said in the wedding song. I had once really fallen in love with the
beautiful statue, which awoke to life in my arms; but the kindred soul
which Heaven sends down to us, the angel who can feel and sympathise
with and elevate us, I have not found and won till now. You came,
Sophy, not in the glory of outward beauty, though you are fair, fairer
than is needful. The chief thing remains the chief. You came to teach
the sculptor that his work is but clay and dust, only an outward form
in a fabric that passes away, and that we must seek the essence, the
internal spirit. Poor Kala! ours was but wayfarers' life. Yonder,
where we shall know each other by sympathy, we shall be half
strangers."
"That was not lovingly spoken," said Sophy, "not spoken like a
Christian. Yonder, where there is no giving in marriage, but where, as
you say, souls attract each other by sympathy; there where everything
beautiful develops itself and is elevated, her soul may acquire such
completeness that it may sound more harmoniously than mine; and you
will then once more utter the first raptured exclamation of your love,
Beautiful--most beautiful!"
IN THE DUCK-YARD.
A duck arrived from Portugal. Some said she came from Spain, but
that's all the same. At any rate she was called the Portuguese, and
laid eggs, and was killed and cooked, and that was _her_ career. But
the ducklings which crept forth from her eggs were afterwards also
called Portuguese, and there is something in that. Now, of the whole
family there was only one left in the duck-yard, a yard to which the
chickens had access likewise, and where the cock strutted about in a
very aggressive manner.
"He annoys me with his loud crowing!" observed the Portuguese duck.
"But he's a handsome bird, there's no denying that, though he is not a
drake. He ought to moderate his voice, but that's an art inseparable
from polite education, like that possessed by the little singing birds
over in the lime trees in the neighbour's garden. How charmingly they
sing! There's something quite pretty in their warbling. I call it
Portugal. If I had only such a little singing bird, I'd be a mother to
him, kind and good, for that's in my blood, my Portuguese blood!"
And while she was still speaking, a little singing bird came head over
heels from the roof into the yard. The cat was behind him, but the
bird escaped with a broken wing, and that's how he came tumbling into
the yard.
"That's just like the cat; she's a villain!" said the Portuguese duck.
"I remember her ways when I had children of my own. That such a
creature should be allowed to live, and to wander about upon the
roofs! I don't think they do such things in Portugal!"
And she pitied the little singing bird, and the other ducks who were
not of Portuguese descent pitied him too.
"Poor little creature!" they said, as one after another came up. "We
certainly can't sing," they said, "but we have a sounding board, or
something of the kind, within us; we can feel that, though we don't
talk of it."
"But I can talk of it," said the Portuguese duck; "and I'll do
something for the little fellow, for that's my duty!" And she stepped
into the water-trough, and beat her wings upon the water so heartily,
that the little singing bird was almost drowned by the bath she got,
but the duck meant it kindly. "That's a good deed," she said: "the
others may take example by it."
"Piep!" said the little bird; one of his wings was broken, and he
found it difficult to shake himself; but he quite understood that the
bath was kindly meant. "You are very kind-hearted, madam," he said;
but he did not wish for a second bath.
"I have never thought about my heart," continued the Portuguese duck,
"but I know this much, that I love all my fellow-creatures except the
cat; but nobody can expect me to love her, for she ate up two of my
ducklings. But pray make yourself at home, for one can make oneself
comfortable. I myself am from a strange country, as you may see from
my bearing, and from my feathery dress. My drake is a native of these
parts, he's not of my race; but for all that I'm not proud! If any one
here in the yard can understand you, I may assert that I am that
person."
"She's quite full of Portulak," said a little common duck, who was
witty; and all the other common ducks considered the word _Portulak_
quite a good joke, for it sounded like Portugal; and they nudged each
other and said "Rapp!" It was too witty! And all the other ducks now
began to notice the little singing bird.
"The Portuguese has certainly a greater command of language," they
said. "For our part, we don't care to fill our beaks with such long
words, but our sympathy is just as great. If we don't do anything for
you, we march about with you everywhere; and we think that the best
thing we can do."
"You have a lovely voice," said one of the oldest. "It must be a great
satisfaction to be able to give so much pleasure as you are able to
impart. I certainly am no great judge of your song, and consequently I
keep my beak shut; and even that is better than talking nonsense to
you, as others do."
"Don't plague him so," interposed the Portuguese duck: "he requires
rest and nursing. My little singing bird, do you wish me to prepare
another bath for you?"
"Oh no! pray let me be dry!" was the little bird's petition.
"The water-cure is the only remedy for me when I am unwell," quoth the
Portuguese. "Amusement is beneficial too! The neighbouring fowls will
soon come to pay their visit. There are two Cochin Chinese among them.
They wear feathers on their legs, are well educated, and have been
brought from afar, consequently they stand higher than the others in
my regard."
And the fowls came, and the cock came; to-day he was polite enough to
abstain from being rude.
"You are a true singing bird," he said, "and you do as much with your
little voice as can possibly be done with it. But one requires a
little more shrillness, that every hearer may hear that one is a
male."
The two Chinese stood quite enchanted with the appearance of the
singing bird. He looked very much rumpled after his bath, so that he
seemed to them to have quite the appearance of a little Cochin China
fowl. "He's charming," they cried, and began a conversation with him,
speaking in whispers, and using the most aristocratic Chinese dialect.
[Illustration: THE LITTLE SINGING BIRD RECEIVES DISTINGUISHED
PATRONAGE.]
"We are of your race," they continued. "The ducks, even the
Portuguese, are swimming birds, as you cannot fail to have noticed.
You do not know us yet; very few know us, or give themselves the
trouble to make our acquaintance--not even any of the fowls, though we
are born to occupy a higher grade on the ladder than most of the rest.
But that does not disturb us: we quietly pursue our path amid the
others, whose principles are certainly not ours; for we look at things
on the favourable side, and only speak of what is good, though it is
difficult sometimes to find something when nothing exists. Except us
two and the cock, there's no one in the whole poultry-yard who is at
once talented and polite. It cannot even be said of the inhabitants of
the duck-yard. We warn you, little singing bird: don't trust that one
yonder with the short tail feathers, for she's cunning. The pied one
there, with the crooked stripes on her wings, is a strife-seeker, and
lets nobody have the last word, though she's always in the wrong. The
fat duck yonder speaks evil of every one, and that's against our
principles: if we have nothing good to tell, we should hold our beaks.
The Portuguese is the only one who has any education, and with whom
one can associate, but she is passionate, and talks too much about
Portugal."
"I wonder what those two Chinese are always whispering to one another
about," whispered one duck to her friend. "They annoy me--we have
never spoken to them."
Now the drake came up. He thought the little singing bird was a
sparrow.
"Well, I don't understand the difference," he said; "and indeed it's
all the same thing. He's only a plaything, and if one has them, why,
one has them."
"Don't attach any value to what he says," the Portuguese whispered.
"He's very respectable in business matters; and with him business
takes precedence of everything. But now I shall lie down for a rest.
One owes that to oneself, that one may be nice and fat when one is to
be embalmed with apples and plums."
And accordingly she lay down in the sun, and winked with one eye; and
she lay very comfortably, and she felt very comfortable, and she slept
very comfortably.
The little singing bird busied himself with his broken wing. At last
he lay down too, and pressed close to his protectress: the sun shone
warm and bright, and he had found a very good place.
But the neighbour's fowls were awake. They went about scratching up
the earth; and, to tell the truth, they had paid the visit simply and
solely to find food for themselves. The Chinese were the first to
leave the duck-yard; and the other fowls soon followed them. The witty
little duck said of the Portuguese that the old lady was becoming a
ducky dotard. At this the other ducks laughed and cackled aloud.
"Ducky dotard," they whispered; "that's too witty!" and then they
repeated the former joke about Portulak, and declared that it was
vastly amusing. And then they lay down.
They had been lying asleep for some time, when suddenly something was
thrown into the yard for them to eat. It came down with such a thwack,
that the whole company started up from sleep and clapped their wings.
The Portuguese awoke too, and threw herself over on the other side,
pressing the little singing bird very hard as she did so.
"Piep!" he cried; "you trod very hard upon me, madam."
"Well, why do you lie in my way?" the duck retorted. "You must not be
so touchy. I have nerves of my own, but yet I never called out 'Piep!'
"Don't be angry," said the little bird "the 'piep' came out of my beak
unawares."
The Portuguese did not listen to him, but began eating as fast as she
could, and made a good meal. When this was ended, and she lay down
again, the little bird came up, and wanted to be amiable, and sang:
"Tillee-lilly lee,
Of the good spring time,
I'll sing so fine
As far away I flee."
"Now I want to rest after my dinner," said the Portuguese. "You must
conform to the rules of the house while you're here. I want to sleep
now."
The little singing bird was quite taken aback, for he had meant it
kindly. When Madam afterwards awoke, he stood before her again with a
little corn that he had found, and laid it at her feet; but as she had
not slept well, she was naturally in a very bad humour.
"Give that to a chicken!" she said, "and don't be always standing in
my way."
"Why are you angry with me?" replied the little singing bird. "What
have I done?"
"Done!" repeated the Portuguese duck: "your mode of expression is not
exactly genteel; a fact to which I must call your attention."
"Yesterday it was sunshine here," said the little bird, "but to-day
it's cloudy and the air is close."
"You don't know much about the weather, I fancy," retorted the
Portuguese. "The day is not done yet. Don't stand there looking so
stupid."
"But you are looking at me just as the wicked eyes looked when I fell
into the yard yesterday."
"Impertinent creature!" exclaimed the Portuguese duck, "would you
compare me with the cat, that beast of prey? There's not a drop of
malicious blood in me. I've taken your part, and will teach you good
manners."
And so saying, she bit off the singing bird's head, and he lay dead on
the ground.
"Now, what's the meaning of this?" she said, "could he not bear even
that? Then certainly he was not made for this world. I've been like a
mother to him I know that, for I've a good heart."
Then the neighbour's cock stuck his head into the yard, and crowed
with steam-engine power.
"You'll kill me with your crowing!" she cried. "It's all your fault.
He's lost his head, and I am very near losing mine."
"There's not much lying where he fell!" observed the cock.
"Speak of him with respect," retorted the Portuguese duck, "for he had
song, manners, and education. He was affectionate and soft, and that's
as good in animals, as in your so-called human beings."
And all the ducks came crowding round the little dead singing bird.
Ducks have strong passions, whether they feel envy or pity; and as
there was nothing here to envy, pity manifested itself, even in the
two Chinese.
"We shall never get such a singing bird again; he was almost a
Chinese," they whispered, and they wept with a mighty clucking sound,
and all the fowls clucked too; but the ducks went about with the
redder eyes.
"We've hearts of our own," they said; "nobody can deny that."
"Hearts!" repeated the Portuguese, "yes, that we have, almost as much
as in Portugal."
"Let us think of getting something to satisfy our hunger," said the
drake, "for that's the most important point. If one of our toys is
broken, why, we have plenty more!"
THE GIRL WHO TROD ON THE LOAF.
The story of the girl who trod on the loaf, to avoid soiling her
shoes, and of the misfortunes that befell this girl, is well known. It
has been written, and even printed.
The girl's name was Inge; she was a poor child, but proud and
presumptuous; there was a bad foundation in her, as the saying is.
When she was quite a little child, it was her delight to catch flies,
and tear off their wings, so as to convert them into creeping things.
Grown older, she would take cockchafers and beetles, and spit them on
pins. Then she pushed a green leaf or a little scrap of paper towards
their feet, and the poor creatures seized it, and held it fast, and
turned it over and over, struggling to get free from the pin.
"The cockchafer is reading," Inge would say. "See how he turns the
leaf round and round!"
With years she grew worse rather than better; but she was pretty, and
that was her misfortune; otherwise she would have been more sharply
reproved than she was.
"Your headstrong will requires something strong to break it!" her own
mother often said. "As a little child, you used to trample on my
apron; but I fear you will one day trample on my heart."
And that is what she really did.
She was sent into the country, into service in the house of rich
people, who kept her as their own child, and dressed her in
corresponding style. She looked well, and her presumption increased.
When she had been there about a year, her mistress said to her, "You
ought once to visit your parents, Inge."
And Inge set out to visit her parents, but it was only to show herself
in her native place, and that the people there might see how grand she
had become; but when she came to the entrance of the village, and the
young husbandmen and maids stood there chatting, and her own mother
appeared among them, sitting on a stone to rest, and with a faggot of
sticks before her that she had picked up in the wood, then Inge turned
back, for she felt ashamed that she, who was so finely dressed, should
have for a mother a ragged woman, who picked up wood in the forest.
She did not turn back out of pity for her mother's poverty, she was
only angry.
And another half-year went by, and her mistress said again, "You ought
to go to your home, and visit your old parents, Inge. I'll make you a
present of a great wheaten loaf that you may give to them; they will
certainly be glad to see you again."
And Inge put on her best clothes, and her new shoes, and drew her
skirts around her, and set out, stepping very carefully, that she
might be clean and neat about the feet; and there was no harm in that.
But when she came to the place where the footway led across the moor,
and where there was mud and puddles, she threw the loaf into the mud,
and trod upon it to pass over without wetting her feet. But as she
stood there with one foot upon the loaf and the other uplifted to step
farther, the loaf sank with her, deeper and deeper, till she
disappeared altogether, and only a great puddle, from which the
bubbles rose, remained where she had been.
And that's the story.
[Illustration: INGE TURNS BACK AT THE SIGHT OF HER POOR MOTHER.]
But whither did Inge go? She sank into the moor ground, and went down to
the moor woman, who is always brewing there. The moor woman is cousin to
the elf maidens, who are well enough known, of whom songs are sung, and
whose pictures are painted; but concerning the moor woman it is only known
that when the meadows steam in summer-time it is because she is brewing.
Into the moor woman's brewery did Inge sink down; and no one can endure
that place long. A box of mud is a palace compared with the moor woman's
brewery. Every barrel there has an odour that almost takes away one's
senses; and the barrels stand close to each other; and wherever there is a
little opening among them, through which one might push one's way, the
passage becomes impracticable from the number of damp toads and fat snakes
who sit out their time there. Among this company did Inge fall; and all the
horrible mass of living creeping things was so icy cold, that she shuddered
in all her limbs, and became stark and stiff. She continued fastened to the
loaf, and the loaf drew her down as an amber button draws a fragment of
straw.
The moor woman was at home, and on that day there were visitors in the
brewery. These visitors were old Bogey and his grandmother, who came
to inspect it; and Bogey's grandmother is a venomous old woman, who is
never idle: she never rides out to pay a visit without taking her work
with her; and, accordingly, she had brought it on the day in question.
She sewed biting-leather to be worked into men's shoes, and which
makes them wander about unable to settle anywhere. She wove webs of
lies, and strung together hastily-spoken words that had fallen to the
ground; and all this was done for the injury and ruin of mankind. Yes,
indeed, she knew how to sew, to weave, and to string, this old
grandmother!
Catching sight of Inge, she put up her double eye-glass, and took
another look at the girl. "That's a girl who has ability!" she
observed, "and I beg you will give me the little one as a memento of
my visit here. She'll make a capital statue to stand in my grandson's
antechamber."
And Inge was given up to her, and this is how Inge came into Bogey's
domain. People don't always go there by the direct path, but they can
get there by roundabout routes if they have a tendency in that
direction.
That was a never-ending antechamber. The visitor became giddy who
looked forward, and doubly giddy when he looked back, and saw a whole
crowd of people, almost utterly exhausted, waiting till the gate of
mercy should be opened to them--they had to wait a long time! Great
fat waddling spiders spun webs of a thousand years over their feet,
and these webs cut like wire, and bound them like bronze fetters; and,
moreover, there was an eternal unrest working in every heart--a
miserable unrest. The miser stood there, and had forgotten the key of
his strong box, and he knew the key was sticking in the lock. It would
take too long to describe the various sorts of torture that were
found there together. Inge felt a terrible pain while she had to
stand there as a statue, for she was tied fast to the loaf.
"That's the fruit of wishing to keep one's feet neat and tidy," she
said to herself. "Just look how they're all staring at me!" Yes,
certainly, the eyes of all were fixed upon her, and their evil
thoughts gleamed forth from their eyes, and they spoke to one another,
moving their lips, from which no sound whatever came forth: they were
very horrible to behold.
"It must be a great pleasure to look at me!" thought Inge, "and indeed
I have a pretty face and fine clothes." And she turned her eyes, for
she could not turn her head; her neck was too stiff for that. But she
had not considered how her clothes had been soiled in the moor woman's
brewhouse. Her garments were covered with mud; a snake had fastened in
her hair, and dangled down her back; and out of each fold of her frock
a great toad looked forth, croaking like an asthmatic poodle. That was
very disconcerting. "But all the rest of them down here look
horrible," she observed to herself, and derived consolation from the
thought.
The worst of all was the terrible hunger that tormented her. But could
she not stoop and break off a piece of the loaf on which she stood?
No, her back was too stiff, her hands and arms were benumbed, and her
whole body was like a pillar of stone; only she was able to turn her
eyes in her head, to turn them quite round so that she could see
backwards: it was an ugly sight. And then the flies came up, and crept
to and fro over her eyes, and she blinked her eyes, but the flies
would not go away, for they could not fly: their wings had been pulled
out, so that they were converted into creeping insects: it was
horrible torment added to the hunger, for she felt empty, quite,
entirely empty. "If this lasts much longer," she said, "I shall not be
able to bear it." But she had to bear it, and it lasted on and on.
Then a hot tear fell down upon her head, rolled over her face and
neck, down on to the loaf on which she stood; and then another tear
rolled down, followed by many more. Who might be weeping for Inge? Had
she not still a mother in the world? The tears of sorrow which a
mother weeps for her child always make their way to the child; but
they do not relieve it, they only increase its torment. And now to
bear this unendurable hunger, and yet not to be able to touch the loaf
on which she stood! She felt as if she had been feeding on herself,
and had become like a thin, hollow reed that takes in every sound, for
she heard everything that was said of her up in the world, and all
that she heard was hard and evil. Her mother, indeed, wept much and
sorrowed for her, but for all that she said, "A haughty spirit goes
before a fall. That was thy ruin, Inge. Thou hast sorely grieved thy
mother."
Her mother and all on earth knew of the sin she had committed; knew
that she had trodden upon the loaf, and had sunk and disappeared; for
the cowherd had seen it from the hill beside the moor.
"Greatly hast thou grieved thy mother, Inge," said the mother; "yes,
yes, I thought it would be thus."
"Oh that I never had been born!" thought Inge; "it would have been far
better. But what use is my mother's weeping now?"
And she heard how her master and mistress, who had kept and cherished
her like kind parents, now said she was a sinful child, and did not
value the gifts of God, but trampled them under her feet, and that the
gates of mercy would only open slowly to her.
"They should have punished me," thought Inge, "and have driven out the
whims I had in my head."
She heard how a complete song was made about her, a song of the proud
girl who trod upon the loaf to keep her shoes clean, and she heard how
the song was sung everywhere.
"That I should have to bear so much evil for this!" thought Inge; "the
others ought to be punished, too, for their sins. Yes, then there
would be plenty of punishing to do. Ah, how I'm being tortured!" And
her heart became harder than her outward form.
"Here in this company one can't even become better," she said, "and I
don't want to become better! Look, how they're all staring at me!"
And her heart was full of anger and malice against all men. "Now
they've something to talk about at last up yonder. Ah, how I'm being
tortured!"
And then she heard how her story was told to the little children, and
the little ones called her the godless Inge, and said she was so
naughty and ugly that she must be well punished.
Thus, even the children's mouths spoke hard words of her.
But one day, while grief and hunger gnawed her hollow frame, and she
heard her name mentioned and her story told to an innocent child, a
little girl, she became aware that the little one burst into tears at
the tale of the haughty, vain Inge.
"But will Inge never come up here again?" asked the little girl.
And the reply was, "She will never come up again."
"But if she were to say she was sorry, and to beg pardon, and say she
would never do so again?"
"Yes, then she might come; but she will not beg pardon," was the
reply.
"I should be so glad if she would," said the little girl; and she was
quite inconsolable. "I'll give my doll and all my playthings if she
may only come up. It's too dreadful--poor Inge!"
And these words penetrated to Inge's inmost heart, and seemed to do
her good. It was the first time any one had said, "Poor Inge," without
adding anything about her faults: a little innocent child was weeping
and praying for mercy for her. It made her feel quite strangely, and
she herself would gladly have wept, but she could not weep, and that
was a torment in itself.
While years were passing above her, for where she was there was no
change, she heard herself spoken of more and more seldom. At last, one
day a sigh struck on her ear: "Inge, Inge, how you have grieved me! I
said how it would be!" It was the last sigh of her dying mother.