THE SONG OF THE SWAN.
"----If I were on that shore,
I should live there and not die, but sing evermore."
JEAN INGELOW.
"About here will do, I should think--eh, Monsieur Frog?" said Hugh,
resting on his oars half-way to the island. But there was no answer. The
frog had disappeared.
"What a queer way all these creatures behave, don't they, Jeanne?" he
said. "First Dudu, then Houpet and the others. They go off all of a
sudden in the oddest way."
"I suppose they have to go when we don't need them any more," said
Jeanne. "I daresay they are obliged to."
"Who obliges them?" said Hugh.
"Oh, I don't know! The fairies, I suppose," said Jeanne.
"Was it the fairies you meant when you kept saying 'they'?" asked Hugh.
"I don't know--perhaps--it's no use asking me," said Jeanne. "Fairies,
or dream-spirits, or something like that. Never mind who they are if
they give us nice things. I am sure the frogs have been _very_ kind,
haven't they?"
"Yes; you won't be so afraid of them now, will you, Jeanne?"
"Oh, I don't know. I daresay I shall be, for they're quite different
from _our_ frogs. Ours aren't so bright green, and their eyes aren't
red, and they can't _talk_. Oh no, our frogs are quite different from
_theirs_, Chéri," she added with profound conviction.
"Just like our trees and everything else, I suppose," said Hugh.
"Certainly this is a funny country. But hush, Jeanne! I believe the
concert's going to begin."
They sat perfectly still to listen, but for a minute or two the sound
which had caught Hugh's attention was not repeated. Everything about
them was silent, except that now and then a soft faint breeze seemed to
flutter across the water, slightly rippling its surface as it passed.
The strange, even light which had shone over all the scene ever since
the children had stepped out at the hillside door had now grown paler:
it was not now bright enough to distinguish more than can be seen by an
autumn twilight. The air was fresh and clear, though not the least cold;
the drooping forms of the low-hanging branches of the island trees gave
the children a melancholy feeling when they glanced in that direction.
"I don't like this very much," said Jeanne. "It makes me sad, and I
wanted to have fun."
"It must be sad for the poor swan if it's going to die," said Hugh. "But
I don't mind this sort of sad feeling. I think it's rather nice. Ah!
Jeanne, listen, there it is again. They must be going to begin."
"It" was a low sort of "call" which seemed to run round the shores of
the lake like a preliminary note, and then completely died away.
Instantly began from all sides the most curious music that Hugh and
Jeanne had ever heard. It was croaking, but croaking in unison and
regular time, and harsh as it was, there was a very strange charm about
it--quite impossible to describe. It sounded pathetic at times, and at
times monotonous, and yet inspiriting, like the beating of a drum; and
the children listened to it with actual enjoyment. It went on for a good
while, and then stopped as suddenly as it had begun; and then again,
after some minutes of perfect silence, it recommenced in a low and
regular chant--if such a word can be used for croaking--a steady,
regular croak, croak, as if an immense number of harsh-sounding
instruments were giving forth one note in such precise tune and measure
that the harshness was softened and lost by the union of sound. It grew
lower and lower, seeming almost to be about to die altogether away,
when, from another direction--from the tree-shaded island in the centre
of the lake--rose, low and faint at first, gathering strange strength as
it mounted ever higher and higher, the song of the swan.
The children listened breathlessly and in perfect silence to the
wonderful notes which fell on their ears--notes which no words of mine
could describe, for in themselves they were words, telling of suffering
and sorrow, of beautiful things and sad things, of strange fantastic
dreams, of sunshine and flowers and summer days, of icy winds from the
snow-clad hills, and days of dreariness and solitude. Each and all came
in their turn; but, at the last, all melted, all grew rather, into one
magnificent song of bliss and triumph, of joyful tenderness and
brilliant hope, too pure and perfect to be imagined but in a dream. And
as the last clear mellow notes fell on the children's ears, a sound of
wings seemed to come with them, and gazing ever more intently towards
the island they saw rising upwards the pure white snow-like
bird--upwards and upwards, ever higher, till at last, with the sound of
its own joyous song, it faded and melted into the opal radiance of the
calm sky above.
For long the children gazed after it--a spot of light seemed to linger
for some time in the sky just where it had disappeared--almost, to their
fancy, as if the white swan was resting there, again to return to earth.
But it was not so. Slowly, like the light of a dying star, the
brightness faded; there was no longer a trace of the swan's radiant
flight; again a soft low breeze, like a farewell sigh, fluttered across
the lake, and the children withdrew their eyes from the sky and looked
at each other.
"Jeanne!" said Hugh.
"Chéri!" said Jeanne.
"What was it? Was it not an angel, and not a swan?"
Jeanne shook her little head in perplexity.
"I don't know," she said. "It was wonderful. Did you hear all it told,
Chéri?"
"Yes," said Hugh. "But no one could ever tell it again, Jeanne. It is a
secret for us."
"And for the frogs," added Jeanne.
"And for the frogs," said Hugh.
"But," said Jeanne, "I thought the swan was going to die. _That_ was not
dying."
"Yes," said the queer croaking voice of the frog, suddenly reappearing
on the edge of the boat; "yes, my children," he repeated, with a strange
solemnity, "for such as the swan that _is_ dying. And now once more--for
you will never see me again, nor revisit this country--once again, my
children, I bid you farewell."
He waved his hands in adieu, and hopped away.
"Chéri," said Jeanne, after a short silence, "I feel rather sad, and a
very little sleepy. Do you think I might lie down a little--it is not
the least cold--and take a tiny sleep? You might go to sleep too, if you
like. I should think there will be time before we row back to the shore,
only I do not know how we shall get the boat through the narrow part if
the frogs have all gone. And no doubt Houpet and the others will be
wondering why we are so long."
"We can whistle for Dudu again if we need," said Hugh. "He helped us
very well the last time. I too am rather sleepy, Jeanne, but still I
think I had better not go _quite_ asleep. You lie down, and I'll just
paddle on very slowly and softly for a little, and when you wake up
we'll fix whether we should whistle or not."
Jeanne seemed to fall asleep in a moment when she lay down. Hugh paddled
on quietly, as he had said, thinking dreamily of the queer things they
had seen and heard in this nameless country inside the tapestry door. He
did not feel troubled as to how they were to get back again; he had
great faith in Dudu, and felt sure it would all come right. But
gradually he too began to feel very sleepy; the dip of the oars and the
sound of little Jeanne's regular breathing seemed to keep time together
in a curious way. And at last the oars slipped from Hugh's hold; he lay
down beside Jeanne, letting the boat drift; he was so _very_ sleepy, he
could keep up no more.
But after a minute or two when, not _quite_ asleep, he lay listening to
the soft breathing of the little girl, it seemed to him he heard still
the gentle dip of the oars. The more he listened, the more sure he
became that it was so, and at last his curiosity grew so great that it
half overcame his drowsiness. He opened his eyes just enough to look up.
Yes, he was right, the boat was gliding steadily along, the oars were
doing their work, and who do you think were the rowers? Dudu on one
side, Houpet on the other, rowing away as cleverly as if they had never
done anything else in their lives, steadying themselves on one claw,
rowing with the other. Hugh did not feel the least surprised; he smiled
sleepily, and turned over quite satisfied.
"They'll take us safe back," he said to himself: and that was all he
thought about it.
"Good-night, Chéri, good-night," was the next thing he heard, or
remembered hearing.
Hugh half sat up and rubbed his eyes.
Where was he?
Not in the boat, there was no sound of oars, the light that met his gaze
was not that of the strange country where Jeanne and he had had all
these adventures, it was just clear ordinary moonlight; and as for where
he was, he was lying on the floor of the tapestry room close to the part
of the wall where stood, or hung, the castle with the long flight of
steps, which Jeanne and he had so wished to enter. And from the other
side of the tapestry--from inside the castle, one might almost say--came
the voice he had heard in his sleep, the voice which seemed to have
awakened him.
"Good-night, Chéri," it said, "good-night. I have gone home the other
way."
"Jeanne, Jeanne, where are you? Wait!" cried Hugh, starting to his feet.
But there was no reply.
Hugh looked all round. The room seemed just the same as usual, and if he
had looked out of the window, though this he did not know, he would have
seen the old raven on the terrace marching about, and, in his usual
philosophical way, failing the sunshine, enjoying the moonlight; while
down in the chickens' house, in the corner of the yard, Houpet and his
friends were calmly roosting; fat little Nibble soundly sleeping in his
cage, cuddled up in the hay; poor, placid Grignan reposing in his usual
corner under the laurel bush. All these things Hugh would have seen, and
would no doubt have wondered much at them. But though neither tired nor
cold, he was still sleepy, very sleepy, so, after another stare all
round, he decided that he would defer further inquiry till the morning,
and in the meantime follow the advice of Jeanne's farewell "good-night."
And "after all," he said to himself, as he climbed up into his
comfortable bed, "after all, bed is very nice, even though that little
carriage was awfully jolly, and the boat almost better. What fun it will
be to talk about it all to-morrow morning with Jeanne."
It was rather queer when to-morrow morning came--when he woke to find it
had come, at least; it was rather queer to see everything looking just
the same as on other to-morrow mornings. Hugh had not time to think very
much about it, for it had been Marcelline's knock at the door that had
wakened him, and she told him it was rather later than usual. Hugh,
however, was so eager to see Jeanne and talk over with her their
wonderful adventures that he needed no hurrying. But, to his surprise,
when he got to Jeanne's room, where as usual their "little breakfast"
was prepared for them on the table by the fire, Jeanne was seated on her
low chair, drinking her coffee in her every-day manner, not the least
different from what she always was, not in any particular hurry to see
him, nor, apparently, with anything particular to say.
"Well, Chéri," she said, merrily, "you are rather late this morning.
Have you slept well?"
Hugh looked at her; there was no mischief in her face; she simply meant
what she said. In his astonishment, Hugh rubbed his eyes and then stared
at her again.
"Jeanne," he said, quite bewildered.
"Well, Chéri," she repeated, "what is the matter? How funny you look!"
and in her turn Jeanne seemed surprised.
Hugh looked round; old Marcelline had left the room.
"Jeanne," he said, "it is so queer to see you just the same as usual,
with nothing to say about it all."
"About all what?" said Jeanne, seemingly more and more puzzled.
"About our adventures--the drive in the carriage, with Houpet as
coachman, and the stair down to the frog's country, and the frogs and
the boat, and the concert, and O Jeanne! the song of the swan."
Jeanne opened wide her eyes.
"Chéri!" she said, "you've been dreaming all these funny things."
Hugh was so hurt and disappointed that he nearly began to cry.
"O Jeanne," he said, "it is very unkind to say that," and he turned away
quite chilled and perplexed.
Jeanne ran after him and threw her arms round his neck.
"Chéri, Chéri," she said, "I didn't mean to vex you, but I _don't_
understand."
Hugh looked into her dark eyes with his earnest blue ones.
"Jeanne," he said, "don't you remember _any_ of it--don't you remember
the trees changing their colours so prettily?--don't you remember the
frogs' banquet?"
Jeanne stared at him so earnestly that she quite frowned.
"I think--I think," she said, and then she stopped. "When you say that
of the trees, I think I did see rainbow colours all turning into each
other. I think, Chéri, part of me was there and part not; can there be
two of me, I wonder? But please, Chéri, don't ask me any more. It
puzzles me so, and then perhaps I may say something to vex you. Let us
play at our day games now, Chéri, and never mind about the other things.
But if you go anywhere else like that, ask the fairies to take me too,
for I always like to be with you, you know, Chéri."
So they kissed and made friends. But still it seemed very queer to Hugh.
Till now Jeanne had always been eager to talk about the tapestry castle,
and full of fancies about Dudu and Houpet and the rest of the animals,
and anxious to hear Hugh's dreams. Now she seemed perfectly content with
her every-day world, delighted with a new and beautiful china
dinner-service which her godmother had sent her, and absorbed in cooking
all manner of wonderful dishes for a grand dolls' feast, for which she
was sending invitations to all her dolls, young and old, ugly and
pretty, armless, footless, as were some, in the perfection of Parisian
toilettes as were others. For she had, like most only daughters, an
immense collection of dolls, though she was not as fond of them as many
little girls.
"I thought you didn't much care for dolls. It was one of the things I
liked you for at the first," said Hugh, in a slightly aggrieved tone of
voice. Lessons were over, and the children were busy at the important
business of cooking the feast. Hugh didn't mind the cooking; he had even
submitted to a paper cap which Jeanne had constructed for him on the
model of that of the "chef" downstairs; he found great consolation in
the beating up an egg which Marcelline had got for them as a great
treat, and immense satisfaction in watching the stewing, in one of
Jeanne's toy pans on the nursery fire, of a preparation of squashed
prunes, powdered chocolate, and bread crumbs, which was to represent a
"ragout à la"--I really do not remember what.
"I thought you didn't care for dolls, Jeanne," Hugh repeated. "It would
be ever so much nicer to have all the animals at our feast. We could put
them on chairs all round the table. That _would_ be some fun."
"They wouldn't sit still one minute," said Jeanne. "How funny you are to
think of such a thing, Chéri! Of course it would be fun if they _would_,
but fancy Dudu and Grignan helping themselves with knives and forks like
people."
Jeanne burst out laughing at the idea, and laughed so heartily that Hugh
could not help laughing too. But all the same he said to himself,
"I'm sure Dudu and the others _could_ sit at the table and behave like
ladies and gentlemen if they chose. How _very_ funny of Jeanne to forget
about all the clever things they did! But it is no use saying any more
to her. It would only make us quarrel. There must be two Jeannes, or
else 'they,' whoever they are, make her forget on purpose."
And as Hugh, for all his fancifulness, was a good deal of a philosopher,
he made up his mind to amuse himself happily with little Jeanne as she
was. The feast was a great success. The dolls behaved irreproachably,
with which their owner was rather inclined to twit Hugh, when, just at
the end of the banquet, greatly to his satisfaction, a certain
Mademoiselle Zéphyrine, a blonde with flaxen ringlets and turquoise
blue eyes, suddenly toppled over, something having no doubt upset her
equilibrium, and fell flat on her nose on the table.
"Ah!" cried Jeanne, greatly concerned, "my poor Zéphyrine has fainted,"
and, rushing forward to her assistance, worse results followed. Mesdames
Lili and Joséphine, two middle-aged ladies somewhat the worse for wear,
overcome by the distressing spectacle, _or_ by the sleeve of Jeanne's
dress as she leant across them, fell off their chairs too--one, like
Zéphyrine, on to the table, the other on to the floor, dragging down
with her the plateful of ragout in front of her, while her friend's
sudden descent upon the table completed the general knockings over and
spillings which Zéphyrine had begun.
"Oh dear! oh dear!" cried Jeanne; "all the chocolate ragout is spilt,
and the whipped-up egg is mixed with the orange-juice soup. Oh dear! oh
dear! and I thought we should have had the whole feast to eat up
ourselves after the dolls had had enough."
"Yes," said Hugh, "that's what comes of having stupid sticks of dolls at
your feasts. The _animals_ wouldn't have behaved like that."
But, seeing that poor Jeanne was really in tears at this unfortunate
termination of her entertainment, he left off teasing her, and having
succeeded in rescuing some remains of the good things, they sat down on
the floor together and ate them up very amicably.
"I don't think I _do_ care much for dolls," said Jeanne meditatively,
when she had munched the last crumbs of the snipped-up almonds, which
were supposed to represent some very marvellous dish. ("I like almonds
terribly--don't you, Chéri?") she added, as a parenthesis. "No, I don't
care for dolls. You are quite right about them; they _are_ stupid, and
you can't make fancies about them, because their faces always have the
same silly look. I don't know what I like playing at best. O
Marcelline!" she exclaimed, as the old nurse just then came into the
room, "O Marcelline! _do_ tell us a story; we are tired of playing."
"Does Monsieur Chéri, too, wish me tell him a story?" asked Marcelline,
looking curiously at Hugh.
"Yes, of course," said Hugh. "Why do you look at me that funny way,
Marcelline?"
"Why," said Marcelline, smiling, "I was thinking only that perhaps
Monsieur finds so many stories in the tapestry that he would no longer
care for my stupid little old tales."
Hugh did not answer. He was wondering to himself what Marcelline really
meant; whether she knew of the wonders concealed behind the tapestry, or
was only teasing him a little in the kind but queer way she sometimes
did.
"Marcelline," he said suddenly at last, "I don't understand you."
"Do you understand yourself, my little Monsieur?" said Marcelline. "Do
any of us understand ourselves? all the different selves that each of us
is?"
"No," said Hugh, "I daresay we don't. It is very puzzling; it's all very
puzzling."
"In the country where I lived when I was a little girl," began
Marcelline, but Jeanne interrupted her.
"Have you never been there since, Marcelline?" she asked.
Marcelline smiled again her funny smile.
"Oh dear, yes," she said; "often, very often. I should not have been
near so happy as I am if I had not often visited that country."
"Dear me," exclaimed Jeanne, "how very queer! I had no idea of that. You
haven't been there for a great many years any way, Marcelline. I heard
mamma telling a lady the other day that she never remembered your going
away, not even for a day--never since she was born."
"Ah!" said Marcelline, "but, Mademoiselle, we don't always know what
even those nearest us do. I might have gone to that country without your
mamma knowing. Sometimes we are far away when those beside us think us
close to them."
"Yes," said Hugh, looking up suddenly, "that is true, Marcelline."
What she said made him remember Dudu's remark about Jeanne the night
before, that she was far, far away, and he began to feel that Marcelline
understood much that she seldom alluded to.
But Jeanne took it up differently. She jumped on to Marcelline's knee
and pretended to beat her.
"You naughty little old woman," she said; "you very naughty little old
woman, to say things like that to puzzle me--just what you know I don't
like. Go back to your own country, naughty old Marcelline; go back to
your fairyland, or wherever it was you came from, if you are going to
tease poor little Jeanne so."
"_Tease_ you, Mademoiselle?" Marcelline repeated.
"Yes, tease me," insisted Jeanne. "You know I hate people to go on
about things I don't understand. Now you're to tell us a story at once,
do you hear, Marcelline?"
Hugh said nothing, but he looked up in Marcelline's face with his grave
blue eyes, and the old woman smiled again. She seemed as if she was
going to speak, when just then a servant came upstairs to say that
Jeanne's mother wished the children to go downstairs to her for a
little. Jeanne jumped up, delighted to welcome any change.
"You must keep the story for another day, Marcelline," she said, as she
ran out of the room.
"I am getting too old to tell stories," said Marcelline, half to
herself, half to Hugh, who was following his cousin more slowly. He
stopped for a moment.
"Too old?" he repeated.
"Yes, Monsieur Chéri, too old," the nurse replied. "The thoughts do not
come so quickly as they once did, and the words, too, hobble along like
lamesters on crutches."
"But," said Hugh, half timidly, "it is never--you would never, I mean,
be too old to visit that country, where there are so many stories to be
found?"
"Perhaps not," said Marcelline, "but even if I found them, I might not
be able to tell them. Go and look for them for yourself, Monsieur
Chéri; you have not half seen the tapestry castle yet."
But when Hugh would have asked her more she would not reply, only smiled
and shook her head. So the boy went slowly downstairs after Jeanne,
wondering what old Marcelline could mean, half puzzled and half pleased.
"Only," he said to himself, "if I get into the castle, Jeanne really
must come with me, especially if it is to hear stories."