We are travelling to Paris to the Exhibition.
Now we are there. That was a journey, a flight without magic. We
flew on the wings of steam over the sea and across the land.
Yes, our time is the time of fairy tales.
We are in the midst of Paris, in a great hotel. Blooming flowers
ornament the staircases, and soft carpets the floors.
Our room is a very cosy one, and through the open balcony door
we have a view of a great square. Spring lives down there; it has come
to Paris, and arrived at the same time with us. It has come in the
shape of a glorious young chestnut tree, with delicate leaves newly
opened. How the tree gleams, dressed in its spring garb, before all
the other trees in the place! One of these latter had been struck
out of the list of living trees. It lies on the ground with roots
exposed. On the place where it stood, the young chestnut tree is to be
planted, and to flourish.
It still stands towering aloft on the heavy wagon which has
brought it this morning a distance of several miles to Paris. For
years it had stood there, in the protection of a mighty oak tree,
under which the old venerable clergyman had often sat, with children
listening to his stories.
The young chestnut tree had also listened to the stories; for
the Dryad who lived in it was a child also. She remembered the time
when the tree was so little that it only projected a short way above
the grass and ferns around. These were as tall as they would ever
be; but the tree grew every year, and enjoyed the air and the
sunshine, and drank the dew and the rain. Several times it was also,
as it must be, well shaken by the wind and the rain; for that is a
part of education.
The Dryad rejoiced in her life, and rejoiced in the sunshine,
and the singing of the birds; but she was most rejoiced at human
voices; she understood the language of men as well as she understood
that of animals.
Butterflies, cockchafers, dragon-flies, everything that could
fly came to pay a visit. They could all talk. They told of the
village, of the vineyard, of the forest, of the old castle with its
parks and canals and ponds. Down in the water dwelt also living
beings, which, in their way, could fly under the water from one
place to another--beings with knowledge and delineation. They said
nothing at all; they were so clever!
And the swallow, who had dived, told about the pretty little
goldfish, of the thick turbot, the fat brill, and the old carp. The
swallow could describe all that very well, but, "Self is the man," she
said. "One ought to see these things one's self." But how was the
Dryad ever to see such beings? She was obliged to be satisfied with
being able to look over the beautiful country and see the busy
industry of men.
It was glorious; but most glorious of all when the old clergyman
sat under the oak tree and talked of France, and of the great deeds of
her sons and daughters, whose names will be mentioned with
admiration through all time.
Then the Dryad heard of the shepherd girl, Joan of Arc, and of
Charlotte Corday; she heard about Henry the Fourth, and Napoleon the
First; she heard names whose echo sounds in the hearts of the people.
The village children listened attentively, and the Dryad no less
attentively; she became a school-child with the rest. In the clouds
that went sailing by she saw, picture by picture, everything that
she heard talked about. The cloudy sky was her picture-book.
She felt so happy in beautiful France, the fruitful land of
genius, with the crater of freedom. But in her heart the sting
remained that the bird, that every animal that could fly, was much
better off than she. Even the fly could look about more in the
world, far beyond the Dryad's horizon.
France was so great and so glorious, but she could only look
across a little piece of it. The land stretched out, world-wide,
with vineyards, forests and great cities. Of all these Paris was the
most splendid and the mightiest. The birds could get there; but she,
never!
Among the village children was a little ragged, poor girl, but a
pretty one to look at. She was always laughing or singing and
twining red flowers in her black hair.
"Don't go to Paris!" the old clergyman warned her. "Poor child! if
you go there, it will be your ruin."
But she went for all that.
The Dryad often thought of her; for she had the same wish, and
felt the same longing for the great city.
The Dryad's tree was bearing its first chestnut blossoms; the
birds were twittering round them in the most beautiful sunshine.
Then a stately carriage came rolling along that way, and in it sat a
grand lady driving the spirited, light-footed horses. On the back seat
a little smart groom balanced himself. The Dryad knew the lady, and
the old clergyman knew her also. He shook his head gravely when he saw
her, and said:
"So you went there after all, and it was your ruin, poor Mary!"
"That one poor?" thought the Dryad. "No; she wears a dress fit for
a countess" (she had become one in the city of magic changes). "Oh, if
I were only there, amid all the splendor and pomp! They shine up
into the very clouds at night; when I look up, I can tell in what
direction the town lies."
Towards that direction the Dryad looked every evening. She saw
in the dark night the gleaming cloud on the horizon; in the clear
moonlight nights she missed the sailing clouds, which showed her
pictures of the city and pictures from history.
The child grasps at the picture-books, the Dryad grasped at the
cloud-world, her thought-book. A sudden, cloudless sky was for her a
blank leaf; and for several days she had only had such leaves before
her.
It was in the warm summer-time: not a breeze moved through the
glowing hot days. Every leaf, every flower, lay as if it were
torpid, and the people seemed torpid, too.
Then the clouds arose and covered the region round about where the
gleaming mist announced "Here lies Paris."
The clouds piled themselves up like a chain of mountains,
hurried on through the air, and spread themselves abroad over the
whole landscape, as far as the Dryad's eye could reach.
Like enormous blue-black blocks of rock, the clouds lay piled over
one another. Gleams of lightning shot forth from them.
"These also are the servants of the Lord God," the old clergyman
had said. And there came a bluish dazzling flash of lightning, a
lighting up as if of the sun itself, which could burst blocks of
rock asunder. The lightning struck and split to the roots the old
venerable oak. The crown fell asunder. It seemed as if the tree were
stretching forth its arms to clasp the messengers of the light.
No bronze cannon can sound over the land at the birth of a royal
child as the thunder sounded at the death of the old oak. The rain
streamed down; a refreshing wind was blowing; the storm had gone by,
and there was quite a holiday glow on all things. The old clergyman
spoke a few words for honorable remembrance, and a painter made a
drawing, as a lasting record of the tree.
"Everything passes away," said the Dryad, "passes away like a
cloud, and never comes back!"
The old clergyman, too, did not come back. The green roof of his
school was gone, and his teaching-chair had vanished. The children did
not come; but autumn came, and winter came, and then spring also. In
all this change of seasons the Dryad looked toward the region where,
at night, Paris gleamed with its bright mist far on the horizon.
Forth from the town rushed engine after engine, train after train,
whistling and screaming at all hours in the day. In the evening,
towards midnight, at daybreak, and all the day through, came the
trains. Out of each one, and into each one, streamed people from the
country of every king. A new wonder of the world had summoned them
to Paris.
In what form did this wonder exhibit itself?
"A splendid blossom of art and industry," said one, "has
unfolded itself in the Champ de Mars, a gigantic sunflower, from whose
petals one can learn geography and statistics, and can become as
wise as a lord mayor, and raise one's self to the level of art and
poetry, and study the greatness and power of the various lands."
"A fairy tale flower," said another, "a many-colored
lotus-plant, which spreads out its green leaves like a velvet carpet
over the sand. The opening spring has brought it forth, the summer
will see it in all its splendor, the autumn winds will sweep it
away, so that not a leaf, not a fragment of its root shall remain."
In front of the Military School extends in time of peace the arena
of war--a field without a blade of grass, a piece of sandy steppe,
as if cut out of the Desert of Africa, where Fata Morgana displays her
wondrous airy castles and hanging gardens. In the Champ de Mars,
however, these were to be seen more splendid, more wonderful than in
the East, for human art had converted the airy deceptive scenes into
reality.
"The Aladdin's Palace of the present has been built," it was said.
"Day by day, hour by hour, it unfolds more of its wonderful splendor."
The endless halls shine in marble and many colors. "Master
Bloodless" here moves his limbs of steel and iron in the great
circular hall of machinery. Works of art in metal, in stone, in
Gobelins tapestry, announce the vitality of mind that is stirring in
every land. Halls of paintings, splendor of flowers, everything that
mind and skill can create in the workshop of the artisan, has been
placed here for show. Even the memorials of ancient days, out of old
graves and turf-moors, have appeared at this general meeting.
The overpowering great variegated whole must be divided into small
portions, and pressed together like a plaything, if it is to be
understood and described.
Like a great table on Christmas Eve, the Champ de Mars carried a
wonder-castle of industry and art, and around this knickknacks from
all countries had been ranged, knickknacks on a grand scale, for every
nation found some remembrance of home.
Here stood the royal palace of Egypt, there the caravanserai of
the desert land. The Bedouin had quitted his sunny country, and
hastened by on his camel. Here stood the Russian stables, with the
fiery glorious horses of the steppe. Here stood the simple
straw-thatched dwelling of the Danish peasant, with the Dannebrog
flag, next to Gustavus Vasa's wooden house from Dalarne, with its
wonderful carvings. American huts, English cottages, French pavilions,
kiosks, theatres, churches, all strewn around, and between them the
fresh green turf, the clear springing water, blooming bushes, rare
trees, hothouses, in which one might fancy one's self transported into
the tropical forest; whole gardens brought from Damascus, and blooming
under one roof. What colors, what fragrance!
Artificial grottoes surrounded bodies of fresh or salt water,
and gave a glimpse into the empire of the fishes; the visitor seemed
to wander at the bottom of the sea, among fishes and polypi.
"All this," they said, "the Champ de Mars offers;" and around
the great richly-spread table the crowd of human beings moves like a
busy swarm of ants, on foot or in little carriages, for not all feet
are equal to such a fatiguing journey.
Hither they swarm from morning till late in the evening. Steamer
after steamer, crowded with people, glides down the Seine. The
number of carriages is continually on the increase. The swarm of
people on foot and on horseback grows more and more dense. Carriages
and omnibuses are crowded, stuffed and embroidered with people. All
these tributary streams flow in one direction--towards the Exhibition.
On every entrance the flag of France is displayed; around the
world's bazaar wave the flags of all nations. There is a humming and a
murmuring from the hall of the machines; from the towers the melody of
the chimes is heard; with the tones of the organs in the churches
mingle the hoarse nasal songs from the cafes of the East. It is a
kingdom of Babel, a wonder of the world!
In very truth it was. That's what all the reports said, and who
did not hear them? The Dryad knew everything that is told here of
the new wonder in the city of cities.
"Fly away, ye birds! fly away to see, and then come back and
tell me," said the Dryad.
The wish became an intense desire--became the one thought of a
life. Then, in the quiet silent night, while the full moon was
shining, the Dryad saw a spark fly out of the moon's disc, and fall
like a shooting star. And before the tree, whose leaves waved to and
fro as if they were stirred by a tempest, stood a noble, mighty, and
grand figure. In tones that were at once rich and strong, like the
trumpet of the Last Judgment bidding farewell to life and summoning to
the great account, it said:
"Thou shalt go to the city of magic; thou shalt take root there,
and enjoy the mighty rushing breezes, the air and the sunshine
there. But the time of thy life shall then be shortened; the line of
years that awaited thee here amid the free nature shall shrink to
but a small tale. Poor Dryad! It shall be thy destruction. Thy
yearning and longing will increase, thy desire will grow more
stormy, the tree itself will be as a prison to thee, thou wilt quit
thy cell and give up thy nature to fly out and mingle among men.
Then the years that would have belonged to thee will be contracted
to half the span of the ephemeral fly, that lives but a day: one
night, and thy life-taper shall be blown out--the leaves of the tree
will wither and be blown away, to become green never again!"
Thus the words sounded. And the light vanished away, but not the
longing of the Dryad. She trembled in the wild fever of expectation.
"I shall go there!" she cried, rejoicingly. "Life is beginning and
swells like a cloud; nobody knows whither it is hastening."
When the gray dawn arose and the moon turned pale and the clouds
were tinted red, the wished-for hour struck. The words of promise were
fulfilled.
People appeared with spades and poles; they dug round the roots of
the tree, deeper and deeper, and beneath it. A wagon was brought
out, drawn by many horses, and the tree was lifted up, with its
roots and the lumps of earth that adhered to them; matting was
placed around the roots, as though the tree had its feet in a warm
bag. And now the tree was lifted on the wagon and secured with chains.
The journey began--the journey to Paris. There the tree was to grow as
an ornament to the city of French glory.
The twigs and the leaves of the chestnut tree trembled in the
first moments of its being moved; and the Dryad trembled in the
pleasurable feeling of expectation.
"Away! away!" it sounded in every beat of her pulse. "Away!
away" sounded in words that flew trembling along. The Dryad forgot
to bid farewell to the regions of home; she thought not of the
waving grass and of the innocent daisies, which had looked up to her
as to a great lady, a young Princess playing at being a shepherdess
out in the open air.
The chestnut tree stood upon the wagon, and nodded his branches;
whether this meant "farewell" or "forward," the Dryad knew not; she
dreamed only of the marvellous new things, that seemed yet so
familiar, and that were to unfold themselves before her. No child's
heart rejoicing in innocence--no heart whose blood danced with
passion--had set out on the journey to Paris more full of
expectation than she.