proportioned horses. A revolving circle in the wheels showed on what day
of the month occurred each day of the week, throughout the year. Each
month was surmounted by its zodiacal sign, beautifully enamelled in
green, crimson and gold. At ten o’clock the figure of a young girl,
wearing Rosabella’s usual costume, and resembling her in form and
features, ascended slowly from behind the wheel, and at the same moment,
the three Graces rose up in the chariot and held garlands over her. From
the axle-tree emerged a young man, in Florien’s dress, and kneeling
offered a rose to the maiden.
It was so beautiful as a whole, and so exquisitely finished in all its
details, that Pierre clenched his fingers till the nails cut him, so
hard did he try to conceal the bitterness of his disappointment at his
own manifest inferiority. Could he have been an hour alone, all would
have been well. But, as he stepped out on the piazza, followed by
Florien, he saw him kiss his hand triumphantly to Rosabella, and she
returned it with a modest but expressive glance. Unfortunately, he held
in his hand a jewelled dagger, of Turkish workmanship, which Antoine
Breguet had asked him to return to its case in the workshop. Stung with
disappointed love and ambition, the tempestuous feelings so painfully
restrained burst forth like a whirlwhind. Quick as a flash of lightning,
he made a thrust at his graceful rival. Then frightened at what he had
done, and full of horror at thoughts of Rosabella’s distress, he rushed
into the road, and up the sides of the mountain, like a madman.
* * * * *
A year passed, and no one heard tidings of him. On the anniversary of
Rosabella’s birth, the aged grandsire sat alone, sunning his white
locks at the open window, when Pierre Barthoud entered, pale and
haggard. He was such a skeleton of his former self that his master did
not recognize him, till he knelt at his feet, and said, “Forgive me,
father. I am Pierre.”
The poor old man shook violently, and covered his face with trembling
hands. “Ah, thou wretched one,” said he, “how darest thou come hither,
with murder on thy soul?”
“Murder?” exclaimed Pierre, in a voice so terribly deep and distinct,
that it seemed to freeze the feeble blood of him who listened. “Is he
then dead? Did I kill the beautiful youth, whom I loved so much?” He
fell forward on the floor, and the groan that came from his strong chest
was like an earthquake tearing up trees by the roots.
Antoine Breguet was deeply moved, and the tears flowed fast over his
furrowed face. “Rise, my son,” said he, “and make thy escape, lest they
come to arrest thee.”
“Let them come,” replied Pierre, gloomily; “Why should I live?” Then
raising his head from the floor, he said slowly, and with great fear,
“Father, where is Rosabella?”
The old man covered his face, and sobbed out, “I shall never see her
again! These old eyes will never again look on her blessed face.” Many
minutes they remained thus, and when he repeated, “I shall never see her
again!” the young man clasped his feet convulsively, and groaned in
agony.
At last the housekeeper came in; a woman whom Pierre had known and loved
in boyhood. When her first surprise was over, she promised to conceal
his arrival, and persuaded him to go to the garret and try to compose
his too strongly excited feelings. In the course of the day she
explained to him how Florien had died of his wound, and how Rosabella
pined away in silent melancholy, often sitting at the spinning wheel
with the suspended thread in her hand, as if unconscious where she was.
During all that wretched night the young man could not close his eyes in
sleep. Phantoms of the past flitted through his brain, and remorse
gnawed at his heart-strings. In the deep stillness of midnight, he
seemed to hear the voice of the bereaved old man sounding mournfully
distinct, “I shall never see her again!” He prayed earnestly to die; but
suddenly an idea flashed into his mind, and revived his desire to live.
Full of his new project, he rose early and sought his good old master.
Sinking on his knees he exclaimed, “Oh, my father, say that you forgive
me! I implore you to give my guilty soul that one gleam of consolation.
Believe me, I would sooner have died myself, than have killed him. But
my passions were by nature so strong! Oh, God forgive me, they were _so_
strong! How I have curbed them, He alone knows. Alas, that they should
have burst the bounds in that one mad moment, and destroyed the two I
best loved on earth. Oh, father, _can_ you say that you forgive me?”
With quivering voice he replied, “I do forgive you, and bless you, my
poor son.” He laid his hand affectionately on the thick matted hair, and
added, “I too have need of forgiveness. I did very wrong thus to put two
generous natures in rivalship with each other. A genuine love of beauty,
for its own sake, is the only healthy stimulus to produce the beautiful.
The spirit of competition took you out of your sphere, and placed you in
a false position. In grand conceptions, and in works of durability and
strength, you would always have excelled Florien, as much as he
surpassed you in tastefulness and elegance. By striving to be what he
was, you parted with your own gifts, without attaining to his. Every man
in the natural sphere of his own talent, and all in harmony; this is the
true order, my son; and I tempted you to violate it. In my foolish
pride, I earnestly desired to have a world-renowned successor to the
famous Antoine Breguet. I wanted that the old stand should be kept up in
all its glory, and continue to rival all competitors. I thought you
could super-add Florien’s gifts to your own, and yet retain your own
characteristic excellencies. Therefore, I stimulated your intellect and
imagination to the utmost, without reflecting that your heart might
break in the process. God forgive me; it was too severe a trial for poor
human nature. And do thou, my son, forgive this insane ambition; for
severely has my pride been humbled.”
Pierre could not speak, but he covered the wrinkled hands with kisses,
and clasped his knees convulsively. At last he said, “Let me remain
concealed here for a while. You _shall_ see her again; only give me
time.” When he explained that he would make Rosabella’s likeness, from
memory, the sorrowing parent shook his head and sighed, as he answered,
“Ah, my son, the soul in her eye, and the light grace of her motions, no
art can restore.”
But to Pierre’s excited imagination there was henceforth only one object
in life; and that was to re-produce Rosabella. In the keen conflict of
competition, under the fiery stimulus of love and ambition, his strong
impetuous soul had become machine-mad; and now overwhelming grief
centered all his stormy energies on one object. Day by day, in the
loneliness of his garret, he worked upon the image till he came to love
it, almost as much as he had loved the maiden herself. Antoine Breguet
readily supplied materials. From childhood he had been interested in all
forms of mechanism; and this image, so intertwined with his affections,
took strong hold of his imagination also. Nearly a year had passed away,
when the housekeeper, who was in the secret, came to ask for Rosabella’s
hair, and the dress she usually wore. The old man gave her the keys,
and wiped the starting tears, as he turned silently away. A few days
after, Pierre invited him to come and look upon his work. “Do not go too
suddenly,” he said; “prepare yourself for a shock; for indeed it is very
like our lost one.”
“I will go, I will go,” replied the old man, eagerly. “Am I not
accustomed to see all manner of automata and androides? Did I not myself
make a flute-player, which performed sixteen tunes, to the admiration of
all who heard him? And think you I am to be frightened by an image?”
“Not frightened, dear father,” answered Pierre; “but I was afraid you
might be overcome with emotion.” He led him into the apartment, and
said, “Shall I remove the veil now? Can you bear it, dear father?”
“I can,” was the calm reply. But when the curtain was withdrawn, he
started, and exclaimed, “Santa Maria! It _is_ Rosabella! She _is_ not
dead!” He tottered forward, and kissed the cold lips and the cold hands,
and tears rained on the bright brown hair, as he cried out, “My child!
my child!”
When the tumult of feeling had subsided, the aged mourner kissed
Pierre’s hands, and said, “It is wonderfully like her, in every feature
and every tint. It seems as if it would move and breathe.”
“She _will_ move and breathe,” replied Pierre; “only give me time.”
His voice sounded so wildly, and his great deep-set eyes burned with
such intense enthusiasm, that his friend was alarmed. They clasped each
other’s hands, and spoke more quietly of the beloved one. “This is all
that remains to us, Pierre,” said the old man. “We are alone in the
world. You were a friendless orphan when you came to me: and I am
childless.”
With a passionate outburst of grief, the young man replied, “And it was
I, my benefactor, who made you so. Wretch that I am!”
From that time the work went on with greater zeal than ever. Pierre
often forgot to taste of food, so absorbed was he in the perfection of
his machine. First, the arms moved obedient to his wishes, then the eyes
turned, and the lips parted. Meanwhile, his own face grew thinner and
paler, and his eyes glowed with a wilder fire.
Finally, it was whispered in the village that Pierre Berthoud was
concealed in Antoine Breguet’s cottage: and officers came to arrest him.
But the venerable old watch-maker told the story so touchingly, and
painted so strongly the young man’s consuming agony of grief and
remorse, and pleaded so earnestly that he might be allowed to finish a
wonderful image of his beautiful grandchild, that they promised not to
disturb him till the work was accomplished.
Two years from the day of Pierre’s return, on the anniversary of the
memorable birth-day, he said. “Now, my father, I have done all that art
_can_ do. Come and see the beautiful one.” He led him into the little
room where Rosabella used to work. There she sat, spinning diligently.
The beautifully formed bust rose and fell under her neat boddice. Her
lips were parted, and her eyes followed the direction of the thread. But
what made it seem more fearfully like life, was the fact that ever and
anon the wheel rested, and the maiden held the suspended thread, with
her eye-lids lowered, as if she were lost in thought. Above, the
flower-stand, near by, hung the bird-cage, with Florien’s artificial
canary. The pretty little automaton had been silent long; but now its
springs were set in motion, and it poured forth all its melodies.
The bereaved old man pressed Pierre’s hand, and gazed upon his darling
grand-child silently. He caused his arm-chair to be brought into the
room, and ever after, while he retained his faculties, he refused to sit
elsewhere.
The fame of this remarkable android soon spread through all the region
round about. The citizens of Geneva united in an earnest petition that
the artist might be excused from any penalty for the accidental murder
he had committed. Members of the State Council came and looked at the
breathing maiden, and touched the beautiful flesh, which seemed as if it
would yield to their pressure. They saw the wild haggard artist, with
lines of suffering cut so deeply in his youthful brow, and they at once
granted the prayer of the citizens.
But Pierre had nothing more to live for. His work in the world was done.
The artificial energy, supplied by one absorbing idea was gone; and the
contemplation of his own work was driving him to madness. It so closely
resembled life that he longed more and more to have it live. The
lustrous eyes moved, but they had no light from the soul, and they would
not answer to his earnest gaze. The beautiful lips parted, but they
never spoke kind words, as in days of yore. The image began to fill him
with supernatural awe, yet he was continually drawn toward it by a magic
influence. Three months after its completion, he was found at daylight,
lying at its feet, stone dead.
Antoine Breguet survived him two years. During the first eighteen
months, he was never willing to have the image of his lost darling out
of sight. The latter part of the time, he often whistled to the bird,
and talked to her, and seemed to imagine that she answered him. But with
increasing imbecility, Rosabella was forgotten. He sometimes asked, “Who
_is_ that young woman?” At last he said, “Send her away. She looks at
me.”
The magic-lantern of departing memory then presented a phantom of his
wife, dead long ago. He busied himself with making imaginary watches and
rings for her, and held long conversations, as if she were present.
Afterward, the wife was likewise forgotten, and he was occupied
entirely with his mother, and the scenes of early childhood. Finally he
wept often, and repeated continually, “They are all waiting for me; and
I want to go home.” When he was little more than eighty years old,
compassionate angels took the weary pilgrim in their arms, and carried
him home.
A SONG.
Hush! hush! Love lies at rest,
Like a bird in her nest,
Like dew in a lily’s breast,
Love is sleeping.
Roses breathe fragrant sighs
Over his drowsy eyes,
But, ah, how still he lies!
Love is sleeping.
Drive the honey-bees away!
Let not the sun’s bright ray
Over his features play!
Love is sleeping.
Lest his slumbers should fly,
Gentle Music draw nigh,
With your sweet lullaby!
_Keep_ him sleeping!
Ha! his cheek grows warm
Under the magic charm,
And he moves his white arm!
Love is dreaming,
His little limbs shiver,
His soft eye-lids quiver,
Like rays on a river:
Love is waking.
UTOUCH AND TOUCHU.
“Nothing left
But what _you_ touch, and not what _touches you_.”
LEIGH HUNT.
“Thou hast the fairy coin, which, in wrong hands
Is merely stones and leaves;--in thine, true gold.”
J. R. LOWELL.
It was a bright autumnal day, when two boys went forth to gather nuts.
One was keen-eyed and self-important in his gait. The other had mild,
deep eyes, and his motions were like flowers swaying to a gentle breeze.
Alfred, the keen-eyed, mounted the tree and shook it. “I should like to
own a dozen such trees,” said he, “and have all the nuts to myself.”
“Oh, see how beautifully the setting sun shines slanting through the
boughs, on the trunk, and branches! It glows like gold!” exclaimed
Ernest.
“If the sun were like old Midas, that we read about at school, there
would be some fun in it,” replied Alfred; “for if it turned all it
touched into gold, I could peel off the bark and buy a horse with it.”
Ernest gazed silently at the golden sea of clouds in the west, and then
at the warm gleams it cast on the old walnut tree. He stood thus but a
moment; for his companion aimed a nut at his head, and shouted, “Make
haste to fill the basket, you lazy fellow!”
The nuts were soon gathered, and the boys stretched themselves on the
grass, talking over school affairs. A flock of birds flew over their
heads towards the south. “They are flying away from winter,” said
Ernest. “How I should like to go with them where the palms and cocoas
grow! See how beautifully they skim along the air!”
“I wish I had a gun,” rejoined Alfred; “I would have some of them for
supper.”
It was a mild autumnal twilight. The cows had gone from the pastures,
and all was still, save the monotonous noise of the crickets. The fitful
whistling of the boys gradually subsided into dreamy silence. As they
lay thus, winking drowsily, Ernest saw a queer little dwarf peep from
under an arching root of the walnut tree. His little dots of blue eyes
looked cold and opaque, as if they were made of turquoise. His hands
were like the claws of a bird. But he was surely a gentleman of property
and standing, for his brown velvet vest was embroidered with gold, and a
diamond fastened his hat-band. While Ernest wondered who he could be,
his attention was attracted by a bright little vision hovering in the
air before him. At first, he thought it was a large insect, or a small
bird; but as it floated ever nearer and nearer, he perceived a lovely
little face, with tender, luminous eyes. Her robe seemed like
soap-bubbles glancing in the sun, and in her bonnet, made of an inverted
White Petunia blossom, the little ringlets shone like finest threads of
gold. The stamen of a White Lily served her for a wand, and she held it
towards him, saying, in tones of soft beseechment, “_Let_ me touch your
eyes!”
“You had better touch _my_ wand. You will find it much more to the
purpose,” croaked the dwarf under the walnut root. “Look here! wouldn’t
you like to have this?” and he shook a purse full of coins, as he spoke.
“I don’t like your cold eyes and your skinny fingers,” replied Ernest.
“Pray, who _are_ you?”
“My name is Utouch,” answered the gnome: “and I bring great luck
wherever I go.”
“And what is your name, dear little spirit of the air?” asked Ernest.
She looked lovingly into his eyes, and answered, “My name is Touchu.
Shall I be your friend for life?”
He smiled, and eagerly replied, “Oh yes! oh yes! your face is so full of
love!”
She descended gracefully, and touched his eyes with her Lily-stamen. The
air became redolent with delicate perfume, like fragrant Violets kissed
by the soft south wind. A rainbow arched the heavens, and reflected its
beautiful image on a mirror of mist. The old tree reached forth friendly
arms, and cradled the sunbeams on its bosom. Flowers seemed to nod and
smile at Ernest, as if they knew him very well, and the little birds
sang into his inmost soul. Presently, he felt that he was rising slowly,
and undulating on the air, like a winged seed when it is breathed upon;
and away he sailed, on fleecy clouds, under the arch of the rainbow. A
mocking laugh roused him from his trance, and he heard Utouch, the
gnome, exclaim jeeringly, “There he goes on a voyage to one of his
air-castles in the moon!” Then he felt himself falling through the air,
and all at once he was on the ground. Birds, flowers, rainbows, all were
gone. Twilight had deepened into dreary evening; winds sighed through
the trees, and the crickets kept up their mournful creaking tones.
Ernest was afraid to be all alone. He felt round for his companion, and
shook him by the arm, exclaiming, “Alfred! Alfred, wake up! I have had a
wonderful fine dream here on the grass.”
“So have I,” replied Alfred, rubbing his eyes. “Why need you wake me
just as the old fellow was dropping a purse full of money into my hand?”
“What old fellow?” inquired Ernest.
“He called himself Utouch,” answered Alfred, “and he promised to be my
constant companion. I hope he will keep his word; for I like an old
chap that drops a purse of gold into my hand when I ask for it.”
“Why, I dreamed of that same old fellow,” said Ernest, “but I didn’t
like his looks.”
“Perhaps he didn’t show you the full purse?” said Alfred.
“Yes, he did,” replied Ernest; “but I felt such a love for the little
fairy with tender eyes and heart-melting voice, that I choose _her_ for
my life-friend. And oh, she made the earth _so_ beautiful!”
His companion laughed and said, “I dreamed of her, too. So you have
preferred that floating soap-bubble, did you? I should have guessed as
much. But come, help me carry the nuts home, for I am hungry for my
supper.”
* * * * *
Years passed, and the boys were men. Ernest sat writing in a small
chamber, that looked toward the setting sun. His little child had hung a
prismatic chandelier-drop on the window, and he wrote amid the rainbows
that it cast over his paper. In a simple vase on his desk stood a stalk
of blossoms from the brilliant wild flower, called the Cardinal. Unseen
by him, the fairy Touchu circled round his head and waved her
Lily-stamen, from which the fine gold-coloured dust fell on his hair in
a fragrant shower. In the greensward below, two beautiful yellow birds
sat among the catnip-blossoms, picking the seed, while they rocked
gracefully on the wind-stirred plant. Ernest smiled as he said to
himself, “Gone are the dandelion blossoms, which strewed my grass-carpet
with golden stars; and now come these winged flowers to refresh the eye.
When _they_ are gone to warmer climes, then will the yellow butterflies
come in pairs; and when even they are gone, here in my oboë sleep the
soft yellow tones, ever ready to wake and cheer me with their child-like
gladness.”
He took up the instrument as he spoke, and played a slight flourish. A
little bird that nestled among the leaves of a cherry tree near by,
caught the tones of the oboë and mocked it with a joyous trill, a little
sunny shower of sound. Then sprang the poet to his feet, and his
countenance lighted up like a transfigured one. But a slight cloud soon
floated over that radiant expression. “Ah, if thou only wert not afraid
of me!” he said. “If thou wouldst come, dear little warbler, and perch
on my oboë, and sing a duet with me, how happy I should be! Why are man
and nature thus sundered?”
Another little bird in the Althea bush, answered him in low sweet notes,
ending ever with the plaintive cadence of the minor-third. The deep,
tender eyes of the child-man filled with tears. “We are _not_ sundered,”
thought he. “Surely my heart is in harmony with Nature; for she responds
to my inmost thought, as one instrument vibrates the tones of another to
which it is perfectly attuned. Blessed, blessed is nature in her
soothing power.” As he spoke, Touchu came floating on a zephyr, and
poured over him the fragrance of mignonette she had gathered from the
garden below.
* * * * *
At the same hour, Alfred walked in his conservatory among groves of
fragrant Geraniums and richly-flowering Cactuses. He smoked a cigar, and
glanced listlessly from his embroidered slippers to the marble pavement
without taking notice of the costly flowers. The gardener, who was
watering a group of Japonicas, remarked, “This is a fine specimen that
has opened to-day. Will you have the goodness to look at it, sir?” He
paused in his walk a moment, and looked at a pure white blossom, with
the faintest roseate blush in the centre. “It _ought_ to be handsome,”
said he. “The _price_ was high enough. But after all the money I have
expended, horticulturists declare that Mr. Duncan’s Japonicas excel
mine. It’s provoking to be outdone.” The old gnome stood behind one of
the plants, and shrugged his shoulders and grinned. Without perceiving
his presence, Alfred muttered to himself, “Utouch promised my flowers
should be unequalled in rarity and beauty.”
“That was last year,” croaked a small voice, which he at once
recognized.
“Last year!” retorted Alfred, mocking his tone. “Am I then to be always
_toiling_ after what I never _keep_? That’s precious comfort, you
provoking imp!”
A retreating laugh was heard under the pavement, as the rich man threw
his cigar away, exclaiming impatiently, “The devil take the Japonicas!
what do I care? they’re not worth fretting about.”
* * * * *