THE DUMB BOOK故事

　　 IN the high-road which led through a wood stood a solitary

　　 farm-house; the road, in fact, ran right through its yard. The

　　 sun was shining and all the windows were open; within the

　　 house people were very busy. In the yard, in an arbour formed

　　 by lilac bushes in full bloom, stood an open coffin; thither

　　 they had carried a dead man, who was to be buried that very

　　 afternoon. Nobody shed a tear over him; his face was covered

　　 over with a white cloth, under his head they had placed a

　　 large thick book, the leaves of which consisted of folded

　　 sheets of blotting-paper, and withered flowers lay between

　　 them; it was the herbarium which he had gathered in various

　　 places and was to be buried with him, according to his own

　　 wish. Every one of the flowers in it was connected with some

　　 chapter of his life.

　　 "Who is the dead man?" we asked.

　　 "The old student," was the reply. "They say that he was

　　 once an energetic young man, that he studied the dead

　　 languages, and sang and even composed many songs; then

　　 something had happened to him, and in consequence of this he

　　 gave himself up to drink, body and mind. When at last he had

　　 ruined his health, they brought him into the country, where

　　 someone paid for his board and residence. He was gentle as a

　　 child as long as the sullen mood did not come over him; but

　　 when it came he was fierce, became as strong as a giant, and

　　 ran about in the wood like a chased deer. But when we

　　 succeeded in bringing him home, and prevailed upon him to open

　　 the book with the dried-up plants in it, he would sometimes

　　 sit for a whole day looking at this or that plant, while

　　 frequently the tears rolled over his cheeks. God knows what

　　 was in his mind; but he requested us to put the book into his

　　 coffin, and now he lies there. In a little while the lid will

　　 be placed upon the coffin, and he will have sweet rest in the

　　 grave!"

　　 The cloth which covered his face was lifted up; the dead

　　 man's face expressed peace- a sunbeam fell upon it. A swallow

　　 flew with the swiftness of an arrow into the arbour, turning

　　 in its flight, and twittered over the dead man's head.

　　 What a strange feeling it is- surely we all know it- to

　　 look through old letters of our young days; a different life

　　 rises up out of the past, as it were, with all its hopes and

　　 sorrows. How many of the people with whom in those days we

　　 used to be on intimate terms appear to us as if dead, and yet

　　 they are still alive- only we have not thought of them for

　　 such a long time, whom we imagined we should retain in our

　　 memories for ever, and share every joy and sorrow with them.

　　 The withered oak leaf in the book here recalled the

　　 friend, the schoolfellow, who was to be his friend for life.

　　 He fixed the leaf to the student's cap in the green wood, when

　　 they vowed eternal friendship. Where does he dwell now? The

　　 leaf is kept, but the friendship does no longer exist. Here is

　　 a foreign hothouse plant, too tender for the gardens of the

　　 North. It is almost as if its leaves still smelt sweet! She

　　 gave it to him out of her own garden- a nobleman's daughter.

　　 Here is a water-lily that he had plucked himself, and

　　 watered with salt tears- a lily of sweet water. And here is a

　　 nettle: what may its leaves tell us? What might he have

　　 thought when he plucked and kept it? Here is a little snowdrop

　　 out of the solitary wood; here is an evergreen from the

　　 flower-pot at the tavern; and here is a simple blade of grass.

　　 The lilac bends its fresh fragrant flowers over the dead

　　 man's head; the swallow passes again- "twit, twit;" now the

　　 men come with hammer and nails, the lid is placed over the

　　 dead man, while his head rests on the du

　　mb book- so long

　　 cherished, now closed for ever!

　　 THE END