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.