THE STORY
WITHOUT AN END.
THE
STORY
WITHOUT AN END.
FROM THE GERMAN OF F. W. CAROVÉ,
BY SARAH AUSTIN.
ILLUSTRATED BY WILLIAM HARVEY.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
PUBLISHED BY
EFFINGHAM WILSON, ROYAL EXCHANGE.
1834.
TO MY DAUGHTER.
MY DEAR CHILD,
_The story you love so much in German, I dedicate to you in English.
It was in compliance with your earnest wish that other children might
share the delight it has so often afforded you, that I translated
it; so that it is, in some sort, yours of right. Let us hope that
your confident expectations of sympathy in your pleasure may not be
disappointed; or that, if others think the story less beautiful than
you do, they may find compensation in the graceful designs it has
inspired._
_You have often regretted that it left off so soon, and would, I
believe, “have been glad to hear more and more, and for ever.” The
continuation you have longed for lies in a wide and magnificent
book, which contains more wonderful and glorious things than all
our favourite fairy-tales put together. But to read in that book, so
as to discover all its beautiful meanings, you must have pure, clear
eyes, and a humble, loving heart; otherwise you will complain, as some
do, that it is dim and puzzling; or, as others, that it is dull and
monotonous._
_May you continue to read in it with new curiosity, new delight, and
new profit; and to find it, as long as you live, the untiring “Story
without an End.”_
_Your affectionate Mother,_
_S. A._
LONDON,
_Nov. 16th, 1833_.
[Illustration]
THE STORY
WITHOUT AN END.
I.
There was once a Child who lived in a little hut, and in the hut there
was nothing but a little bed and a looking-glass which hung in a dark
corner. Now the Child cared nothing at all about the looking-glass;
but as soon as the first sunbeam glided softly through the casement
and kissed his sweet eyelids, and the finch and the linnet waked him
merrily with their morning songs, he arose, and went out into the green
meadow. And he begged flour of the primrose, and sugar of the violet,
and butter of the butter-cup; he shook dew-drops from the cowslip into
the cup of a harebell; spread out a large lime leaf, set his little
breakfast upon it, and feasted daintily. Sometimes he invited a humming
bee, oftener a gay butterfly, to partake his feast; but his favourite
guest was the blue dragonfly. The bee murmured a great deal, in a
solemn tone, about his riches: but the Child thought that if _he_ were
a bee heaps of treasure would not make him gay and happy; and that it
must be much more delightful and glorious to float about in the free
and fresh breezes of spring, and to hum joyously in the web of the
sunbeams, than, with heavy feet and heavy heart, to stow the silver wax
and the golden honey into cells.
To this the butterfly assented; and he told, how, once on a time,
he too had been greedy and sordid; how he had thought of nothing
but eating, and had never once turned his eyes upwards to the blue
heavens. At length, however, a complete change had come over him; and
instead of crawling spiritless about the dirty earth, half dreaming, he
all at once awaked as out of a deep sleep. And now he would rise into
the air;--and it was his greatest joy sometimes to play with the light,
and to reflect the heavens in the bright eyes of his wings; sometimes
to listen to the soft language of the flowers and catch their secrets.
Such talk delighted the Child, and his breakfast was the sweeter to
him, and the sunshine on leaf and flower seemed to him more bright and
cheering.
But when the bee had flown off to beg from flower to flower, and the
butterfly had fluttered away to his playfellows, the dragonfly still
remained, poised on a blade of grass. Her slender and burnished body,
more brightly and deeply blue than the deep blue sky, glistened in
the sunbeam; and her net-like wings laughed at the flowers because
_they_ could not fly, but must stand still and abide the wind and the
rain. The dragonfly sipped a little of the Child’s clear dew-drops and
blue violet-honey, and then whispered her winged words. And the Child
made an end of his repast, closed his dark blue eyes, bent down his
beautiful head, and listened to the sweet prattle.
Then the dragonfly told much of the merry life in the green wood; how
sometimes she played hide-and-seek with her playfellows under the broad
leaves of the oak and the beech trees; or hunt-the-hare along the
surface of the still waters; sometimes quietly watched the sunbeams, as
they flew busily from moss to flower and from flower to bush, and shed
life and warmth over all. But at night, she said, the moonbeams glided
softly around the wood, and dropped dew into the mouths of all the
thirsty plants; and when the dawn pelted the slumberers with the soft
roses of heaven, some of the half drunken flowers looked up and smiled;
but most of them could not so much as raise their heads for a long,
long time.
Such stories did the dragonfly tell; and as the Child sat motionless
with his eyes shut, and his head rested on his little hand, she thought
he had fallen asleep;--so she poised her double wings and flew into the
rustling wood.
[Illustration]
II.
But the Child was only sunk into a dream of delight, and was wishing
_he_ were a sunbeam or a moonbeam; and he would have been glad to hear
more and more, and for ever. But at last, as all was still, he opened
his eyes and looked around for his dear guest; but she was flown far
away; so he could not bear to sit there any longer alone, and he rose
and went to the gurgling brook. It gushed and rolled so merrily, and
tumbled so wildly along as it hurried to throw itself head-over-heels
into the river, just as if the great, massy rock out of which it
sprang, were close behind it, and could only be escaped by a break-neck
leap.
Then the Child began to talk to the little waves, and asked them whence
they came. They would not stay to give him an answer, but danced away,
one over another; till at last, that the sweet Child might not be
grieved, a drop of water stopped behind a piece of rock. From her the
Child heard strange histories, but he could not understand them all,
for she told him about her former life, and about the depths of the
mountain.
“A long while ago,” said the drop of water, “I lived with my
countless sisters in the great ocean, in peace and unity. We had all
sorts of pastimes; sometimes we mounted up high into the air, and
peeped at the stars; then we sank plump down deep below, and looked
how the coral builders work till they are tired, that they may reach
the light of day at last. But I was conceited, and thought myself
much better than my sisters. And so one day when the sun rose out of
the sea, I clung fast to one of his hot beams, and thought that now I
should reach the stars, and become one of them. But I had not ascended
far, when the sunbeam shook me off, and in spite of all I could say
or do, let me fall into a dark cloud. And soon a flash of fire darted
through the cloud, and now I thought I must surely die; but the whole
cloud laid itself down softly upon the top of a mountain, and so I
escaped with my fright, and a black eye. Now I thought I should remain
hidden, when, all on a sudden, I slipped over a round pebble, fell
from one stone to another, down into the depths of the mountain, till
at last it was pitch dark, and I could neither see nor hear any thing.
Then I found, indeed, that ‘pride goeth before a fall,’ resigned
myself to my fate, and, as I had already laid aside all my unhappy
pride in the cloud, my portion was now the salt of humility; and after
undergoing many purifications from the hidden virtues of metals and
minerals, I was at length permitted to come up once more into the free
cheerful air; and now will I run back to my sisters, and there wait
patiently till I am called to something better.”
But hardly had she done, when the root of a forget-me-not caught the
drop of water by her hair and sucked her in, that she might become a
floweret, and twinkle brightly as a blue star on the green firmament of
earth.
[Illustration]
III.
The Child did not very well know what to think of all this; he went
thoughtfully home and laid himself on his little bed; and all night
long he was wandering about on the ocean, and among the stars, and over
the dark mountain. But the moon loved to look on the slumbering Child
as he lay with his little head softly pillowed on his right arm. She
lingered a long time before his little window, and went slowly away to
lighten the dark chamber of some sick person.
As the moon’s soft light lay on the Child’s eyelids, he fancied he
sat in a golden boat, on a great, great water; countless stars swam
glittering on the dark mirror. He stretched out his hand to catch the
nearest star, but it had vanished, and the water sprayed up against
him. Then he saw clearly that these were not the real stars; he looked
up to heaven, and wished he could fly thither.
But in the mean time the moon had wandered on her way; and now the
Child was led in his dream into the clouds, and he thought he was
sitting on a white sheep, and he saw many lambs grazing around him.
He tried to catch a little lamb to play with, but it was all mist and
vapour; and the Child was sorrowful, and wished himself down again in
his own meadow, where his own lamb was sporting gaily about.
Meanwhile the moon was gone to sleep behind the mountains, and all
around was dark. Then the Child dreamt that he fell down into the dark,
gloomy caverns of the mountain, and at that he was so frightened,
that he suddenly awoke, just as morning opened her clear eye over the
nearest hill.
[Illustration]
IV.
The Child started up, and, to recover himself from his fright, went
into the little flower-garden behind his cottage, where the beds were
surrounded by ancient palm-trees, and where he knew that all the
flowers would nod kindly at him. But behold, the tulip turned up her
nose, and the ranunculus held her head as stiffly as possible, that
she might not bow good-morrow to him. The rose, with her fair round
cheeks, smiled and greeted the Child lovingly; so he went up to her and
kissed her fragrant mouth. And then the rose tenderly complained that
he so seldom came into the garden, and that she gave out her bloom and
her fragrance the live-long day in vain; for the other flowers either
could not see her, because they were too low, or did not care to look
at her, because they themselves were so rich in bloom and fragrance.
But she was most delighted when she glowed in the blooming head of a
child, and could pour out all her heart’s secrets to him in sweet
odours. Among other things, the rose whispered in his ear that she was
the Fulness of Beauty.
And in truth the Child, while looking at her beauty, seemed to have
quite forgotten to go on; till the blue larkspur called to him, and
asked whether he cared nothing more about his faithful friend; she said
that she was unchanged, and that even in death she should look upon him
with eyes of unfading blue.
The Child thanked her for her true-heartedness, and passed on to the
hyacinth who stood near the puffy, full-cheeked, gaudy tulips. Even
from a distance the hyacinth sent forth kisses to him, for she knew
not how to express her love. Although she was not remarkable for her
beauty, yet the Child felt himself wondrously attracted by her, for he
thought no flower loved him so well. But the hyacinth poured out her
full heart and wept bitterly, because she stood so lonely; the tulips
indeed were her countrymen, but they were so cold and unfeeling that
she was ashamed of them. The Child encouraged her, and told her he did
not think things were so bad as she fancied. The tulips spoke their
love in bright looks, while she uttered her’s in fragrant words; that
these, indeed, were lovelier and more intelligible, but that the others
were not to be despised.
Then the hyacinth was comforted, and said she would be content; and
the Child went on to the powdered auricula, who, in her bashfulness,
looked kindly up to him, and would gladly have given him more than kind
looks, had she had more to give. But the Child was satisfied with her
modest greeting; he felt that he was poor too, and he saw the deep,
thoughtful colours that lay beneath her golden dust. But the humble
flower of her own accord sent him to her neighbour, the lily, whom she
willingly acknowledged as her queen. And when the Child came to the
lily, the slender flower waved to and fro, and bowed her pale head with
gentle pride and stately modesty, and sent forth a fragrant greeting
to him. The Child knew not what had come to him: it reached his inmost
heart, so that his eyes filled with soft tears. Then he marked how
the lily gazed with a clear and steadfast eye upon the sun, and how
the sun looked down again into her pure chalice, and how, amid this
interchange of looks, the three golden threads united in the centre.
And the Child heard how one scarlet lady-bird at the bottom of the
cup, said to another, “knowest thou not that we dwell in the flower
of heaven?” and the other replied, “yes, and now will the mystery be
fulfilled.” And as the Child saw and heard all this, the dim image
of his unknown parents, as it were veiled in a holy light, floated
before his eyes: he strove to grasp it, but the light was gone, and the
Child slipped, and would have fallen, had not the branch of a currant
bush[A] caught and held him; and he took some of the bright berries for
his morning’s meal, and went back to his hut and stripped the little
branches.
[A] The red currant is called in Germany, _Johannis-beere_, St. John’s
berry.
[Illustration]
V.
But in the hut he staid not long, all was so gloomy, close, and silent
within; and abroad every thing seemed to smile, and to exult in the
clear and unbounded space. Therefore the Child went out into the green
wood, of which the dragonfly had told him such pleasant stories. But
he found every thing far more beautiful and lovely even than she had
described it; for all about, wherever he went, the tender moss
pressed his little feet, and the delicate grass embraced his knees,
and the flowers kissed his hands, and even the branches stroked his
cheeks with a kind and refreshing touch, and the high trees threw their
fragrant shade around him.
There was no end to his delight. The little birds warbled and sang,
and fluttered and hopped about, and the delicate wood-flowers gave
out their beauty and their odours; and every sweet sound took a sweet
odour by the hand, and thus walked through the open door of the Child’s
heart, and held a joyous nuptial dance therein. But the nightingale
and the lily of the valley led the dance; for the nightingale sang of
nought but love, and the lily breathed of nought but innocence, and he
was the bridegroom and she was the bride. And the nightingale was never
weary of repeating the same thing a hundred times over, for the spring
of love which gushed from his heart was ever new; and the lily bowed
her head bashfully, that no one might see her glowing heart. And yet
the one lived so solely and entirely in the other, that no one could
see whether the notes of the nightingale were floating lilies, or the
lilies visible notes, falling like dew-drops from the nightingale’s
throat.
The Child’s heart was full of joy even to the brim. He set himself
down, and he almost thought he should like to take root there, and
live for ever among the sweet plants and flowers, and so become a true
sharer in all their gentle pleasures. For he felt a deep delight in
the still, secluded, twilight existence of the mosses and small herbs,
which felt not the storm nor the frost, nor the scorching sunbeam; but
dwelt quietly among their many friends and neighbours, feasting in
peace and good fellowship on the dew and the cool shadows which the
mighty trees shed upon them. To them it was a high festival when a
sunbeam chanced to visit their lowly home; whilst the tops of the lofty
trees could find joy and beauty only in the purple rays of morning or
evening.
[Illustration]
VI.
And as the Child sat there, a little mouse rustled from among the dry
leaves of the former year, and a lizard half glided from a crevice in
the rock, and both of them fixed their bright eyes upon the little
stranger; and when they saw that he designed them no evil, they took
courage and came nearer to him.
“I should like to live with you,” said the Child to the two little
creatures, in a soft subdued voice, that he might not frighten them.
“Your chambers are so snug, so warm, and yet so shaded, and the flowers
grow in at your windows, and the birds sing you their morning song, and
call you to table and to bed with their clear warblings.”
“Yes,” said the mouse, “it would be all very well if all the plants
bore nuts and mast, instead of those silly flowers; and if I were not
obliged to grub under ground in the spring, and gnaw the bitter roots,
whilst they are dressing themselves in their fine flowers and flaunting
it to the world, as if they had endless stores of honey in their
cellars.”
“Hold your tongue,” interrupted the lizard pertly, “do you think,
because you are grey, that other people must throw away their handsome
clothes, or let them lie in the dark wardrobe under ground, and wear
nothing but grey too? I am not so envious. The flowers may dress
themselves as they like for me; they pay for it out of their own
pockets, and they feed bees and beetles from their cups; but what I
want to know is, of what use are birds in the world? Such a fluttering
and chattering, truly, from morning early to evening late, that one
is worried and stunned to death, and there is never a day’s peace for
them. And they do nothing; only snap up the flies and the spiders
out of the mouths of such as I. For my part, I should be perfectly
satisfied, provided all the birds in the world were flies and beetles.”
The Child changed colour, and his heart was sick and saddened when
he heard their evil tongues. He could not imagine how any body could
speak ill of the beautiful flowers, or scoff at his beloved birds. He
was waked out of a sweet dream, and the wood seemed to him lonely and
desert, and he was ill at ease. He started up hastily, so that the
mouse and the lizard shrank back alarmed, and did not look around them
till they thought themselves safe out of the reach of the stranger with
the large, severe eyes.
[Illustration]
VII.
But the Child went away from the place; and as he hung down his head
thoughtfully, he did not observe that he took the wrong path, nor
see how the flowers on either side bowed their heads to welcome him,
nor hear how the old birds from the boughs, and the young from the
nests, cried aloud to him, “God bless thee, our dear little prince.”
And he went on and on, farther and farther, into the deep wood; and
he thought over the foolish and heartless talk of the two selfish
chatterers, and could not understand it. He would fain have forgotten
it, but he could not. And the more he pondered, the more it seemed to
him as if a malicious spider had spun her web around him, and as if his
eyes were weary with trying to look through it.
And suddenly he came to a still water, above which young beeches
lovingly entwined their arms. He looked in the water, and his eyes
were riveted to it as if by enchantment. He could not move, but stood
and gazed in the soft, placid mirror, from the bosom of which the
tender green foliage, with the deep blue heavens between, gleamed so
wondrously upon him. His sorrow was all forgotten, and even the echo of
the discord in his little heart was hushed. That heart was once more
in his eyes; and fain would he have drunk in the soft beauty of the
colours that lay beneath him, or have plunged into the lovely deep.
Then the breeze began to sigh among the tree-tops. The Child raised his
eyes and saw overhead the quivering green, and the deep blue behind
it, and he knew not whether he were waking or dreaming: which were the
real leaves and the real heaven,--those in the depths above, or in the
depths beneath? Long did the Child waver, and his thoughts floated
in a delicious dreaminess from one to the other, till the dragonfly
flew to him in affectionate haste, and with rustling wings greeted her
kind host. The Child returned her greeting, and was glad to meet an
acquaintance with whom he could share the rich feast of his joy. But
first he asked the dragonfly if she could decide for him between the
Upper and the Nether--the heighth and the depth? The dragonfly flew
above, and beneath, and around; but the water spake: “The foliage and
the sky above are not the true ones: the leaves wither and fall; the
sky is often overcast, and sometimes quite dark.” Then the leaves and
the sky said, “The water only apes us; it must change its pictures at
our pleasure, and can retain none.” Then the dragonfly remarked, that
the heighth and the depth existed only in the eyes of the Child, and
that the leaves and the sky were true and real only in his thoughts;
because in the mind alone the picture was permanent and enduring, and
could be carried with him whithersoever he went.
This she said to the Child; but she immediately warned him to return,
for the leaves were already beating the tattoo in the evening breeze,
and the lights were disappearing one by one in every corner. Then the
Child confessed to her with alarm that he knew not how he should find
the way back, and that he feared the dark night would overtake him if
he attempted to go home alone; so the dragonfly flew on before him,
and shewed him a cave in the rock where he might pass the night. And
the Child was well content; for he had often wished to try if he could
sleep out of his accustomed bed.
[Illustration]
VIII.
But the dragonfly was fleet, and gratitude strengthened her wings to
pay her host the honour she owed him. And truly in the dim twilight
good counsel and guidance were scarce. She flitted hither and
thither without knowing rightly what was to be done; when, by the
last vanishing sunbeam, she saw hanging on the edge of the cave some
strawberries who had drunk so deep of the evening-red, that their
heads were quite heavy. Then she flew up to a harebell who stood near,
and whispered in her ear that the lord and king of all the flowers was
in the wood, and ought to be received and welcomed as beseemed his
dignity. Aglaia did not need that this should be repeated. She began
to ring her sweet bells with all her might; and when her neighbour
heard the sound, she rang hers also; and soon all the harebells, great
and small, were in motion, and rang as if it had been for the nuptials
of their mother earth herself, with the prince of the sun. The tone
of the blue bells was deep and rich, and that of the white, high and
clear, and all blended together in a delicious harmony.
But the birds were fast asleep in their high nests, and the ears of the
other animals were not delicate enough, or were too much overgrown with
hair, to hear them. The fireflies alone heard the joyous peal, for they
were akin to the flowers, through their common ancestor, light. They
inquired of their nearest relation, the lily of the valley, and from
her they heard that a large flower had just passed along the foot-path
more blooming than the loveliest rose, and with two stars more
brilliant than those of the brightest firefly, and that it must needs
be their king. Then all the fireflies flew up and down the foot path,
and sought every where, till at length they came, as the dragonfly had
hoped they would, to the cave.
And now, as they looked at the Child, and every one of them saw itself
reflected in his clear eyes, they rejoiced exceedingly, and called all
their fellows together, and alighted on the bushes all around; and soon
it was so light in the cave, that herb and grass began to grow as if
it had been broad day. Now, indeed, was the joy and triumph of the
dragonfly complete. The Child was delighted with the merry and silvery
tones of the bells, and with the many little bright-eyed companions
around him, and with the deep red strawberries which bowed down their
head to his touch.
[Illustration]
IX.
And when he had eaten his fill, he sat down on the soft moss, crossed
one little leg over the other, and began to gossip with the fireflies.
And as he so often thought on his unknown parents, he asked them who
were their parents. Then the one nearest to him gave him answer; and he
told how that they were formerly flowers, but none of those who thrust
their rooty hands greedily into the ground and draw nourishment from
the dingy earth, only to make themselves fat and large withal; but
that the light was dearer to them than any thing, even at night; and
while the other flowers slept, they gazed unwearied on the light, and
drank it in with eager adoration,--sun and moon and star light. And
the light had so thoroughly purified them, that they had not sucked in
poisonous juices like the yellow flowers of the earth, but sweet odours
for sick and fainting hearts, and oil of potent, ethereal virtue for
the weak and the wounded; and, at length, when their autumn came, they
did not, like the others, wither and sink down, leaf and flower, to be
swallowed up by the darksome earth, but shook off their earthly garment
and mounted aloft into the clear air. But there it was so wondrously
bright, that sight failed them; and when they came to themselves again,
they were fireflies, each sitting on a withered flower-stalk.
And now the Child liked the bright-eyed flies better than ever; and
he talked a little longer with them, and inquired why they shewed
themselves so much more in spring. They did it, they said, in the hope
that their gold-green radiance might allure their cousins, the flowers,
to the pure love of light.
[Illustration]
X.
During this conversation the dragonfly had been preparing a bed for her
host. The moss upon which the Child sat had grown a foot high behind
his back, out of pure joy; but the dragonfly and her sisters had so
revelled upon it, that it was now laid at its length along the cave.
The dragonfly had awakened every spider in the neighbourhood out of
her sleep, and when they saw the brilliant light, they had set to
work spinning so industriously that their web hung down like a curtain
before the mouth of the cave. But as the Child saw the ant peeping up
at him, he entreated the fireflies not to deprive themselves any longer
of their merry games in the wood, on his account. And the dragonfly
and her sisters raised the curtain till the Child had laid him down to
rest, and then let it fall again, that the mischievous gnats might not
get in to disturb his slumbers.
The Child laid himself down to sleep, for he was very tired; but he
could not sleep, for his couch of moss was quite another thing than
his little bed, and the cave was all strange to him. He turned himself
on one side and then on the other, and as nothing would do, he raised
himself and sat upright to wait till sleep might choose to come. But
sleep would not come at all;--and the only wakeful eyes in the whole
wood were the Child’s. For the harebells had rung themselves weary,
and the fireflies had flown about till they were tired, and even the
dragonfly, who would fain have kept watch in front of the cave, had
dropped sound asleep.
The wood grew stiller and stiller: here and there fell a dry leaf which
had been driven from its old dwelling place by a fresh one; here and
there a young bird gave a soft chirp when its mother squeezed it in the
nest;--and from time to time a gnat hummed for a minute or two in the
curtain, till a spider crept on tip-toe along its web, and gave him
such a gripe in the wind-pipe as soon spoiled his trumpeting.
And the deeper the silence became, the more intently did the Child
listen, and at last the slightest sound thrilled him from head to foot.
At length, all was still as death in the wood; and the world seemed as
if it never would wake again. The Child bent forward to see whether it
were as dark abroad as in the cave, but he saw nothing save the pitch
dark night, who had wrapped every thing in her thick veil. Yet as he
looked upwards his eyes met the friendly glance of two or three stars,
and this was a most joyful surprise to him, for he felt himself no
longer so entirely alone. The stars were, indeed, far, far away, but
yet he knew them, and they knew him; for they looked into his eyes.
The Child’s whole soul was fixed in his gaze; and it seemed to him as
if he must needs fly out of the darksome cave, thither where the stars
were beaming with such pure and serene light; and he felt how poor and
lowly he was, when he thought of their brilliancy; and how cramped and
fettered, when he thought of their free, unbounded course along the
heavens.
[Illustration]
XI.
But the stars went on their course, and left their glittering picture
only a little while before the Child’s eyes. Even this faded, and then
vanished quite away. And he was beginning to feel tired, and to wish
to lay himself down again, when a flickering will-o’-the-wisp appeared
from behind a bush,--so that the Child thought, at first, one of the
stars had wandered out of its way and had come to visit him, and to
take him with it. And the Child breathed quick with joy and surprise,
and then the will-o’-the-wisp came nearer and set himself down on a
damp, mossy stone in front of the cave, and another fluttered quickly
after him, and sat down over against him and sighed deeply, “Thank God,
then, that I can rest at last!”
“Yes,” said the other, “for that you may thank the innocent Child who
sleeps there within; it was his pure breath that freed us.”--“Are you
then,” said the Child, hesitatingly, “not of yon stars which wander so
brightly there above?”--“Oh, if we were stars,” replied the first, “we
should pursue our tranquil path through the pure element, and should
leave this wood and the whole darksome earth to itself.”--“And not,”
said the other, “sit brooding on the face of the shallow pool.”
The Child was curious to know who these could be who shone so
beautifully, and yet seemed so discontented. Then, the first began to
relate how he had been a child too, and how, as he grew up, it had
always been his greatest delight to deceive people and play them
tricks, to show his wit and cleverness. He had always, he said, poured
such a stream of smooth words over people, and encompassed himself with
such a shining mist, that men had been attracted by it to their own
hurt. But once on a time there appeared a plain man who only spoke two
or three simple words, and suddenly the bright mist vanished, and left
him naked and deformed, to the scorn and mockery of the whole world.
But the man had turned away his face from him in pity, while he was
almost dead with shame and anger. And when he came to himself again,
he knew not what had befallen him, till, at length, he found that it
was his fate to hover, without rest or change, over the surface of the
bog as a will-o’-the-wisp.
“With me it fell out quite otherwise,” said the first: “Instead of
giving light without warmth, as I now do, I burned without shining.
When I was only a child, people gave way to me in every thing, so that
I was intoxicated with self-love. If I saw any one shine, I longed
to put out his light; and the more intensely I wished this, the more
did my own small glimmering turn back upon myself, and inwardly burn
fiercely, while all without was darker than ever. But if any one who
shone more brightly would have kindly given me of his light, then did
my inward flame burst forth to destroy him But the flame passed through
the light and harmed it not; it shone only the more brightly, while
I was withered and exhausted. And once upon a time I met a little
smiling child, who played with a cross of palm branches, and wore a
beamy coronet around his golden locks. He took me kindly by the hand
and said, ‘My friend, you are now very gloomy and sad, but if you will
become a child again, even as I am, you will have a bright circlet such
as I have.’ When I heard that, I was so angry with myself and with
the child, that I was scorched by my inward fire. Now would I fain
fly up to the sun to fetch rays from him, but the rays drove me back
with these words: ‘Return thither whence thou camest, thou dark fire
of envy, for the sun lightens only in love; the greedy earth, indeed,
sometimes turns his mild light into scorching fire. Fly back, then,
for with thy like alone must thou dwell.’ I fell, and when I recovered
myself, I was glimmering coldly above the stagnant waters.”
While they were talking, the Child had fallen asleep; for he knew
nothing of the world nor of men, and he could make nothing of their
stories. Weariness had spoken a more intelligible language to
him--_that_ he understood, and had fallen asleep.
[Illustration]
XII.
Softly and soundly he slept till the rosy morning clouds stood upon the
mountain, and announced the coming of their lord, the sun. But as soon
as the tidings spread over field and wood, the thousand-voiced echo
awoke, and sleep was no more to be thought of.
And soon did the royal sun himself arise; at first, his dazzling diadem
alone appeared above the mountains; at length, he stood upon their
summit in the full majesty of his beauty, in all the charms of eternal
youth, bright and glorious, his kindly glance embracing every creature
of earth, from the stately oak to the blade of grass bending under the
foot of the wayfaring man.
Then arose from every breast, from every throat, the joyous song of
praise; and it was as if the whole plain and wood were become a temple,
whose roof was the heaven, whose altar the mountain, whose congregation
all creatures, whose priest the sun.
But the Child walked forth and was glad, for the birds sang sweetly,
and it seemed to him as if every thing sported and danced out of mere
joy to be alive. Here flew two finches through the thicket, and,
twittering, pursued each other; there, the young buds burst asunder,
and the tender leaves peeped out and expanded themselves in the warm
sun, as if they would abide in his glance for ever; here, a dewdrop
trembled, sparkling and twinkling on a blade of grass, and knew not
that beneath him stood a little moss who was thirsting after him;
there, troops of flies flew aloft, as if they would soar far, far over
the wood: and so all was life and motion, and the Child’s heart joyed
to see it.
He sat down on a little smooth plot of turf, shaded by the branches of
a nut-bush, and thought he should now sip the cup of his delight, drop
by drop. And first he plucked down some brambles which threatened him
with their prickles; then he bent aside some branches which concealed
the view; then he removed the stones, so that he might stretch out his
feet at full length on the soft turf; and when he had done all this,
he bethought himself what was yet to do; and as he found nothing, he
stood up to look for his acquaintance the dragonfly, and to beg her to
guide him once more out of the wood into the open fields. About midway
he met her, and she began to excuse herself for having fallen asleep
in the night. The Child thought not of the past, were it even but a
minute ago, so earnestly did he now wish to get out from among the
thick and close trees; for his heart beat high, and he felt as if he
should breathe freer in the open ground. The dragonfly flew on before
and shewed him the way as far as the outermost verge of the wood,
whence the Child could espy his own little hut, and then flew away to
her playfellows.
[Illustration]
XIII.
The Child walked forth alone upon the fresh, dewy corn-field. A
thousand little suns glittered in his eyes, and a lark soared warbling
above his head. And the lark proclaimed the joys of the coming year,
and awakened endless hopes, while she soared circling higher and
higher, till, at length, her song was like the soft whisper of an angel
holding converse with the spring, under the blue arch of heaven. The
Child had seen the earth-coloured little bird rise up before him, and
it seemed to him as if the earth had sent her forth from her bosom as a
messenger to carry her joy and her thanks up to the sun, because he had
turned his beaming countenance again upon her in love and bounty. And
the lark hung poised above the hope-giving field, and warbled her clear
and joyous song.
She sang of the loveliness of the rosy dawn, and the fresh brilliancy
of the earliest sunbeams; of the gladsome springing of the young
flowers, and the vigorous shooting of the corn; and her song pleased
the Child beyond measure.
But the lark wheeled in higher and higher circles, and her song sounded
softer and sweeter.
And now she sang of the first delights of early love; of wanderings
together on the sunny, fresh hill-tops, and of the sweet pictures
and visions that arise out of the blue and misty distance. The
Child understood not rightly what he heard, and fain would he have
understood, for he thought that even in such visions must be wondrous
delight. He gazed aloft after the unwearied bird, but she had
disappeared in the morning mist.
Then the Child leaned his head on one shoulder to listen if he could no
longer hear the little messenger of spring; and he could just catch the
distant and quivering notes in which she sang of the fervent longing
after the clear element of freedom; after the pure, all-present light;
and of the blessed foretaste of this desired enfranchisement, of this
blending in the sea of celestial happiness.
Yet longer did he listen; for the tones of her song carried him there,
where, as yet, his thoughts had never reached, and he felt himself
happier in this short and imperfect flight than ever he had felt
before. But the lark now dropped suddenly to the earth, for her little
body was too heavy for the ambient æther, and her wings were not large
nor strong enough for the pure element.
Then the red corn-poppies laughed at the homely looking bird, and cried
to one another and to the surrounding blades of corn, in a shrill
voice, “Now, indeed, you may see what comes of flying so high, and
striving and straining after mere air; people only lose their time,
and bring back nothing but weary wings and an empty stomach. That
vulgar-looking ill-dressed little creature would fain raise herself
above us all, and has kept up a mighty noise. And now there she lies
on the ground and can hardly breathe, while we have stood still where
we are sure of a good meal, and have staid like people of sense where
there is something substantial to be had; and in the time she has been
fluttering and singing, we have grown a good deal taller and fatter.”
The other little red-caps chattered and screamed their assent so
loud, that the Child’s ears tingled, and he wished he could chastise
them for their spiteful jeers; when a cyane said, in a soft voice, to
her younger playmates, “Dear friends, be not led astray by outward
show, nor by discourse, which regards only outward show. The lark is,
indeed, weary, and the space into which she has soared is void; but
the void is not what the lark sought, nor is the seeker returned empty
home. She strove after light and freedom, and light and freedom has she
proclaimed. She left the earth and its enjoyments, but she has drunk of
the pure air of heaven, and has seen that it is not the earth, but the
sun that is steadfast. And if earth has called her back, it can keep
nothing of her but what is its own. Her sweet voice and her soaring
wings belong to the sun, and will enter into light and freedom, long
after the foolish prater shall have sunk and been buried in the dark
prison of the earth.”
And the lark heard her wise and friendly discourse, and with renewed
strength, she sprang once more into the clear and beautiful blue.
Then the Child clapped his little hands for joy, that the sweet bird
had flown up again, and that the red-caps must hold their tongues for
shame.
[Illustration]
XIV.
And the Child was become happy and joyful, and breathed freely again,
and thought no more of returning to his hut, for he saw that nothing
returned inwards, but rather that all strove outwards into the free
air; the rosy apple blossoms from their narrow buds, and the gurgling
notes from the narrow breast of the lark. The germs burst open the
folding doors of the seeds, and broke through the heavy pressure of the
earth in order to get at the light: the grasses tore asunder their
bands, and their slender blades sprung upwards. Even the rocks were
become gentle, and allowed little mosses to peep out from their sides,
as a sign that they would not remain impenetrably closed for ever. And
the flowers sent out colour and fragrance into the whole world, for
they kept not their best for themselves, but would imitate the sun and
the stars, which poured their warmth and radiance over the spring. And
many a little gnat and beetle burst the narrow cell in which it was
enclosed, and crept out slowly, and, half asleep, unfolded and shook
its tender wings, and soon gained strength, and flew off to untried
delights.
And as the butterflies came forth from their chrysalids in all their
gaiety and splendour, so did every humbled and suppressed aspiration
and hope free itself, and boldly launch into the open and flowing sea
of spring.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
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MRS. AUSTIN’S BIBLE SELECTIONS.
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HEBREW SCRIPTURES
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