my dear old wife, you have been walking about in a sort of a dream. If I
had poured out the milk, I should have seen through the business at once.
There happened to be a little more in the pitcher than you thought,--that
is all."
"Ah, husband," said Baucis, "say what you will, these are very uncommon
people."
"Well, well," replied Philemon, still smiling, "perhaps they are. They
certainly do look as if they had seen better days; and I am heartily glad
to see them making so comfortable a supper."
Each of the guests had now taken his bunch of grapes upon his plate.
Baucis (who rubbed her eyes, in order to see the more clearly) was of
opinion that the clusters had grown larger and richer, and that each
separate grape seemed to be on the point of bursting with ripe juice. It
was entirely a mystery to her how such grapes could ever have been
produced from the old stunted vine that climbed against the cottage wall.
"Very admirable grapes these!" observed Quicksilver, as he swallowed one
after another, without apparently diminishing his cluster. "Pray, my good
host, whence did you gather them?"
"From my own vine," answered Philemon. "You may see one of its branches
twisting across the window, yonder. But wife and I never thought the
grapes very fine ones."
"I never tasted better," said the guest. "Another cup of this delicious
milk, if you please, and I shall then have supped better than a prince."
This time, old Philemon bestirred himself, and took up the pitcher; for he
was curious to discover whether there was any reality in the marvels which
Baucis had whispered to him. He knew that his good old wife was incapable
of falsehood, and that she was seldom mistaken in what she supposed to be
true; but this was so very singular a case, that he wanted to see into it
with his own eyes. On taking up the pitcher, therefore, he slyly peeped
into it, and was fully satisfied that it contained not so much as a single
drop. All at once, however, he beheld a little white fountain, which
gushed up from the bottom of the pitcher, and speedily filled it to the
brim with foaming and deliciously fragrant milk. It was lucky that
Philemon, in his surprise, did not drop the miraculous pitcher from his
hand.
"Who are ye, wonder-working strangers!" cried he, even more bewildered
than his wife had been.
"Your guests, my good Philemon, and your friends," replied the elder
traveler, in his mild, deep voice, that had something at once sweet and
awe-inspiring in it. "Give me likewise a cup of the milk; and may your
pitcher never be empty for kind Baucis and yourself, any more than for the
needy wayfarer!"
The supper being now over, the strangers requested to be shown to their
place of repose. The old people would gladly have talked with them a
little longer, and have expressed the wonder which they felt, and their
delight at finding the poor and meagre supper prove so much better and
more abundant than they hoped. But the elder traveler had inspired them
with such reverence that they dared not ask him any questions. And when
Philemon drew Quicksilver aside, and inquired how under the sun a fountain
of milk could have got into an old earthen pitcher, this latter personage
pointed to his staff.
"There is the whole mystery of the affair," quoth Quicksilver; "and if you
can make it out, I'll thank you to let me know. I can't tell what to make
of my staff. It is always playing such odd tricks as this; sometimes
getting me a supper, and, quite as often, stealing it away. If I had any
faith in such nonsense, I should say the stick was bewitched!"
He said no more, but looked so slyly in their faces, that they rather
fancied he was laughing at them. The magic staff went hopping at his
heels, as Quicksilver quitted the room. When left alone, the good old
couple spent some little time in conversation about the events of the
evening, and then lay down on the floor, and fell fast asleep. They had
given up their sleeping-room to the guests, and had no other bed for
themselves, save these planks, which I wish had been as soft as their own
hearts.
The old man and his wife were stirring, betimes, in the morning, and the
strangers likewise arose with the sun, and made their preparations to
depart. Philemon hospitably entreated them to remain a little longer,
until Baucis could milk the cow, and bake a cake upon the hearth, and,
perhaps, find them a few fresh eggs, for breakfast. The guests, however,
seemed to think it better to accomplish a good part of their journey
before the heat of the day should come on. They, therefore, persisted in
setting out immediately, but asked Philemon and Baucis to walk forth with
them a short distance, and show them the road which they were to take.
So they all four issued from the cottage, chatting together like old
friends. It was very remarkable, indeed, how familiar the old couple
insensibly grew with the elder traveler, and how their good and simple
spirits melted into his, even as two drops of water would melt into the
illimitable ocean. And as for Quicksilver, with his keen, quick, laughing
wits, he appeared to discover every little thought that but peeped into
their minds, before they suspected it themselves. They sometimes wished,
it is true, that he had not been quite so quick-witted, and also that he
would fling away his staff, which looked so mysteriously mischievous, with
the snakes always writhing about it. But then, again, Quicksilver showed
himself so very good-humored, that they would have been rejoiced to keep
him in their cottage, staff, snakes, and all, every day, and the whole day
long.
"Ah me! Well-a-day!" exclaimed Philemon, when they had walked a little way
from their door. "If our neighbors only knew what a blessed thing it is to
show hospitality to strangers, they would tie up all their dogs, and never
allow their children to fling another stone."
"It is a sin and shame for them to behave so,--that it is!" cried good old
Baucis vehemently. "And I mean to go this very day, and tell some of them
what naughty people they are!"
"I fear," remarked Quicksilver; slyly smiling, "that you will find none of
them at home."
The elder traveler's brow, just then, assumed such a grave, stern, and
awful grandeur, yet serene withal, that neither Baucis nor Philemon dared
to speak a word. They gazed reverently into his face, as if they had been
gazing at the sky.
"When men do not feel towards the humblest stranger as if he were a
brother," said the traveler, in tones so deep that they sounded like those
of an organ, "they are unworthy to exist on earth, which was created as
the abode of a great human brotherhood!"
"And, by the by, my dear old people," cried Quicksilver, with the
liveliest look of fun and mischief in his eyes, "where is this same
village that you talk about? On which side of us does it lie? Methinks I
do not see it hereabouts."
Philemon and his wife turned towards the valley, where, at sunset, only
the day before, they had seen the meadows, the houses, the gardens, the
clumps of trees, the wide, green-margined street, with children playing in
it, and all the tokens of business, enjoyment, and prosperity. But what
was their astonishment! There was no longer any appearance of a village!
Even the fertile vale, in the hollow of which it lay, had ceased to have
existence. In its stead, they beheld the broad, blue surface of a lake,
which filled the great basin of the valley from brim to brim, and
reflected the surrounding hills in its bosom with as tranquil an image as
if it had been there ever since the creation of the world. For an instant,
the lake remained perfectly smooth. Then a little breeze sprang up, and
caused the water to dance, glitter, and sparkle in the early sunbeams, and
to dash, with a pleasant rippling murmur, against the hither shore.
The lake seemed so strangely familiar, that the old couple were greatly
perplexed, and felt as if they could only have been dreaming about a
village having lain there. But, the next moment, they remembered the
vanished dwellings, and the faces and characters of the inhabitants, far
too distinctly for a dream. The village had been there yesterday, and now
was gone!
"Alas!" cried these kind-hearted old people, "what has become of our poor
neighbors?"
"They no longer exist as men and women," said the elder traveler, in his
grand and deep voice, while a roll of thunder seemed to echo it at a
distance. "There was neither use nor beauty in such a life as theirs; for
they never softened or sweetened the hard lot of mortality by the exercise
of kindly affections between man and man. They retained no image of the
better life in their bosoms; therefore, the lake, that was of old, has
spread itself forth again, to reflect the sky!"
"And as for those foolish people," said Quicksilver, with his mischievous
smile, "they are all transformed to fishes. There needed but little
change, for they were already a scaly set of rascals, and the
coldest-blooded beings in existence. So, kind Mother Baucis, whenever you
or your husband have an appetite for a dish of broiled trout, he can throw
in a line, and pull out half a dozen of your old neighbors!"
"Ah," cried Baucis shuddering, "I would not, for the world, put one of
them on the gridiron!"
"No," added Philemon, making a wry face, "we could never relish them!"
"As for you, good Philemon," continued the elder traveler,--"and you, kind
Baucis,--you, with your scanty means, have mingled so much heartfelt
hospitality with your entertainment of the homeless stranger, that the
milk became an inexhaustible fount of nectar, and the brown loaf and the
honey were ambrosia. Thus, the divinities have feasted, at your board, off
the same viands that supply their banquets on Olympus. You have done well,
my dear old friends. Wherefore, request whatever favor you have most at
heart, and it is granted."
Philemon and Baucis looked at one another, and then--I know not which of
the two it was who spoke, but that one uttered the desire of both their
hearts.
"Let us live together, while we live, and leave the world at the same
instant, when we die! For we have always loved one another!"
"Be it so!" replied the stranger, with majestic kindness. "Now, look
towards your cottage!"
They did so. But what was their surprise on beholding a tall edifice of
white marble, with a wide-open portal, occupying the spot where their
humble residence had so lately stood!
"There is your home," said the stranger, beneficently smiling on them
both. "Exercise your hospitality in yonder palace as freely as in the poor
hovel to which you welcomed us last evening."
The old folks fell on their knees to thank him; but, behold! neither he
nor Quicksilver was there.
So Philemon and Baucis took up their residence in the marble palace, and
spent their time, with vast satisfaction to themselves, in making
everybody jolly and comfortable who happened to pass that way. The
milk-pitcher, I must not forget to say, retained its marvelous quality of
being never empty, when it was desirable to have it full. Whenever an
honest, good-humored, and free-hearted guest took a draught from this
pitcher, he invariably found it the sweetest and most invigorating fluid
that ever ran down his throat. But, if a cross and disagreeable curmudgeon
happened to sip, he was pretty certain to twist his visage into a hard
knot, and pronounce it a pitcher of sour milk!
Thus the old couple lived in their palace a great, great while, and grew
older and older, and very old indeed. At length, however, there came a
summer morning when Philemon and Baucis failed to make their appearance,
as on other mornings, with one hospitable smile overspreading both their
pleasant faces, to invite the guests of over-night to breakfast. The
guests searched everywhere, from top to bottom of the spacious palace, and
all to no purpose. But, after a great deal of perplexity, they espied, in
front of the portal, two venerable trees, which nobody could remember to
have seen there the day before. Yet there they stood, with their roots
fastened deep into the soil, and a huge breadth of foliage overshadowing
the whole front of the edifice. One was an oak, and the other a
linden-tree. Their boughs--it was strange and beautiful to see--were
intertwined together, and embraced one another, so that each tree seemed
to live in the other tree's bosom much more than in its own.
While the guests were marveling how these trees, that must have required
at least a century to grow, could have come to be so tall and venerable in
a single night, a breeze sprang up, and set their intermingled boughs
astir. And then there was a deep, broad murmur in the air, as if the two
mysterious trees were speaking.
"I am old Philemon!" murmured the oak.
"I am old Baucis!" murmured the linden-tree.
But, as the breeze grew stronger, the trees both spoke at
once,--"Philemon! Baucis! Baucis! Philemon!"--as if one were both and both
were one, and talking together in the depths of their mutual heart. It was
plain enough to perceive that the good old couple had renewed their age,
and were now to spend a quiet and delightful hundred years or so, Philemon
as an oak, and Baucis as a linden-tree. And oh, what a hospitable shade
did they fling around them! Whenever a wayfarer paused beneath it, he
heard a pleasant whisper of the leaves above his head, and wondered how
the sound should so much resemble words like these:--
"Welcome, welcome, dear traveler, welcome!"
And some kind soul, that knew what would have pleased old Baucis and old
Philemon best, built a circular seat around both their trunks, where, for
a great while afterwards, the weary, and the hungry, and the thirsty used
to repose themselves, and quaff milk abundantly from the miraculous
pitcher.
And I wish, for all our sakes, that we had the pitcher here now!
THE GOLDEN TOUCH
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
Once upon a time, there lived a very rich man, and a king besides, whose
name was Midas; and he had a little daughter, whom nobody but myself ever
heard of, and whose name I either never knew or have entirely forgotten.
So, because I love odd names for little girls, I choose to call her
Marygold.
This King Midas was fonder of gold than of anything else in the world. He
valued his royal crown chiefly because it was composed of that precious
metal. If he loved anything better, or half so well, it was the one little
maiden who played so merrily around her father's footstool. But the more
Midas loved his daughter, the more did he desire and seek for wealth. He
thought, foolish man! that the best thing he could possibly do for this
dear child would be to bequeath her the immensest pile of yellow,
glistening coin, that had ever been heaped together since the world was
made. Thus, he gave all his thoughts and all his time to this one purpose.
If ever he happened to gaze for an instant at the gold-tinted clouds of
sunset, he wished that they were real gold, and that they could be
squeezed safely into his strong box. When little Marygold ran to meet him
with a bunch of buttercups and dandelions, he used to say, "Poh, poh,
child! If these flowers were as golden as they look, they would be worth
the plucking!"
And yet, in his earlier days, before he was so entirely possessed of this
insane desire for riches, King Midas had shown a great taste for flowers.
He had planted a garden, in which grew the biggest and beautifulest and
sweetest roses that any mortal ever saw or smelt. These roses were still
growing in the garden, as large, as lovely, and as fragrant as when Midas
used to pass whole hours in gazing at them and inhaling their perfume. But
now, if he looked at them at all, it was only to calculate how much the
garden would be worth if each of the innumerable rose-petals were a thin
plate of gold. And though he once was fond of music (in spite of an idle
story about his ears, which were said to resemble those of an ass), the
only music for poor Midas, now, was the chink of one coin against another.
At length (as people always grow more and more foolish, unless they take
care to grow wiser and wiser), Midas had got to be so exceedingly
unreasonable, that he could scarcely bear to see or touch any object that
was not gold. He made it his custom, therefore, to pass a large portion of
every day in a dark and dreary apartment, under ground, at the basement of
his palace. It was here that he kept his wealth. To this dismal hole--for
it was little better than a dungeon--Midas betook himself, whenever he
wanted to be particularly happy. Here, after carefully locking the door,
he would take a bag of gold coin, or a gold cup as big as a washbowl, or a
heavy golden bar, or a peck-measure of gold-dust, and bring them from the
obscure corners of the room into the one bright and narrow sunbeam that
fell from the dungeon-like window. He valued the sunbeam for no other
reason but that his treasure would not shine without its help. And then
would he reckon over the coins in the bag; toss up the bar, and catch it
as it came down; sift the gold-dust through his fingers; look at the funny
image of his own face, as reflected in the burnished circumference of the
cup; and whisper to himself, "O Midas, rich King Midas, what a happy man
art thou!" But it was laughable to see how the image of his face kept
grinning at him, out of the polished surface of the cup. It seemed to be
aware of his foolish behavior, and to have a naughty inclination to make
fun of him.
Midas called himself a happy man, but felt that he was not yet quite so
happy as he might be. The very tiptop of enjoyment would never be reached,
unless the whole world were to become his treasure-room, and be filled
with yellow metal which should be all his own.
Now, I need hardly remind such wise little people as you are, that in the
old, old times, when King Midas was alive, a great many things came to
pass, which we should consider wonderful if they were to happen in our own
day and country. And, on the other hand, a great many things take place
nowadays, which seem not only wonderful to us, but at which the people of
old times would have stared their eyes out. On the whole, I regard our own
times as the strangest of the two; but, however that may be, I must go on
with my story.
Midas was enjoying himself in his treasure-room, one day, as usual, when
he perceived a shadow fall over the heaps of gold; and, looking suddenly
up, what should he behold but the figure of a stranger, standing in the
bright and narrow sunbeam! It was a young man, with a cheerful and ruddy
face. Whether it was that the imagination of King Midas threw a yellow
tinge over everything, or whatever the cause might be, he could not help
fancying that the smile with which the stranger regarded him had a kind of
golden radiance in it. Certainly, although his figure intercepted the
sunshine, there was now a brighter gleam upon all the piled-up treasures
than before. Even the remotest corners had their share of it, and were
lighted up, when the stranger smiled, as with tips of flame and sparkles
of fire. As Midas knew that he had carefully turned the key in the lock,
and that no mortal strength could possibly break into his treasure-room,
he, of course, concluded that his visitor must be something more than
mortal. It is no matter about telling you who he was. In those days, when
the earth was comparatively a new affair, it was supposed to be often the
resort of beings endowed with supernatural power, and who used to interest
themselves in the joys and sorrows of men, women, and children, half
playfully and half seriously. Midas had met such beings before now, and
was not sorry to meet one of them again. The stranger's aspect, indeed,
was so good-humored and kindly, if not beneficent, that it would have been
unreasonable to suspect him of intending any mischief. It was far more
probable that he came to do Midas a favor. And what could that favor be,
unless to multiply his heaps of treasure?
The stranger gazed about the room; and when his lustrous smile had
glistened upon all the golden objects that were there, he turned again to
Midas.
"You are a wealthy man, friend Midas!" he observed. "I doubt whether any
other four walls, on earth, contain so much gold as you have contrived to
pile up in this room."
"I have done pretty well,--pretty well," answered Midas, in a discontented
tone. "But, after all, it is but a trifle, when you consider that it has
taken me my whole life to get it together. If one could live a thousand
years, he might have time to grow rich!"
"What!" exclaimed the stranger. "Then you are not satisfied?"
Midas shook his head.
"And pray what would satisfy you?" asked the stranger. "Merely for the
curiosity of the thing, I should be glad to know."
Midas paused and meditated. He felt a presentiment that this stranger,
with such a golden lustre in his good-humored smile, had come hither with
both the power and the purpose of gratifying his utmost wishes. Now,
therefore, was the fortunate moment, when he had but to speak, and obtain
whatever possible, or seemingly impossible thing, it might come into his
head to ask. So he thought, and thought, and thought, and heaped up one
golden mountain upon another, in his imagination, without being able to
imagine them big enough. At last, a bright idea occurred to King Midas. It
seemed really as bright as the glistening metal which he loved so much.
Raising his head, he looked the lustrous stranger in the face.
"Well, Midas," observed his visitor, "I see that you have at length hit
upon something that will satisfy you. Tell me your wish."
"It is only this," replied Midas. "I am weary of collecting my treasures
with so much trouble, and beholding the heap so diminutive, after I have
done my best. I wish everything that I touch to be changed to gold!"
The stranger's smile grew so very broad, that it seemed to fill the room
like an outburst of the sun, gleaming into a shadowy dell where the yellow
autumnal leaves--for so looked the lumps and particles of gold--lie strewn
in the glow of light.
"The Golden Touch!" exclaimed he. "You certainly deserve credit, friend
Midas, for striking out so brilliant a conception. But are you quite sure
that this will satisfy you?"
"How could it fail?" said Midas.
"And will you never regret the possession of it?"
"What could induce me?" asked Midas. "I ask nothing else, to render me
perfectly happy."
"Be it as you wish, then," replied the stranger, waving his hand in token
of farewell. "To-morrow, at sunrise, you will find yourself gifted with
the Golden Touch."
The figure of the stranger then became exceedingly bright, and Midas
involuntarily closed his eyes. On opening them again, he beheld only one
yellow sunbeam in the room, and, all around him, the glistening of the
precious metal which he had spent his life in hoarding up.
Whether Midas slept as usual that night, the story does not say. Asleep or
awake, however, his mind was probably in the state of a child's, to whom a
beautiful new plaything has been promised in the morning. At any rate, day
had hardly peeped over the hills, when King Midas was broad awake, and,
stretching his arms out of bed, began to touch the objects that were
within reach. He was anxious to prove whether the Golden Touch had really
come, according to the stranger's promise. So he laid his finger on a
chair by the bedside, and on various other things, but was grievously
disappointed to perceive that they remained of exactly the same substance
as before. Indeed, he felt very much afraid that he had only dreamed about
the lustrous stranger, or else that the latter had been making game of
him. And what a miserable affair would it be, if, after all his hopes,
Midas must content himself with what little gold he could scrape together
by ordinary means, instead of creating it by a touch!
All this while it was only the gray of the morning, with but a streak of
brightness along the edge of the sky, where Midas could not see it. He lay
in a very disconsolate mood, regretting the downfall of his hopes, and
kept growing sadder and sadder, until the earliest sunbeam shone through
the window, and gilded the ceiling over his head. It seemed to Midas that
this bright yellow sunbeam was reflected in rather a singular way on the
white covering of the bed. Looking more closely, what was his astonishment
and delight, when he found that this linen fabric had been transmuted to
what seemed a woven texture of the purest and brightest gold! The Golden
Touch had come to him with the first sunbeam!