down:�not all guests are good
people. Under the roof were loopholes to shoot through, and to pour
down boiling water or even molten lead on the enemy, should he
approach. Inside the house the rooms were very high and had ceilings
of beams, and that was very useful considering the great deal of smoke
which rose up from the chimney fire where the large, damp logs of wood
smouldered. On the walls hung pictures of knights in armour and
proud ladies in gorgeous dresses; the most stately of all walked about
alive. She was called Meta Mogen; she was the mistress of the house,
to her belonged the castle.
Towards the evening robbers came; they killed three of her
people and also the yard-dog, and attached Mrs. Meta to the kennel
by the chain, while they themselves made good cheer in the hall and
drank the wine and the good ale out of her cellar. Mrs. Meta was now
on the chain, she could not even bark.
But lo! the servant of one of the robbers secretly approached her;
they must not see it, otherwise they would have killed him.
"Mrs. Meta Mogen," said the fellow, "do you still remember how
my father, when your husband was still alive, had to ride on the
wooden horse? You prayed for him, but it was no good, he was to ride
until his limbs were paralysed; but you stole down to him, as I
steal now to you, you yourself put little stones under each of his
feet that he might have support, nobody saw it, or they pretended
not to see it, for you were then the young gracious mistress. My
father has told me this, and I have not forgotten it! Now I will
free you, Mrs. Meta Mogen!"
Then they pulled the horses out of the stable and rode off in rain
and wind to obtain the assistance of friends.
"Thus the small service done to the old man was richly
rewarded!" said Meta Mogen.
"Delaying is not forgetting," said the fellow.
The robbers were hanged.
There was an old mansion, it is still there; it did not belong
to Mrs. Meta Mogen, it belonged to another old noble family.
We are now in the present time. The sun is shining on the gilt
knob of the tower, little wooded islands lie like bouquets on the
water, and wild swans are swimming round them. In the garden grow
roses; the mistress of the house is herself the finest rose petal, she
beams with joy, the joy of good deeds: however, not done in the wide
world, but in her heart, and what is preserved there is not forgotten.
Delaying is not forgetting!
Now she goes from the mansion to a little peasant hut in the
field. Therein lives a poor paralysed girl; the window of her little
room looks northward, the sun does not enter here. The girl can only
see a small piece of field which is surrounded by a high fence. But
to-day the sun shines here�the warm, beautiful sun of God is within
the little room; it comes from the south through the new window, where
formerly the wall was.
The paralysed girl sits in the warm sunshine and can see the
wood and the lake; the world had become so large, so beautiful, and
only through a single word from the kind mistress of the mansion.
"The word was so easy, the deed so small," she said, "the joy it
afforded me was infinitely great and sweet!"
And therefore she does many a good deed, thinks of all in the
humble cottages and in the rich mansions, where there are also
afflicted ones. It is concealed and hidden, but God does not forget
it. Delayed is not forgotten!
An old house stood there; it was in the large town with its busy
traffic. There are rooms and halls in it, but we do not enter them, we
remain in the kitchen, where it is warm and light, clean and tidy; the
copper utensils are shining, the table as if polished with beeswax;
the sink looks like a freshly scoured meatboard. All this a single
servant has done, and yet she has time to spare as if she wished to go
to church; she wears a bow on her cap, a black bow, that signifies
mourning. But she has no one to mourn, neither father nor mother,
neither relations nor sweetheart. She is a poor girl. One day she
was engaged to a poor fellow; they loved each other dearly.
One day he came to her and said:
"We both have nothing! The rich widow over the way in the basement
has made advances to me; she will make me rich, but you are in my
heart; what do you advise me to do?"
"I advise you to do what you think will turn out to your
happiness," said the girl. "Be kind and good to her, but remember
this; from the hour we part we shall never see each other again."
Years passed; then one day she met the old friend and sweetheart
in the street; he looked ill and miserable, and she could not help
asking him, "How are you?"
"Rich and prospering in every respect," he said; "the woman is
brave and good, but you are in my heart. I have fought the battle,
it will soon be ended; we shall not see each other again now until
we meet before God!"
A week has passed; this morning his death was in the newspaper,
that is the reason of the girl's mourning! Her old sweetheart is
dead and has left a wife and three step-children, as the paper says;
it sounds as if there is a crack, but the metal is pure.
The black bow signifies mourning, the girl's face points to the
same in a still higher degree; it is preserved in the heart and will
never be forgotten. Delaying is not forgetting!
These are three stories you see, three leaves on the same stalk.
Do you wish for some more trefoil leaves? In the little heartbook
are many more of them. Delaying is not forgetting! |
TWO MAIDENS
Have you ever seen a maiden? I mean what our pavers call a maiden,
a thing with which they ram down the paving-stones in the roads. A
maiden of this kind is made altogether of wood, broad below, and
girt round with iron rings. At the top she is narrow, and has a
stick passed across through her waist, and this stick forms the arms
of the maiden.
In the shed stood two Maidens of this kind. They had their place
among shovels, hand-carts, wheelbarrows, and measuring-tapes; and to
all this company the news had come that the Maidens were no longer
to be called "maidens," but "hand-rammers," which word was the
newest and the only correct designation among the pavers for the thing
we all know from the old times by the name of "the maiden."
Now, there are among us human creatures certain individuals who
are known as "emancipated women," as, for instance, principals of
institutions, dancers who stand professionally on one leg,
milliners, and sick-nurses; and with this class of emancipated women
the two Maidens in the shed associated themselves. They were "maidens"
among the paver folk, and determined not to give up this honorable
appellation, and let themselves be miscalled "rammers.
"Maiden is a human name, but hand-rammer is a thing, and we
won't be called things�that's insulting us."
"My lover would be ready to give up his engagement," said the
youngest, who was betrothed to a paver's hammer; and the hammer is the
thing which drives great piles into the earth, like a machine, and
therefore does on a large scale what ten maidens effect in a similar
way. "He wants to marry me as a maiden, but whether he would have me
were I a hand-rammer is a question, so I won't have my name changed."
"And I," said the elder one, "would rather have both my arms
broken off."
But the Wheelbarrow was of a different opinion; and the
Wheelbarrow was looked upon as of some consequence, for he
considered himself a quarter of a coach, because he went about upon
one wheel.
"I must submit to your notice," he said, "that the name 'maiden'
is common enough, and not nearly so refined as 'hand-rammer,' or
'stamper,' which latter has also been proposed, and through which
you would be introduced into the category of seals; and only think
of the great stamp of state, which impresses the royal seal that gives
effect to the laws! No, in your case I would surrender my maiden
name."
"No, certainly not!" exclaimed the elder. "I am too old for that."
"I presume you have never heard of what is called 'European
necessity?'" observed the honest Measuring Tape. "One must be able
to adapt one's self to time and circumstances, and if there is a law
that the 'maiden' is to be called 'hand-rammer,' why, she must be
called 'hand-rammer,' and no pouting will avail, for everything has
its measure."
"No; if there must be a change," said the younger, "I should
prefer to be called 'Missy,' for that reminds one a little of
maidens."
"But I would rather be chopped to chips," said the elder.
At last they all went to work. The Maidens rode�that is, they
were put in a wheelbarrow, and that was a distinction; but still
they were called "hand-rammers."
"Mai�!" they said, as they were bumped upon the pavement.
"Mai�!" and they were very nearly pronouncing the whole word "maiden;"
but they broke off short, and swallowed the last syllable; for after
mature deliberation they considered it beneath their dignity to
protest. But they always called each other "maiden," and praised the
good old days in which everything had been called by its right name,
and those who were maidens were called maidens. And they remained as
they were; for the hammer really broke off his engagement with the
younger one, for nothing would suit him but he must have a maiden
for his bride. |
THE SNOW MAN
"It is so delightfully cold," said the Snow Man, "that it makes my
whole body crackle. This is just the kind of wind to blow life into
one. How that great red thing up there is staring at me!" He meant the
sun, who was just setting. "It shall not make me wink. I shall
manage to keep the pieces."
He had two triangular pieces of tile in his head, instead of eyes;
his mouth was made of an old broken rake, and was, of course,
furnished with teeth. He had been brought into existence amidst the
joyous shouts of boys, the jingling of sleigh-bells, and the
slashing of whips. The sun went down, and the full moon rose, large,
round, and clear, shining in the deep blue.
"There it comes again, from the other side," said the Snow Man,
who supposed the sun was showing himself once more. "Ah, I have
cured him of staring, though; now he may hang up there, and shine,
that I may see myself. If I only knew how to manage to move away
from this place,�I should so like to move. If I could, I would
slide along yonder on the ice, as I have seen the boys do; but I don't
understand how; I don't even know how to run."
"Away, away," barked the old yard-dog. He was quite hoarse, and
could not pronounce "Bow wow" properly. He had once been an indoor
dog, and lay by the fire, and he had been hoarse ever since. "The
sun will make you run some day. I saw him, last winter, make your
predecessor run, and his predecessor before him. Away, away, they
all have to go."
"I don't understand you, comrade," said the Snow Man. "Is that
thing up yonder to teach me to run? I saw it running itself a little
while ago, and now it has come creeping up from the other side.
"You know nothing at all," replied the yard-dog; "but then, you've
only lately been patched up. What you see yonder is the moon, and
the one before it was the sun. It will come again to-morrow, and
most likely teach you to run down into the ditch by the well; for I
think the weather is going to change. I can feel such pricks and stabs
in my left leg; I am sure there is going to be a change."
"I don't understand him," said the Snow Man to himself; "but I
have a feeling that he is talking of something very disagreeable.
The one who stared so just now, and whom he calls the sun, is not my
friend; I can feel that too."
"Away, away," barked the yard-dog, and then he turned round
three times, and crept into his kennel to sleep.
There was really a change in the weather. Towards morning, a thick
fog covered the whole country round, and a keen wind arose, so that
the cold seemed to freeze one's bones; but when the sun rose, the
sight was splendid. Trees and bushes were covered with hoar frost, and
looked like a forest of white coral; while on every twig glittered
frozen dew-drops. The many delicate forms concealed in summer by
luxuriant foliage, were now clearly defined, and looked like
glittering lace-work. From every twig glistened a white radiance.
The birch, waving in the wind, looked full of life, like trees in
summer; and its appearance was wondrously beautiful. And where the sun
shone, how everything glittered and sparkled, as if diamond dust had
been strewn about; while the snowy carpet of the earth appeared as
if covered with diamonds, from which countless lights gleamed,
whiter than even the snow itself.
"This is really beautiful," said a young girl, who had come into
the garden with a young man; and they both stood still near the Snow
Man, and contemplated the glittering scene. "Summer cannot show a more
beautiful sight," she exclaimed, while her eyes sparkled.
"And we can't have such a fellow as this in the summer time,"
replied the young man, pointing to the Snow Man; "he is capital."
The girl laughed, and nodded at the Snow Man, and then tripped
away over the snow with her friend. The snow creaked and crackled
beneath her feet, as if she had been treading on starch.
"Who are these two?" asked the Snow Man of the yard-dog. "You have
been here longer than I have; do you know them?"
"Of course I know them," replied the yard-dog; "she has stroked my
back many times, and he has given me a bone of meat. I never bite
those two."
"But what are they?" asked the Snow Man.
"They are lovers," he replied; "they will go and live in the
same kennel by-and-by, and gnaw at the same bone. Away, away!"
"Are they the same kind of beings as you and I?" asked the Snow
Man.
"Well, they belong to the same master," retorted the yard-dog.
"Certainly people who were only born yesterday know very little. I can
see that in you. I have age and experience. I know every one here in
the house, and I know there was once a time when I did not lie out
here in the cold, fastened to a chain. Away, away!"
"The cold is delightful," said the Snow Man; "but do tell me
tell me; only you must not clank your chain so; for it jars all
through me when you do that."
"Away, away!" barked the yard-dog; "I'll tell you; they said I was
a pretty little fellow once; then I used to lie in a velvet-covered
chair, up at the master's house, and sit in the mistress's lap. They
used to kiss my nose, and wipe my paws with an embroidered
handkerchief, and I was called 'Ami, dear Ami, sweet Ami.' But after a
while I grew too big for them, and they sent me away to the
housekeeper's room; so I came to live on the lower story. You can look
into the room from where you stand, and see where I was master once;
for I was indeed master to the housekeeper. It was certainly a smaller
room than those up stairs; but I was more comfortable; for I was not
being continually taken hold of and pulled about by the children as
I had been. I received quite as good food, or even better. I had my
own cushion, and there was a stove�it is the finest thing in the
world at this season of the year. I used to go under the stove, and
lie down quite beneath it. Ah, I still dream of that stove. Away,
away!"
"Does a stove look beautiful?" asked the Snow Man, "is it at all
like me?"
"It is just the reverse of you," said the dog; "it's as black as a
crow, and has a long neck and a brass knob; it eats firewood, so
that fire spurts out of its mouth. We should keep on one side, or
under it, to be comfortable. You can see it through the window, from
where you stand."
Then the Snow Man looked, and saw a bright polished thing with a
brazen knob, and fire gleaming from the lower part of it. The Snow Man
felt quite a strange sensation come over him; it was very odd, he knew
not what it meant, and he could not account for it. But there are
people who are not men of snow, who understand what it is. "'And why
did you leave her?" asked the Snow Man, for it seemed to him that
the stove must be of the female sex. "How could you give up such a
comfortable place?"
"I was obliged," replied the yard-dog. "They turned me out of
doors, and chained me up here. I had bitten the youngest of my
master's sons in the leg, because he kicked away the bone I was
gnawing. 'Bone for bone,' I thought; but they were so angry, and
from that time I have been fastened with a chain, and lost my bone.
Don't you hear how hoarse I am. Away, away! I can't talk any more like
other dogs. Away, away, that is the end of it all."
But the Snow Man was no longer listening. He was looking into
the housekeeper's room on the lower storey; where the stove stood on
its four iron legs, looking about the same size as the Snow Man
himself. "What a strange crackling I feel within me," he said.
"Shall I ever get in there? It is an innocent wish, and innocent
wishes are sure to be fulfilled. I must go in there and lean against
her, even if I have to break the window."
"You must never go in there," said the yard-dog, "for if you
approach the stove, you'll melt away, away."
"I might as well go," said the Snow Man, "for I think I am
breaking up as it is."
During the whole day the Snow Man stood looking in through the
window, and in the twilight hour the room became still more
inviting, for from the stove came a gentle glow, not like the sun or
the moon; no, only the bright light which gleams from a stove when
it has been well fed. When the door of the stove was opened, the
flames darted out of its mouth; this is customary with all stoves. The
light of the flames fell directly on the face and breast of the Snow
Man with a ruddy gleam. "I can endure it no longer," said he; "how
beautiful it looks when it stretches out its tongue?"
The night was long, but did not appear so to the Snow Man, who
stood there enjoying his own reflections, and crackling with the cold.
In the morning, the window-panes of the housekeeper's room were
covered with ice. They were the most beautiful ice-flowers any Snow
Man could desire, but they concealed the stove. These window-panes
would not thaw, and he could see nothing of the stove, which he
pictured to himself, as if it had been a lovely human being. The
snow crackled and the wind whistled around him; it was just the kind
of frosty weather a Snow Man might thoroughly enjoy. But he did not
enjoy it; how, indeed, could he enjoy anything when he was "stove
sick?"
"That is terrible disease for a Snow Man," said the yard-dog; "I
have suffered from it myself, but I got over it. Away, away," he
barked and then he added, "the weather is going to change." And the
weather did change; it began to thaw. As the warmth increased, the
Snow Man decreased. He said nothing and made no complaint, which is
a sure sign. One morning he broke, and sunk down altogether; and,
behold, where he had stood, something like a broomstick remained
sticking up in the ground. It was the pole round which the boys had
built him up. "Ah, now I understand why he had such a great longing
for the stove," said the yard-dog. "Why, there's the shovel that is
used for cleaning out the stove, fastened to the pole." The Snow Man
had a stove scraper in his body; that was what moved him so. "But it's
all over now. Away, away." And soon the winter passed. "Away, away,"
barked the hoarse yard-dog. But the girls in the house sang,
"Come from your fragrant home, green thyme;
Stretch your soft branches, willow-tree;
The months are bringing the sweet spring-time,
When the lark in the sky sings joyfully.
Come gentle sun, while the cuckoo sings,
And I'll mock his note in my wanderings."
And nobody thought any more of the Snow Man. |
THE SHADOW
In very hot climates, where the heat of the sun has great power,
people are usually as brown as mahogany; and in the hottest
countries they are negroes, with black skins. A learned man once
travelled into one of these warm climates, from the cold regions of
the north, and thought he would roam about as he did at home; but he
soon had to change his opinion. He found that, like all sensible
people, he must remain in the house during the whole day, with every
window and door closed, so that it looked as if all in the house
were asleep or absent. The houses of the narrow street in which he
lived were so lofty that the sun shone upon them from morning till
evening, and it became quite unbearable. This learned man from the
cold regions was young as well as clever; but it seemed to him as if
he were sitting in an oven, and he became quite exhausted and weak,
and grew so thin that his shadow shrivelled up, and became much
smaller than it had been at home. The sun took away even what was left
of it, and he saw nothing of it till the evening, after sunset. It was
really a pleasure, as soon as the lights were brought into the room,
to see the shadow stretch itself against the wall, even to the
ceiling, so tall was it; and it really wanted a good stretch to
recover its strength. The learned man would sometimes go out into
the balcony to stretch himself also; and as soon as the stars came
forth in the clear, beautiful sky, he felt revived. People at this
hour began to make their appearance in all the balconies in the
street; for in warm climates every window has a balcony, in which they
can breathe the fresh evening air, which is very necessary, even to
those who are used to a heat that makes them as brown as mahogany;
so that the street presented a very lively appearance. Here were
shoemakers, and tailors, and all sorts of people sitting. In the
street beneath, they brought out tables and chairs, lighted candles by
hundreds, talked and sang, and were very merry. There were people
walking, carriages driving, and mules trotting along, with their bells
on the harness, "tingle, tingle," as they went. Then the dead were
carried to the grave with the sound of solemn music, and the tolling
of the church bells. It was indeed a scene of varied life in the
street. One house only, which was just opposite to the one in which
the foreign learned man lived, formed a contrast to all this, for it
was quite still; and yet somebody dwelt there, for flowers stood in
the balcony, blooming beautifully in the hot sun; and this could not
have been unless they had been watered carefully. Therefore some one
must be in the house to do this. The doors leading to the balcony were
half opened in the evening; and although in the front room all was
dark, music could be heard from the interior of the house. The foreign
learned man considered this music very delightful; but perhaps he
fancied it; for everything in these warm countries pleased him,
excepting the heat of the sun. The foreign landlord said he did not
know who had taken the opposite house�nobody was to be seen there;
and as to the music, he thought it seemed very tedious, to him most
uncommonly so.
"It is just as if some one was practising a piece that he could
not manage; it is always the same piece. He thinks, I suppose, that he
will be able to manage it at last; but I do not think so, however long
he may play it."
Once the foreigner woke in the night. He slept with the door
open which led to the balcony; the wind had raised the curtain
before it, and there appeared a wonderful brightness over all in the
balcony of the opposite house. The flowers seemed like flames of the
most gorgeous colors, and among the flowers stood a beautiful
slender maiden. It was to him as if light streamed from her, and
dazzled his eyes; but then he had only just opened them, as he awoke
from his sleep. With one spring he was out of bed, and crept softly
behind the curtain. But she was gone�the brightness had
disappeared; the flowers no longer appeared like flames, although
still as beautiful as ever. The door stood ajar, and from an inner
room sounded music so sweet and so lovely, that it produced the most
enchanting thoughts, and acted on the senses with magic power. Who
could live there? Where was the real entrance? for, both in the street
and in the lane at the side, the whole ground floor was a continuation
of shops; and people could not always be passing through them.
One evening the foreigner sat in the balcony. A light was
burning in his own room, just behind him. It was quite natural,
therefore, that his shadow should fall on the wall of the opposite
house; so that, as he sat amongst the flowers on his balcony, when
he moved, his shadow moved also.
"I think my shadow is the only living thing to be seen
opposite," said the learned man; "see how pleasantly it sits among the
flowers. The door is only ajar; the shadow ought to be clever enough
to step in and look about him, and then to come back and tell me
what he has seen. You could make yourself useful in this way," said
he, jokingly; "be so good as to step in now, will you?" and then he
nodded to the shadow, and the shadow nodded in return. "Now go, but
don't stay away altogether."
Then the foreigner stood up, and the shadow on the opposite
balcony stood up also; the foreigner turned round, the shadow
turned; and if any one had observed, they might have seen it go
straight into the half-opened door of the opposite balcony, as the
learned man re-entered his own room, and let the curtain fall. The
next morning he went out to take his coffee and read the newspapers.
"How is this?" he exclaimed, as he stood in the sunshine. "I
have lost my shadow. So it really did go away yesterday evening, and
it has not returned. This is very annoying."
And it certainly did vex him, not so much because the shadow was
gone, but because he knew there was a story of a man without a shadow.
All the people at home, in his country, knew this story; and when he
returned, and related his own adventures, they would say it was only
an imitation; and he had no desire for such things to be said of
him. So he decided not to speak of it at all, which was a very
sensible determination.
In the evening he went out again on his balcony, taking care to
place the light behind him; for he knew that a shadow always wants his
master for a screen; but he could not entice him out. He made
himself little, and he made himself tall; but there was no shadow, and
no shadow came. He said, "Hem, a-hem;" but it was all useless. That
was very vexatious; but in warm countries everything grows very
quickly; and, after a week had passed, he saw, to his great joy,
that a new shadow was growing from his feet, when he walked in the
sunshine; so that the root must have remained. After three weeks, he
had quite a respectable shadow, which, during his return journey to
northern lands, continued to grow, and became at last so large that he
might very well have spared half of it. When this learned man
arrived at home, he wrote books about the true, the good, and the
beautiful, which are to be found in this world; and so days and
years passed�many, many years.
One evening, as he sat in his study, a very gentle tap was heard
at the door. "Come in," said he; but no one came. He opened the
door, and there stood before him a man so remarkably thin that he felt
seriously troubled at his appearance. He was, however, very well
dressed, and looked like a gentleman. "To whom have I the honor of
speaking?" said he.
"Ah, I hoped you would recognize me," said the elegant stranger;
"I have gained so much that I have a body of flesh, and clothes to
wear. You never expected to see me in such a condition. Do you not
recognize your old shadow? Ah, you never expected that I should return
to you again. All has been prosperous with me since I was with you
last; I have become rich in every way, and, were I inclined to
purchase my freedom from service, I could easily do so." And as he
spoke he rattled between his fingers a number of costly trinkets which
hung to a thick gold watch-chain he wore round his neck. Diamond rings
sparkled on his fingers, and it was all real.
"I cannot recover from my astonishment," said the learned man.
"What does all this mean?"
"Something rather unusual," said the shadow; "but you are yourself
an uncommon man, and you know very well that I have followed in your
footsteps ever since your childhood. As soon as you found that I
have travelled enough to be trusted alone, I went my own way, and I am
now in the most brilliant circumstances. But I felt a kind of
longing to see you once more before you die, and I wanted to see
this place again, for there is always a clinging to the land of
one's birth. I know that you have now another shadow; do I owe you
anything? If so, have the goodness to say what it is."
"No! Is it really you?" said the learned man. "Well, this is
most remarkable; I never supposed it possible that a man's old
shadow could become a human being."
"Just tell me what I owe you," said the shadow, "for I do not like
to be in debt to any man."
"How can you talk in that manner?" said the learned man. "What
question of debt can there be between us? You are as free as any
one. I rejoice exceedingly to hear of your good fortune. Sit down, old
friend, and tell me a little of how it happened, and what you saw in
the house opposite to me while we were in those hot climates."
"Yes, I will tell you all about it," said the shadow, sitting
down; "but then you must promise me never to tell in this city,
wherever you may meet me, that I have been your shadow. I am
thinking of being married, for I have more than sufficient to
support a family."
"Make yourself quite easy," said the learned man; "I will tell
no one who you really are. Here is my hand,�I promise, and a word
is sufficient between man and man."
"Between man and a shadow," said the shadow; for he could not help
saying so.
It was really most remarkable how very much he had become a man in
appearance. He was dressed in a suit of the very finest black cloth,
polished boots, and an opera crush hat, which could be folded together
so that nothing could be seen but the crown and the rim, besides the
trinkets, the gold chain, and the diamond rings already spoken of. The
shadow was, in fact, very well dressed, and this made a man of him.
"Now I will relate to you what you wish to know," said the shadow,
placing his foot with the polished leather boot as firmly as
possible on the arm of the new shadow of the learned man, which lay at
his feet like a poodle dog. This was done, it might be from pride,
or perhaps that the new shadow might cling to him, but the prostrate
shadow remained quite quiet and at rest, in order that it might
listen, for it wanted to know how a shadow could be sent away by its
master, and become a man itself. "Do you know," said the shadow, "that
in the house opposite to you lived the most glorious creature in the
world? It was poetry. I remained there three weeks, and it was more
like three thousand years, for I read all that has ever been written
in poetry or prose; and I may say, in truth, that I saw and learnt
everything."
"Poetry!" exclaimed the learned man. "Yes, she lives as a hermit
in great cities. Poetry! Well, I saw her once for a very short moment,
while sleep weighed down my eyelids. She flashed upon me from the
balcony like the radiant aurora borealis, surrounded with flowers like
flames of fire. Tell me, you were on the balcony that evening; you
went through the door, and what did you see?"
"I found myself in an ante-room," said the shadow. "You still
sat opposite to me, looking into the room. There was no light, or at
least it seemed in partial darkness, for the door of a whole suite
of rooms stood open, and they were brilliantly lighted. The blaze of
light would have killed me, had I approached too near the maiden
myself, but I was cautious, and took time, which is what every one
ought to do."
"And what didst thou see?" asked the learned man.
"I saw everything, as you shall hear. But�it really is not
pride on my part, as a free man and possessing the knowledge that I
do, besides my position, not to speak of my wealth�I wish you would
say you to me instead of thou."
"I beg your pardon," said the learned man; "it is an old habit,
which it is difficult to break. You are quite right; I will try to
think of it. But now tell me everything that you saw."
"Everything," said the shadow; "for I saw and know everything."
"What was the appearance of the inner rooms?" asked the scholar.
"Was it there like a cool grove, or like a holy temple? Were the
chambers like a starry sky seen from the top of a high mountain?"
"It was all that you describe," said the shadow; "but I did not go
quite in�I remained in the twilight of the ante-room�but I was in
a very good position,�I could see and hear all that was going on in
the court of poetry."
"But what did you see? Did the gods of ancient times pass
through the rooms? Did old heroes fight their battles over again? Were
there lovely children at play, who related their dreams?"
"I tell you I have been there, and therefore you may be sure
that I saw everything that was to be seen. If you had gone there,
you would not have remained a human being, whereas I became one; and
at the same moment I became aware of my inner being, my inborn
affinity to the nature of poetry. It is true I did not think much
about it while I was with you, but you will remember that I was always
much larger at sunrise and sunset, and in the moonlight even more
visible than yourself, but I did not then understand my inner
existence. In the ante-room it was revealed to me. I became a man; I
came out in full maturity. But you had left the warm countries. As a
man, I felt ashamed to go about without boots or clothes, and that
exterior finish by which man is known. So I went my own way; I can
tell you, for you will not put it in a book. I hid myself under the
cloak of a cake woman, but she little thought who she concealed. It
was not till evening that I ventured out. I ran about the streets in
the moonlight. I drew myself up to my full height upon the walls,
which tickled my back very pleasantly. I ran here and there, looked
through the highest windows into the rooms, and over the roofs. I
looked in, and saw what nobody else could see, or indeed ought to see;
in fact, it is a bad world, and I would not care to be a man, but that
men are of some importance. I saw the most miserable things going on
between husbands and wives, parents and children,�sweet, incomparable
children. I have seen what no human being has the power of knowing,
although they would all be very glad to know�the evil conduct of
their neighbors. Had I written a newspaper, how eagerly it would
have been read! Instead of which, I wrote directly to the persons
themselves, and great alarm arose in all the town I visited. They
had so much fear of me, and yet how dearly they loved me. The
professor made me a professor. The tailor gave me new clothes; I am
well provided for in that way. The overseer of the mint struck coins
for me. The women declared that I was handsome, and so I became the
man you now see me. And now I must say adieu. Here is my card. I
live on the sunny side of the street, and always stay at home in rainy
weather." And the shadow departed.
"This is all very remarkable," said the learned man.
Years passed, days and years went by, and the shadow came again.
"How are you going on now?" he asked.
"Ah!" said the learned man; "I am writing about the true, the
beautiful, and the good; but no one cares to hear anything about it. I
am quite in despair, for I take it to heart very much."
"That is what I never do," said the shadow; "I am growing quite
fat and stout, which every one ought to be. You do not understand
the world; you will make yourself ill about it; you ought to travel; I
am going on a journey in the summer, will you go with me? I should
like a travelling companion; will you travel with me as my shadow?
It would give me great pleasure, and I will pay all expenses."
"Are you going to travel far?" asked the learned man.
"That is a matter of opinion," replied the shadow. "At all events,
a journey will do you good, and if you will be my shadow, then all
your journey shall be paid."
"It appears to me very absurd," said the learned man.
"But it is the way of the world," replied the shadow, "and
always will be." Then he went away.
Everything went wrong with the learned man. Sorrow and trouble
pursued him, and what he said about the good, the beautiful, and the
true, was of as much value to most people as a nutmeg would be to a
cow. At length he fell ill. "You really look like a shadow," people
said to him, and then a cold shudder would pass over him, for he had
his own thoughts on the subject.
"You really ought to go to some watering-place," said the shadow
on his next visit. "There is no other chance for you. I will take
you with me, for the sake of old acquaintance. I will pay the expenses
of your journey, and you shall write a description of it to amuse us
by the way. I should like to go to a watering-place; my beard does not
grow as it ought, which is from weakness, and I must have a beard. Now
do be sensible and accept my proposal; we shall travel as intimate
friends."
And at last they started together. The shadow was master now,
and the master became the shadow. They drove together, and rode and
walked in company with each other, side by side, or one in front and
the other behind, according to the position of the sun. The shadow
always knew when to take the place of honor, but the learned man
took no notice of it, for he had a good heart, and was exceedingly
mild and friendly.
One day the master said to the shadow, "We have grown up
together from our childhood, and now that we have become travelling
companions, shall we not drink to our good fellowship, and say thee
and thou to each other?"
"What you say is very straightforward and kindly meant," said
the shadow, who was now really master. "I will be equally kind and
straightforward. You are a learned man, and know how wonderful human
nature is. There are some men who cannot endure the smell of brown
paper; it makes them ill. Others will feel a shuddering sensation to
their very marrow, if a nail is scratched on a pane of glass. I myself
have a similar kind of feeling when I hear any one say thou to me. I
feel crushed by it, as I used to feel in my former position with
you. You will perceive that this is a matter of feeling, not pride.
I cannot allow you to say thou to me; I will gladly say it to you, and
therefore your wish will be half fulfilled." Then the shadow addressed
his former master as thou.
"It is going rather too far," said the latter, "that I am to say
you when I speak to him, and he is to say thou to me." However, he was
obliged to submit.
They arrived at length at the baths, where there were many
strangers, and among them a beautiful princess, whose real disease
consisted in being too sharp-sighted, which made every one very
uneasy. She saw at once that the new comer was very different to every
one else. "They say he is here to make his beard grow," she thought;
"but I know the real cause, he is unable to cast a shadow." Then she
became very curious on the matter, and one day, while on the
promenade, she entered into conversation with the strange gentleman.
Being a princess, she was not obliged to stand upon much ceremony,
so she said to him without hesitation, "Your illness consists in not
being able to cast a shadow."
"Your royal highness must be on the high road to recovery from
your illness," said he. "I know your complaint arose from being too
sharp-sighted, and in this case it has entirely failed. I happen to
have a most unusual shadow. Have you not seen a person who is always
at my side? Persons often give their servants finer cloth for their
liveries than for their own clothes, and so I have dressed out my
shadow like a man; nay, you may observe that I have even given him a
shadow of his own; it is rather expensive, but I like to have things
about me that are peculiar."
"How is this?" thought the princess; "am I really cured? This must
be the best watering-place in existence. Water in our times has
certainly wonderful power. But I will not leave this place yet, just
as it begins to be amusing. This foreign prince�for he must be a
prince�pleases me above all things. I only hope his beard won't grow,
or he will leave at once."
In the evening, the princess and the shadow danced together in the
large assembly rooms. She was light, but he was lighter still; she had
never seen such a dancer before. She told him from what country she
had come, and found he knew it and had been there, but not while she
was at home. He had looked into the windows of her father's palace,
both the upper and the lower windows; he had seen many things, and
could therefore answer the princess, and make allusions which quite
astonished her. She thought he must be the cleverest man in all the
world, and felt the greatest respect for his knowledge. When she
danced with him again she fell in love with him, which the shadow
quickly discovered, for she had with her eyes looked him through and
through. They danced once more, and she was nearly telling him, but
she had some discretion; she thought of her country, her kingdom,
and the number of people over whom she would one day have to rule. "He
is a clever man," she thought to herself, "which is a good thing,
and he dances admirably, which is also good. But has he
well-grounded knowledge? that is an important question, and I must try
him." Then she asked him a most difficult question, she herself
could not have answered it, and the shadow made a most unaccountable
grimace.
"You cannot answer that," said the princess.
"I learnt something about it in my childhood," he replied; "and
believe that even my very shadow, standing over there by the door,
could answer it."
"Your shadow," said the princess; "indeed that would be very
remarkable."
"I do not say so positively," observed the shadow; "but I am
inclined to believe that he can do so. He has followed me for so
many years, and has heard so much from me, that I think it is very
likely. But your royal highness must allow me to observe, that he is
very proud of being considered a man, and to put him in a good
humor, so that he may answer correctly, he must be treated as a man."
"I shall be very pleased to do so," said the princess. So she
walked up to the learned man, who stood in the doorway, and spoke to
him of the sun, and the moon, of the green forests, and of people near
home and far off; and the learned man conversed with her pleasantly
and sensibly.
"What a wonderful man he must be, to have such a clever shadow!"
thought she. "If I were to choose him it would be a real blessing to
my country and my subjects, and I will do it." So the princess and the
shadow were soon engaged to each other, but no one was to be told a
word about it, till she returned to her kingdom.
"No one shall know," said the shadow; "not even my own shadow;"
and he had very particular reasons for saying so.
After a time, the princess returned to the land over which she
reigned, and the shadow accompanied her.
"Listen my friend," said the shadow to the learned man; "now
that I am as fortunate and as powerful as any man can be, I will do
something unusually good for you. You shall live in my palace, drive
with me in the royal carriage, and have a hundred thousand dollars a
year; but you must allow every one to call you a shadow, and never
venture to say that you have been a man. And once a year, when I sit
in my balcony in the sunshine, you must lie at my feet as becomes a
shadow to do; for I must tell you I am going to marry the princess,
and our wedding will take place this evening."
"Now, really, this is too ridiculous," said the learned man. "I
cannot, and will not, submit to such folly. It would be cheating the
whole country, and the princess also. I will disclose everything,
and say that I am the man, and that you are only a shadow dressed up
in men's clothes."
"No one would believe you," said the shadow; "be reasonable,
now, or I will call the guards."
"I will go straight to the princess," said the learned man.
"But I shall be there first," replied the shadow, "and you will be
sent to prison." And so it turned out, for the guards readily obeyed
him, as they knew he was going to marry the king's daughter.
"You tremble," said the princess, when the shadow appeared
before her. "Has anything happened? You must not be ill to-day, for
this evening our wedding will take place."
"I have gone through the most terrible affair that could
possibly happen," said the shadow; "only imagine, my shadow has gone
mad; I suppose such a poor, shallow brain, could not bear much; he
fancies that he has become a real man, and that I am his shadow."
"How very terrible," cried the princess; "is he locked up?"
"Oh yes, certainly; for I fear he will never recover."
"Poor shadow!" said the princess; "it is very unfortunate for him;
it would really be a good deed to free him from his frail existence;
and, indeed, when I think how often people take the part of the
lower class against the higher, in these days, it would be policy to
put him out of the way quietly."
"It is certainly rather hard upon him, for he was a faithful
servant," said the shadow; and he pretended to sigh.
"Yours is a noble character," said the princess, and bowed herself
before him.
In the evening the whole town was illuminated, and cannons fired
"boom," and the soldiers presented arms. It was indeed a grand
wedding. The princess and the shadow stepped out on the balcony to
show themselves, and to receive one cheer more. But the learned man
heard nothing of all these festivities, for he had already been
executed. |
THE LITTLE MATCH-SELLER
It was terribly cold and nearly dark on the last evening of the
old year, and the snow was falling fast. In the cold and the darkness,
a poor little girl, with bare head and naked feet, roamed through
the streets. It is true she had on a pair of slippers when she left
home, but they were not of much use. They were very large, so large,
indeed, that they had belonged to her mother, and the poor little
creature had lost them in running across the street to avoid two
carriages that were rolling along at a terrible rate. One of the
slippers she could not find, and a boy seized upon the other and ran
away with it, saying that he could use it as a cradle, when he had
children of his own. So the little girl went on with her little
naked feet, which were quite red and blue with the cold. In an old
apron she carried a number of matches, and had a bundle of them in her
hands. No one had bought anything of her the whole day, nor had any
one given here even a penny. Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept
along; poor little child, she looked the picture of misery. The
snowflakes fell on her long, fair hair, which hung in curls on her
shoulders, but she regarded them not.
Lights were shining from every window, and there was a savory
smell of roast goose, for it was New-year's eve�yes, she remembered
that. In a corner, between two houses, one of which projected beyond
the other, she sank down and huddled herself together. She had drawn
her little feet under her, but she could not keep off the cold; and
she dared not go home, for she had sold no matches, and could not take
home even a penny of money. Her father would certainly beat her;
besides, it was almost as cold at home as here, for they had only
the roof to cover them, through which the wind howled, although the
largest holes had been stopped up with straw and rags. Her little
hands were almost frozen with the cold. Ah! perhaps a burning match
might be some good, if she could draw it from the bundle and strike it
against the wall, just to warm her fingers. She drew one
out-"scratch!" how it sputtered as it burnt! It gave a warm, bright
light, like a little candle, as she held her hand over it. It was
really a wonderful light. It seemed to the little girl that she was
sitting by a large iron stove, with polished brass feet and a brass
ornament. How the fire burned! and seemed so beautifully warm that the
child stretched out her feet as if to warm them, when, lo! the flame
of the match went out, the stove vanished, and she had only the
remains of the half-burnt match in her hand.
She rubbed another match on the wall. It burst into a flame, and
where its light fell upon the wall it became as transparent as a veil,
and she could see into the room. The table was covered with a snowy
white table-cloth, on which stood a splendid dinner service, and a
steaming roast goose, stuffed with apples and dried plums. And what
was still more wonderful, the goose jumped down from the dish and
waddled across the floor, with a knife and fork in its breast, to
the little girl. Then the match went out, and there remained nothing
but the thick, damp, cold wall before her.
She lighted another match, and then she found herself sitting
under a beautiful Christmas-tree. It was larger and more beautifully
decorated than the one which she had seen through the glass door at
the rich merchant's. Thousands of tapers were burning upon the green
branches, and colored pictures, like those she had seen in the
show-windows, looked down upon it all. The little one stretched out
her hand towards them, and the match went out.
The Christmas lights rose higher and higher, till they looked to
her like the stars in the sky. Then she saw a star fall, leaving
behind it a bright streak of fire. "Some one is dying," thought the
little girl, for her old grandmother, the only one who had ever
loved her, and who was now dead, had told her that when a star
falls, a soul was going up to God.
She again rubbed a match on the wall, and the light shone round
her; in the brightness stood her old grandmother, clear and shining,
yet mild and loving in her appearance. "Grandmother," cried the little
one, "O take me with you; I know you will go away when the match burns
out; you will vanish like the warm stove, the roast goose, and the
large, glorious Christmas-tree." And she made haste to light the whole
bundle of matches, for she wished to keep her grandmother there. And
the matches glowed with a light that was brighter than the noon-day,
and her grandmother had never appeared so large or so beautiful. She
took the little girl in her arms, and they both flew upwards in
brightness and joy far above the earth, where there was neither cold
nor hunger nor pain, for they were with God.
In the dawn of morning there lay the poor little one, with pale
cheeks and smiling mouth, leaning against the wall; she had been
frozen to death on the last evening of the year; and the New-year's
sun rose and shone upon a little corpse! The child still sat, in the
stiffness of death, holding the matches in her hand, one bundle of
which was burnt. "She tried to warm herself," said some. No one
imagined what beautiful things she had seen, nor into what glory she
had entered with her grandmother, on New-year's day. |
THE SUNBEAM AND THE CAPTIVE
It is autumn. We stand on the ramparts, and look out over the sea.
We look at the numerous ships, and at the Swedish coast on the
opposite side of the sound, rising far above the surface of the waters
which mirror the glow of the evening sky. Behind us the wood is
sharply defined; mighty trees surround us, and the yellow leaves
flutter down from the branches. Below, at the foot of the wall, stands
a gloomy looking building enclosed in palisades. The space between
is dark and narrow, but still more dismal must it be behind the iron
gratings in the wall which cover the narrow loopholes or windows,
for in these dungeons the most depraved of the criminals are confined.
A ray of the setting sun shoots into the bare cells of one of the
captives, for God's sun shines upon the evil and the good. The
hardened criminal casts an impatient look at the bright ray. Then a
little bird flies towards the grating, for birds twitter to the just
as well as to the unjust. He only cries, "Tweet, tweet," and then
perches himself near the grating, flutters his wings, pecks a
feather from one of them, puffs himself out, and sets his feathers
on end round his breast and throat. The bad, chained man looks at him,
and a more gentle expression comes into his hard face. In his breast
there rises a thought which he himself cannot rightly analyze, but the
thought has some connection with the sunbeam, with the bird, and
with the scent of violets, which grow luxuriantly in spring at the
foot of the wall. Then there comes the sound of the hunter's horn,
merry and full. The little bird starts, and flies away, the sunbeam
gradually vanishes, and again there is darkness in the room and in the
heart of that bad man. Still the sun has shone into that heart, and
the twittering of the bird has touched it.
Sound on, ye glorious strains of the hunter's horn; continue
your stirring tones, for the evening is mild, and the surface of the
sea, heaving slowly and calmly, is smooth as a mirror. |
WHAT ONE CAN INVENT
There was once a young man who was studying to be a poet. He
wanted to become one by Easter, and to marry, and to live by poetry.
To write poems, he knew, only consists in being able to invent
something; but he could not invent anything. He had been born too
late�everything had been taken up before he came into the world,
and everything had been written and told about.
"Happy people who were born a thousand years ago!" said he. "It
was an easy matter for them to become immortal. Happy even was he
who was born a hundred years ago, for then there was still something
about which a poem could be written. Now the world is written out, and
what can I write poetry about?"
Then he studied till he became ill and wretched, the wretched man!
No doctor could help him, but perhaps the wise woman could. She
lived in the little house by the wayside, where the gate is that she
opened for those who rode and drove. But she could do more than unlock
the gate. She was wiser than the doctor who drives in his own carriage
and pays tax for his rank.
"I must go to her," said the young man.
The house in which she dwelt was small and neat, but dreary to
behold, for there were no flowers near it�no trees. By the door stood
a bee-hive, which was very useful. There was also a little
potato-field, very useful, and an earth bank, with sloe bushes upon
it, which had done blossoming, and now bore fruit, sloes, that draw
one's mouth together if one tastes them before the frost has touched
them.
"That's a true picture of our poetryless time, that I see before
me now," thought the young man; and that was at least a thought, a
grain of gold that he found by the door of the wise woman.
"Write that down!" said she. "Even crumbs are bread. I know why
you come hither. You cannot invent anything, and yet you want to be
a poet by Easter."
"Everything has been written down," said he. "Our time is not
the old time."
"No," said the woman. "In the old time wise women were burnt,
and poets went about with empty stomachs, and very much out at elbows.
The present time is good, it is the best of times; but you have not
the right way of looking at it. Your ear is not sharpened to hear, and
I fancy you do not say the Lord's Prayer in the evening. There is
plenty here to write poems about, and to tell of, for any one who
knows the way. You can read it in the fruits of the earth, you can
draw it from the flowing and the standing water; but you must
understand how�you must understand how to catch a sunbeam. Now just
you try my spectacles on, and put my ear-trumpet to your ear, and then
pray to God, and leave off thinking of yourself."
The last was a very difficult thing to do�more than a wise
woman ought to ask.
He received the spectacles and the ear-trumpet, and was posted
in the middle of the potato-field. She put a great potato into his
hand. Sounds came from within it; there came a song with words, the
history of the potato, an every-day story in ten parts, an interesting
story. And ten lines were enough to tell it in.
And what did the potato sing?
She sang of herself and of her family, of the arrival of the
potato in Europe, of the misrepresentation to which she had been
exposed before she was acknowledged, as she is now, to be a greater
treasure than a lump of gold.
"We were distributed, by the King's command, from the
council-houses through the various towns, and proclamation was made of
our great value; but no one believed in it, or even understood how
to plant us. One man dug a hole in the earth and threw in his whole
bushel of potatoes; another put one potato here and another there in
the ground, and expected that each was to come up a perfect tree, from
which he might shake down potatoes. And they certainly grew, and
produced flowers and green watery fruit, but it all withered away.
Nobody thought of what was in the ground�the blessing�the potato.
Yes, we have endured and suffered, that is to say, our forefathers
have; they and we, it is all one."
What a story it was!
"Well, and that will do," said the woman. "Now look at the sloe
bush."
"We have also some near relations in the home of the potatoes, but
higher towards the north than they grew," said the Sloes. "There
were Northmen, from Norway, who steered westward through mist and
storm to an unknown land, where, behind ice and snow, they found
plants and green meadows, and bushes with blue-black grapes�sloe
bushes. The grapes were ripened by the frost just as we are. And
they called the land 'wine-land,' that is, 'Groenland,' or
'Sloeland.'"
"That is quite a romantic story," said the young man.
"Yes, certainly. But now come with me," said the wise woman, and
she led him to the bee-hive.
He looked into it. What life and labor! There were bees standing
in all the passages, waving their wings, so that a wholesome draught
of air might blow through the great manufactory; that was their
business. Then there came in bees from without, who had been born with
little baskets on their feet; they brought flower-dust, which was
poured out, sorted, and manufactured into honey and wax. They flew
in and out. The queen-bee wanted to fly out, but then all the other
bees must have gone with her. It was not yet the time for that, but
still she wanted to fly out; so the others bit off her majesty's
wings, and she had to stay where she was.
"Now get upon the earth bank," said the wise woman. "Come and look
out over the highway, where you can see the people."
"What a crowd it is!" said the young man. "One story after
another. It whirls and whirls! It's quite a confusion before my
eyes. I shall go out at the back."
"No, go straight forward," said the woman. "Go straight into the
crowd of people; look at them in the right way. Have an ear to hear
and the right heart to feel, and you will soon invent something.
But, before you go away, you must give me my spectacles and my
ear-trumpet again."
And so saying, she took both from him.
"Now I do not see the smallest thing," said the young man, "and
now I don't hear anything more."
"Why, then, you can't be a poet by Easter," said the wise woman.
"But, by what time can I be one?" asked he.
"Neither by Easter nor by Whitsuntide! You will not learn how to
invent anything."
"What must I do to earn my bread by poetry?"
"You can do that before Shrove Tuesday. Hunt the poets! Kill their
writings and thus you will kill them. Don't be put out of countenance.
Strike at them boldly, and you'll have carnival cake, on which you can
support yourself and your wife too."
"What one can invent!" cried the young man. And so he hit out
boldly at every second poet, because he could not be a poet himself.
We have it from the wise woman. She knows WHAT ONE CAN INVENT. |
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