THE DRYAD故事

　　 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 venerableclergyman 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.

　　 Her "farewell" sounded in the words "Away! away!"

　　 The wheels turned; the distant approached; the present

　　 vanished. The region was changed, even as the clouds change.

　　 New vineyards, forests, villages, villas appeared- came

　　 nearer- vanished!

　　 The chestnut tree moved forward, and the Dryad went with

　　 it. Steam-engine after steam-engine rushed past, sending up

　　 into the air vapory clouds, that formed figures which told of

　　 Paris, whence they came, and whither the Dryad was going.

　　 Everything around knew it, and must know whither she was

　　 bound. It seemed to her as if every tree she passed stretched

　　 out its leaves towards her, with the prayer- "Take me with

　　 you! take me with you!" for every tree enclosed a longing

　　 Dryad.

　　 What changes during this flight! Houses seemed to be

　　 rising out of the earth- more and more- thicker and thicker.

　　 The chimneys rose like flower-pots ranged side by side, or in

　　 rows one above the other, on the roofs. Great inscriptions in

　　 letters a yard long, and figures in various colors, covering

　　 the walls from cornice to basement, came brightly out.

　　 "Where does Paris begin, and when shall I be there?" asked

　　 the Dryad.

　　 The crowd of people grew; the tumult and the bustle

　　 increased; carriage followed upon carriage; people on foot and

　　 people on horseback were mingled together; all around were

　　 shops on shops, music and song, crying and talking.

　　 The Dryad, in her tree, was now in the midst of Paris. The

　　 great heavy wagon all at once stopped on a little square

　　 planted with trees. The high houses around had all of them

　　 balconies to the windows, from which the inhabitants looked

　　 down upon the young fresh chestnut tree, which was coming to

　　 be planted here as a substitute for the dead tree that lay

　　 stretched on the ground.

　　 The passers-by stood still and smiled in admiration of its

　　 pure vernal freshness. The older trees, whose buds were still

　　 closed, whispered with their waving branches, "Welcome!

　　 welcome!" The fountain, throwing its jet of water high up in

　　 the air, to let it fall again in the wide stone basin, told

　　 the wind to sprinkle the new-comer with pearly drops, as if it

　　 wished to give him a refreshingdraught to welcome him.

　　 The Dryad felt how her tree was being lifted from the

　　 wagon to be placed in the spot where it was to stand. The

　　 roots were covered with earth, and fresh turf was laid on top.