In countless pictures I behold thee,
O Mary, lovelily expressed,
But of them all none can unfold thee
As I have seen thee in my breast!
I only know the world’s loud splendour
Since then is like a dream o’erblown;
And that a heaven, for words too tender,
My quieted spirit fills alone.
_A PARABLE_.
Long ago, there lived far to the west a very young man, good, but
extremely odd. He tormented himself continually about this nothing and
that nothing, always walked in silence and straight before him, sat down
alone when the others were at their sports and merry-makings, and brooded
over strange things. Caves and woods were his dearest haunts; and there he
talked on and on with beasts and birds, with trees and rocks--of course
not one rational word, but mere idiotic stuff, to make one laugh to death.
He continued, however, always moody and serious, in spite of the utmost
pains that the squirrel, the monkey, the parrot, and the bullfinch could
take to divert him, and set him in the right way. The goose told stories,
the brook jingled a ballad between, a great thick stone cut ridiculous
capers, the rose stole lovingly about him from behind and crept through
his locks, while the ivy stroked his troubled brow. But his melancholy and
gravity were stubborn. His parents were much troubled, and did not know
what to do. He was in good health, and ate well enough; they had never
caused him any offence; and, until a few years ago, he had been the
liveliest and merriest of them all, foremost in all their games, and a
favourite with all the maidens. He was very handsome, looked like a
picture, and danced like an angel. Amongst the maidens was one, a charming
and beautiful creature, who looked like wax, had hair like golden silk,
and cherry-red lips, was a doll for size, and had coal-black, yes,
raven-black eyes. Whoever saw her was ready to swoon, she was so lovely.
Now Rosebud, for that was her name, was heartily fond of the handsome
Hyacinth, for that was his name, and he loved her fit to die. The other
children knew nothing of it. A violet told them of it first. The little
house-cats had been quite aware of it, for the houses of their parents lay
near each other. So when Hyacinth stood at night by his window, and
Rosebud at hers, and the cats ran past mouse-hunting, they saw the two
standing there, and often laughed and tittered so loud that they heard it
and were offended. The violet told it in confidence to the strawberry, and
she told it to her friend, the raspberry, who never ceased rasping when
Hyacinth came along; so that by and by the whole garden and wood were in
the secret, and when Hyacinth went out, he heard on all sides the cry:
“Little Rosy is my posy!” This vexed him; but the next moment he could not
help laughing from the bottom of his heart, when the little lizard came
slipping along, sat down on a warm stone, waggled his tail, and sang--
“Little Rosebud, good and wise,
All at once has lost her eyes:
Taking Hyacinth for her mother,
Round his neck her arms she flings;
Then perceiving ‘tis another--
Starts with terror?--no, but clings--
Think of that!--fast as before,
Only kissing all the more!”
Alas, how soon was the grand time over! There came a man out of strange
lands, who had travelled wondrous far and wide, had a long beard, deep
eyes, frightful eyebrows, and a strange garment with many folds, and
inwoven with curious figures. He seated himself before the house of
Hyacinth’s parents. Hyacinth at once became very inquisitive, and sat down
beside him, and brought him bread and wine. Then parted he his white
beard, and told stories deep into the night; and Hyacinth never stirred or
tired of listening. This much they learned afterward, that he talked a
great deal about strange lands, unknown countries, and amazingly wonderful
things; stopped there three days, and crept with Hyacinth down into deep
shafts. Little Rosebud execrated the old sorcerer pretty thoroughly, for
Hyacinth was altogether absorbed in his conversation, and paid no heed to
anything else, hardly even to the swallowing of a mouthful of food. At
length the man took his departure, but left with Hyacinth a little book
which no man could read. Hyacinth gave him fruit, and bread, and wine to
take with him, and accompanied him a long way. Then he came back sunk in
thought, and thereafter took up a quite new mode of life. Rosebud was in a
very sad way about him, for from that time forward he made little of her,
and kept himself always to himself. But it came to pass that one day he
came home, and was like one born again. He fell on his parents’ neck and
wept. “I must away to a foreign land!” he said: “the strange old woman in
the wood has told me what I must do to get well; she has thrown the book
into the fire, and has made me come to you to ask your blessing. Perhaps I
shall be back soon, perhaps never more. Say good-bye to Rosebud for me. I
should have been glad to have a talk with her; I do not know what has come
to me: I must go! When I would think to recall old times, immediately come
thoughts more potent in between; my rest is gone, and my heart and love
with it; and I must go find them! I would gladly tell you whither, but do
not myself know; it is where dwells the mother of things, the virgin with
the veil; for her my spirit is on fire. Farewell!” He tore himself from
them, and went out. His parents lamented and shed tears. Rosebud kept her
chamber, and wept bitterly.
Hyacinth now ran, as fast as he could, through valleys and wildernesses,
over mountains and streams, toward the land of mystery. Everywhere he
inquired--of men and beasts, of rocks and trees,--after the sacred goddess
Isis. Many laughed, many held their peace; nowhere did he get an answer.
At first he passed through a rugged wild country; mists and clouds threw
themselves in his way, but he rushed on impetuously. Then he came to
boundless deserts of sand--mere glowing dust; and as he went his mood
changed also; the time became tedious to him, and his inward unrest
abated; he grew gentler, and the stormy impulse in him passed by degrees
into a mild yet powerful attraction, wherein his whole spirit was
dissolved. It seemed as if many years lay behind him.
And now the country became again richer and more varied, the air soft and
blue, the way smoother. Green bushes enticed him with their pleasant
shadows, but he did not understand their speech; they seemed indeed not to
speak, and yet they filled his heart with their green hues, and their
cool, still presence. Ever higher in him waxed that same sweet longing,
and ever broader and juicier grew the leaves, ever louder and more jocund
the birds and beasts, balmier the fruits, darker the heavenly blue, warmer
the air, and more ardent his love. The time went ever faster, as if it
knew itself near the goal.
One day he met a crystal rivulet, and a multitude of flowers, coming down
into a valley between dark, columnar cliffs. They greeted him friendlily,
with familiar words. “Dear country-folk,” said he, “where shall I find the
sacred dwelling of Isis? Hereabouts it must be, and here, I guess, you are
more at home than I.” “We also are but passing through,” replied the
flowers; “a spirit-family is on its travels, and we are preparing for them
their road and quarters. A little way back, however, we passed through a
country where we heard her name mentioned. Only go up, where we came down,
and thou wilt soon learn more.” The flowers and the brook smiled as they
said it, offered him a cool draught, and went on their way. Hyacinth
followed their counsel, kept asking, and came at last to that dwelling he
had sought so long, which lay hid among palms and other rare plants. His
heart beat with an infinite longing, and the sweetest apprehension
thrilled him in this abode of the eternal seasons. Amid heavenly odours he
fell asleep, for Dream alone could lead him into the holy of holies. In
marvellous mode Dream conducted him through endless rooms full of strange
things, by means of witching sounds and changeful harmonies. All seemed to
him so familiar, and yet strange with an unknown splendour; then vanished
the last film of the perishable as if melted into air, and he stood before
the celestial virgin. Then he lifted the thin glistening veil, and--
Rosebud sank into his arms. A far-off music surrounded the mysteries of
love’s reunion and the outpouring of their longings, and shut out from the
scene of their rapture everything alien to it.
Hyacinth lived a long time after with Rosebud and his happy parents and
old playmates; and numberless grandchildren thanked the wonderful old wise
woman for her counsel and her uprousing; for in those days people had as
many children as they pleased.