Books: Peter Schlemihl etc.
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Chamisso et. al. >> Peter Schlemihl etc.
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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
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.
CHAPTER 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 anybody 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.
CHAPTER 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 treetops. 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 Dragon-fly 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 Dragon-fly
if she could decide for him between the Upper and the Nether--the
height and the depth? The Dragon-fly 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 Dragon-fly remarked that
the height 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 Dragon-
fly flew on before him, and showed 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.
CHAPTER VIII.
But the Dragon-fly 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 Bluebells 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 Fire-flies 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 footpath more blooming than the loveliest rose, and
with two stars more brilliant than those of the brightest fire-fly,
and that it must needs be their King. Then all the Fire-flies flew
up and down the footpath, and sought everywhere, till at length they
came, as the Dragon-fly 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 Dragon-fly 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 heads to his touch.
CHAPTER 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
Fire-flies. 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
anything, 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 fire-flies, 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 showed
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.
CHAPTER X.
During this conversation the dragon-fly 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 dragon-fly and her sisters
had so revelled upon it, that it was now laid at its length along
the cave. The dragon-fly 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 fire-flies not
to deprive themselves any longer of their merry games in the wood on
his account. And the dragon-fly 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 fire-flies had flown about till
they were tired, and even the dragon-fly, 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 everything 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.
CHAPTER 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 sat 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 everything, 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 he had fallen asleep.
CHAPTER 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 everything 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
dragon-fly, 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 dragon-fly flew on before and showed 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.
CHAPTER XIII.
The Child walked forth alone upon the fresh dewy cornfield. 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 hilltops, 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 ether, 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 stayed, 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 redcaps 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 redcaps must hold their tongues for
shame.
CHAPTER 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
upward. 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.
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