THE DRYAD故事

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　　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 venerable clergyman 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
            
            

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　　    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
            
            

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　　    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
            
            

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　　    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?
            
            

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　　    "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
            
            

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　　    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
            
            

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　　    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
            
            

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　　    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!
            
            

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　　    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 refreshing draught to welcome him.
            
            

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　　    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.
　　    Blooming shrubs and flowers in pots were ranged around; and
　　    thus a little garden arose in the square.
　　    The tree that had been killed by the fumes of gas, the
　　    steam of kitchens, and the bad air of the city, was put upon
　　    the wagon and driven away. The passers-by looked on. Children
　　    and old men sat upon the bench, and looked at the green tree.
　　    And we who are telling this story stood upon a balcony, and
　　    looked down upon the green spring sight that had been brought
　　    in from the fresh country air, and said, what the old
　　    clergyman would have said, "Poor Dryad!"
　　    "I am happy! I am happy!" the Dryad cried, rejoicing; "and
　　    yet I cannot realize, cannot describe what I feel. Everything
　　    is as I fancied it, and yet as I did not fancy it."
　　    The houses stood there, so lofty, so close! The sunlight
　　    shone on only one of the walls, and that one was stuck over
　　    with bills and placards, before which the people stood still;
　　    and this made a crowd.
　　    Carriages rushed past, carriages rolled past; light ones
　　    and heavy ones mingled together. Omnibuses, those over-crowded
　　    moving houses, came rattling by; horsemen galloped among them;
　　    even carts and wagons asserted their rights.
　　    The Dryad asked herself if these high-grown houses, which
　　    stood so close around her, would not remove and take other
　　    shapes, like the clouds in the sky, and draw aside, so that
　　    she might cast a glance into Paris, and over it. Notre Dame
　　    must show itself, the Vendome Column, and the wondrous
　　    building which had called and was still calling so many
　　    strangers to the city.
　　    But the houses did not stir from their places. It was yet
　　    day when the lamps were lit. The gas-jets gleamed from the
　　    shops, and shone even into the branches of the trees, so that
　　    it was like sunlight in summer. The stars above made their