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安徒生童話故事第137篇：樹精The Dryad
在現實生活或工作學習中，大家一定沒少看童話吧，童話對兒童來說具有重要的發展價值，對教師和父母來說具有重要的教育學意義。被廣泛傳播的童話故事都有哪些呢?以下是小編收集整理的安徒生童話故事第137篇：樹精The Dryad，僅供參考，希望能夠幫助到大家。
我們旅行去，去看巴黎的展覽會。
我們現在就到了!這是一次飛快的旅行，但是并非憑借什么魔力而完成的。我們是憑著蒸汽的力量，乘船或坐火車去的。
我們的時代是一個童話的時代。
我們現在是在巴黎的中心，在一個大旅館里面。整個的樓梯上都裝飾著花朵;所有的梯級上都鋪滿了柔軟的地毯。
我們的房間是很舒服的;陽臺的門是朝著一個寬大的廣場開著的。春天就住在那上面。它是和我們乘車子同時到來的。它的外表是一株年輕的大栗樹，長滿了新出的嫩葉子。它的春天的新裝是多么美麗啊!它穿得比廣場上任何其他的樹都漂亮!這些樹中有一棵已經不能算是有生命的樹了，它直直地倒在地上，連根都拔起來了。在它過去立著的那塊地方，這棵新的粟樹將會被裁進去，生長起來。
到目前為止，它還是立在一輛沉重的車子里。是這輛車子今天從許多里以外的鄉下把它運進巴黎來的。在這以前，有好幾年，它一直是立在一棵大櫟樹旁邊。一位和善的老牧師常常坐在這棵櫟樹下，講故事給那些聚精會神的孩子們聽。這棵年輕的栗樹也跟著他們一起聽。住在它里面的樹精那時也還不過是一個孩子。她還記得這樹兒童時代的情景。那時它很小，還沒有草葉或鳳尾草那么高。這些草類可以說是大得不可再大了，但是栗樹卻在不斷地生長，每年總要增大一點。它吸收空氣和太陽光，喝著露水和雨點，被大風搖撼和吹打，這是它的教育的一部分。
村精喜歡自己的生活和環境、太陽光和鳥兒的歌聲。不過她最喜歡聽人類的聲音。她懂得人類的語言，也同樣懂得動物的語言。
蝴蝶啦、蜻蜓啦、蒼蠅啦——的確，所有能飛的東西都來拜訪她。他們到一起就聊天。他們談論著關于鄉村、葡萄園、樹林和帶花園的皇宮——宮里還有一個大花園——這類的事情。皇宮的花園之中還有溪流和水壩。水里也住得有生物，而且這些生物也有自己的一套辦法在水里從這里飛到那里。它們都是有知識、有思想的生物，但是它們不說話，因為它們非常聰明。
曾經鉆進水里去過的燕子談論著美麗的金魚、肥胖的鯽魚、粗大的鱸魚和長得有青苔的老鯉魚。它把它們描寫得非常生動，但是它說：“最好你還是親自去看看吧。”不過樹精怎樣能看到這些生物呢?她能看到美麗的風景和忙碌的人間活動——她也只能滿足于這些東西了。這是很美麗的事情。不過最美麗的事情還是聽那位老牧師在株樹下談論法蘭西和許多男人和女人的偉大事跡——這些人的名字，任何時代的人一提起來就要表示欽慕。
樹精聽著關于牧羊女貞德①的事情和關于夏洛·哥戴②的事情。她聽著關于遠古時代的事情——從亨利四世和拿破侖一世，一直到我們這個時代的天才和偉大的事跡。她聽著許多在人民心里引起共鳴的名字。法蘭西是一個具有世界意義的國家，是一塊撫育著自由精神的理智的土地。!
村里的孩子聚精會神地聽著;樹精也聚精會神地聽著。她像別的孩子一樣，也是一個小學生。凡是她所聽到的東西，她都能在那些移動著的浮云中看出具體的形象。
白云朵朵的天空就是她的畫冊。
她覺得住在美麗的法國是非常幸福的。但是她也覺得鳥兒和各種能飛的動物都比她幸運得多。甚至蒼蠅都能向周圍看得很遠，比一個樹精的眼界要大得多。
法國是那么廣闊和可愛，但是她只能看到它的一個片段。這個國家是一個世界，有葡萄園、樹林和大城市。在這些東西之中，巴黎要算是最美麗，最偉大的了。鳥兒可以飛進它里面去，但是她卻不能。
這些鄉下孩子中有一個小女孩。她穿著一身破爛的衣服，非常窮苦，但是她的樣子卻非常可愛。她不是在笑，就是在唱歌;她喜歡用紅花編成花環戴在她的黑發上。
“不要到巴黎去吧!”老牧師說。“可憐的孩子，如果你去，你就會毀滅!”
但是她卻去了。
樹精常常想念著她。的確，她們倆對這個偉大的城市有同樣的向往和渴望。
春天來了;接著就是夏天、秋天和冬天。兩年過去了。
樹精所住的這棵樹第一次開出了栗花，鳥兒在美麗的陽光中喃喃地歌頌這件事情。這時路上有一輛漂亮的馬車開過來了。車里坐著一位華貴的太太。她親自趕著那幾匹美麗的快馬，一個俊秀的小馬車夫坐在她的后面。樹精認出了她，那個老牧師也認出了她。牧師搖搖頭，惋惜地說：
“你到那兒去!那會帶給你損害呀!可憐的瑪莉啊!”
“她可憐嗎?”樹精想。“不，這是一種多么大的改變啊!她打扮得像一位公爵夫人!這是因為她到了一個迷人的城市才改變得這樣。啊，我希望我自己也能到那豪華富貴的環境中去!當我在夜里向我所知道的這個城市所在的方向望去的時候，我只見它射出光來，把天空的云塊都照亮了。”
是的，每天黃昏，每天夜里，樹精都向那個方向望。她看見一層充滿了光的薄霧，浮在地平線上。但是在月明之夜她就看不見它了;她看不見顯示著這城的形象和歷史的那些浮云。
孩子喜歡自己的畫冊;樹精喜歡自己的云世界——她的思想之書。
沒有云塊的、酷熱的夏日的天空，對她說來，等于是一本沒有字的書。現在一連有好幾天她只看到這樣的天空。
這是一個炎熱的夏天，一連串悶人的日子，沒有一點風。
每一片樹葉，每一朵花，好像是昏睡過去了一樣，都垂下了;人也是這樣。后來云塊出現了，而且它出現的地方恰恰是夜間光彩的霧氣所籠罩著的地方：這是巴黎。
云塊升起來了，形成一整串連綿的山脈。它們在空中，在大地上飛馳，樹精一眼都望不著邊際。
云塊凝結成為紫色的龐大石塊，一層一層地疊在高空中。閃電從它們中間射出來。“這是上帝的仆人，”老牧師說。接著一道藍色的。耀眼的光——一道像太陽似的光——出現了。它射穿石塊;于是閃電打下來，把這株可敬的老株樹連根劈成兩半。它的頂裂開了，它的軀干裂開了;它倒下來，伏在地上，好像是它想要擁抱光的使者似的。
一個王子誕生時向天空和全國所放的炮聲，怎樣也趕不上這株老株樹死亡時的雷轟。雨水在向下流;一陣清新的和風在吹。暴風雨已經過去了;處處都籠罩著禮拜日一樣的寧靜氣氛。村里的人在這株倒下的老株樹周圍聚集起來。那位可尊敬的老牧師說了幾句贊美它的話;一位畫家把這株樹繪下來。留作最后的紀念。
“一切都過去了!”樹精說，“像那些云塊一樣過去了，再也不回來!”
老牧師不再來了，學校的屋頂塌下來了，老師的坐位也沒有了，孩子們也不再來了。但是秋天來了，冬天來了，春天也來了。在這些變換的季節中，樹精遙遙地向遠方望——在那遠方，巴黎每夜像一層放光的薄霧似的，在地平線上出現。火車頭一架接著一架、車廂一串接著一串，時時刻刻地從巴黎開出來，發出隆隆的吼聲。火車在晚間和半夜開行，在早晨和白天開行。世界各國來的人，有的鉆進車廂里去，有的從車廂里走出來。一件世界的奇觀把他們吸引到巴黎來了。
這是怎樣的一種奇觀呢?
“一朵藝術和工業的美麗之花，”人們說，“在馬爾斯廣場的荒土上開出來了。它是一朵龐大的向日葵。它的每片花瓣都使我們學習到關于地理和統計的知識，了解到各行師傅的技術，把我們提高到藝術和詩的境地，使我們認識到各個國家的面積和偉大。”
“這是一朵童話之花，”另外有些人說，“一朵多彩的荷花。它把它在初春冒出的綠葉鋪在沙土上，像一塊天鵝絨的地毯。它在夏天表現出它的一切美麗。秋天的風暴把它連根帶葉全部都掃走了。”
軍事學校面前是一片和平時的戰爭演習場。這一片土地沒有長草和糧食。它是從非洲沙漠里割下來的一塊沙洲。在那個沙漠上，莫甘娜仙女③常常顯示出她的奇異的樓閣和懸空的花園。現在這塊馬爾斯廣場顯得更美麗，更奇異，因為人類的天才把幻景變成了真實。
“現在正在建筑的是一座近代阿拉丁之宮④，”人們說。“每過一天，每過一點鐘，它就顯露出更多和更美麗的光彩。”
大理石和各種色彩把那些無窮盡的大廳裝飾得非常漂亮。“沒有血液”的巨人在那巨大的“機器館”里動著它的鋼鐵的四肢。鋼鐵制成的、石頭雕成的和手工織成的藝術品說明了在世界各個國家所搏動著的精神生活。畫廊、美麗的花朵、手藝人在他們的工作室里用智慧和雙手所創造出來的東西，現在全都在這兒陳列出來了。古代宮殿和沼澤地的遺物現在也在這兒展覽出來了。
這個龐大的、豐富多彩的展覽，不得不復制成為模型，壓縮到玩具那么大小，好使人們能夠看到和了解它的全貌。
馬爾斯廣場上，像個巨大的圣誕餐桌一樣，就是這個工業和藝術的阿拉丁之宮。宮的周圍陳列著來自世界各國的展品：每個民族都能在這兒找到一件令他們想起他們的國家的東西。
這兒有埃及的皇宮，這兒有沙漠的旅行商隊。這兒有從太陽的國度來的，騎著駱駝走過的貝杜因人⑤，這兒有養著草原上美麗烈馬的俄國馬廄。掛著丹麥國旗的、丹麥農民的茅屋，跟瑞典達拉爾的古斯達夫·瓦薩時代⑥的精巧的木雕房子，并排站在一起。美國的木房子、英國的村屋、法國的亭子。清真寺、教堂和戲院都很藝術地在一起陳列了出來。在它們中間有清新的綠草地、清澈的溪流、開著花朵的灌木叢、珍奇的樹和玻璃房子——你在這里面可以想象你是在熱帶的樹林中。整片整片的玫瑰花畦像是從大馬士革運來的，在屋頂下盛開著的花朵，多么美的色彩!多么芬芳的香氣!人工造的鐘乳石巖洞里面有淡水湖和咸水湖;它們代表魚的世界。人們現在是站在海底，在魚和珊瑚蟲的中間。
人們說，這一切東西現在馬爾斯廣場都有了，都陳列出來了。整群的人，有的步行，有的坐在小馬車里，都在這個豐盛的餐桌上移動，像一大堆忙碌的螞蟻一樣。一般人的腿子是無法支持這種疲勞的參觀的。
參觀者從大清早一直到深夜都在不停地到來。裝滿了客人的輪船，一艘接著一艘地在塞納河上開過去。車子的數目在不斷地增加，步行和騎馬的人也在不斷地增加。公共馬車和電車上都擠滿了人。這些人群都向同一個目的地匯聚：巴黎展覽會!所有的入口都懸著法國的國旗，展覽館的周圍則飄揚著其他國家的國旗。“機器館”發出隆隆的響聲;塔上的鐘聲奏起和諧的音樂。教堂里有風琴在響;東方的咖啡館飄出混雜著音樂的粗嘎的歌聲。這簡直像一個巴別人的王國，一種巴別人的語言⑦，一種世界的奇觀。
一切的確是這個樣子——關于展覽會的報道是這樣說的。誰沒有聽過這些報道呢?所有這兒一切關于這個世界名城的“新的奇跡”的議論，樹精都聽到過。
“你們這些鳥兒啊，飛吧!飛到那兒去看看，然后再回來告訴我吧!”這是樹精的祈求。
這種向往擴大成為一個希望——成為生活的一個中心思想。于是在一個靜寂的夜里，當滿月正在照著的時候，她看到一顆火星從月亮上落下來了。這火星像一顆流星似地發著亮。這時有一個莊嚴、光芒四射的人形在這樹前出現——樹枝全在動搖，好像有一陣狂風吹來似的。這人形用一種柔和而強有力的調子，像喚醒人的生命的、催人受審的末日號角一樣，對她說：
“你將到那個迷人的城市里去，你將在那兒生根，你將會接觸到那兒潺潺的流水、空氣和陽光，但是你的生命將會縮短。你在這兒曠野中所能享受到的一連串的歲月，將會縮為短短的幾個季節。可憐的樹精啊，這將會是你的滅亡!你的向往將會不斷地增大，你的渴望將會一天一天地變得強烈!這棵樹將會成為你的一個監牢。你將會離開你的住處，你將會改變你的性格，你將會飛走，跟人類混在一起。那時你的壽命將會縮短，縮短得只有蜉蝣的半生那么長——只能活一夜。你的生命的火焰將會熄滅，這樹的葉子將會凋零和被吹走，永遠再也不回來。”
聲音在空中這樣響著，引起回音。于是這道強光就消逝了;但是樹精的向往和渴望卻沒有消逝。她在狂熱的期盼中顫抖著：
“我要到這個世界的名城里去!”她興高采烈地說。“我的生命開始了。它像密集的云塊;誰也不知道它會飄向什么地方去。”
在一個灰色的早晨，當月亮發白、云塊變紅的時候，她的愿望實現的時刻到來了。諾言現在成為了事實。
許多人帶著鏟子和杠子來了。他們在這樹的周圍挖，挖得很深，一直挖到根底下。于是一輛馬拉的車子開過來了。這樹連根帶土被抬起來，還包上一塊蘆席，使它的根能夠保持溫暖。接著，它就被牢牢地系在車上。它要旅行到巴黎去，在這個法國的首都，世界的名城里長大。
在車子最初開動的一瞬間，這棵栗樹的枝葉都顫抖起來。樹精在幸福的期待中也顫抖起來。
“去了!去了!”每一次脈搏都發出這樣一個聲音。“去了!去了!”這是一個震蕩、顫抖的回響。樹精忘記了對她的故鄉、搖動的草兒和天真的雛菊告別。這些東西一直把她看作是我們上帝花園里的一位貴婦人——一位扮作牧羊女下鄉的公主。
栗樹坐在車子上，用它的枝子點頭表示“再會”和“去了”的意思。樹精一點也不知道這些事情。她只是夢想著將要在她眼前展開的那些新奇而又熟悉的事物。沒有任何充滿了天真幸福感的孩子的心，沒有任何充滿了熱情的靈魂，會像她動身到巴黎去時那樣，是那么地思緒萬端。
“再會!”成為“去了!去了!”
車輪在不停地轉動著;距離縮短了，落在后面。景色在變幻，像云塊在變幻一樣。新的葡萄園、樹林、村莊、別墅和花園躍人視線，又消逝了。栗樹在向前進，樹精也在向前進。火車彼此在旁經過或彼此對開。火車頭吐出一層煙云。煙云變成種種的形象，好像是巴黎的縮影——火車離開了的和樹精正在奔赴的巴黎。
她周圍的一切知道、同時也必須懂得，她的旅行的目的地。她覺得，她所經過的每一棵樹都在向她伸出枝子，同時懇求她說;“把我帶去吧!把我帶去吧!”每一株樹里面也住著一位懷著渴望心情的樹精。
真是變幻莫測!真是急駛如飛!房子好像是從地上冒出來的一般，越冒越多，越聚越密。煙囪一個接著一個，一排接著一排，羅列在屋頂上，像許多花盆一樣。由一碼多長的字母所組成的字，繪在墻上的圖畫，從墻腳一直伸到屋檐，射出光彩。
“巴黎是從什么地方開始的呢?我什么時候才算是到了巴黎呢?”樹精問著自己。
人越來越多了，鬧聲和噪音也擴大了。車子后面跟著車子，騎馬的人后面跟著步行的人。前后左右全是店鋪、音樂、歌聲、叫聲和講話聲。
坐在樹里的樹精現在來到了巴黎的中心。這輛沉重的大馬車在一個小廣場上停下來。廣場上種滿了樹。它的周圍全是些高房子，而且每個窗子都有一個陽臺。陽臺上的人望著這棵新鮮年輕的栗樹;它現在被運來，而且要栽在這里，來代替那棵連根拔起的、現在倒在地上的老樹。廣場上的人們，帶著微笑和愉快的心情，靜靜地望著這代表春天的綠色。那些剛剛冒芽的老樹，搖動著它們的枝葉，對它致敬：“歡迎!歡迎!”噴泉向空中射著水，水又嘩啦嘩啦地落到它寬廣的池里。它現在叫風兒把它的水點吹到這新來的樹上，作為一種歡迎的表示。
樹精感覺到，她的這株樹已經從車子上被抬下來了，而且被栽在它未來的位置上。樹根被埋在地里，上面還蓋了一層草土。開著花的灌木也像這株樹一樣被栽下來了;四周還安放了許多盆花。這么著，廣場的中央就出現了一個小小的花園。
那株被煤煙、炊煙和城里一切足以致命的氣味所殺死了的、連根拔起的老樹，現在被裝在馬車上拖走了。民眾在旁邊觀看;小孩子和老年人坐在草地上的凳子上，望著新栽的樹上的綠葉。至于我們講這個故事的人呢，我們站在陽臺上，俯視著這株從鄉下新鮮空氣中運來的年輕的樹。我們像那個老牧師一樣，也很想說一聲：“可憐的樹精啊!”
“我是多么幸福啊!多么幸福啊!”樹精說。“但是我卻不能了解，也不能解釋我的這種情感。一切跟我所盼望的是一樣，但也不完全跟我所盼望的是一樣!”
周圍的房屋都很高，而且很密。只有一面墻上映著陽光。墻上貼滿了招貼和廣告。人們站在它面前看，而且人越集越多。輕車和重車從旁邊開過去。公共馬車，像擠滿了人的、移動著的房子，也嘩啦嘩啦地開過去了。騎在馬上的人向前馳騁;貨車和馬車也要求有同樣的權利。
樹精想：這些擠在一起的高房子，可不可以馬上走開，或者變成像天上云塊那樣的東西浮走，以便讓她看看巴黎和巴黎以外的東西呢?她要看看圣母院、萬多姆塔和那件一直吸引著許多觀眾來參觀的奇跡。
可是這些房子卻一動也不動。
天還沒有黑，燈就已經亮起來了。煤氣燈光從店鋪里和樹枝間隱隱地射出來。這跟太陽光很有些相像。星星也出來了——和樹精在故鄉所看到過的一樣的星星。她感到一陣清涼的和風從星星上吹來，她有一種崇高和強壯的感覺。她覺得她有一種力量，可以洞察這棵樹的每一片葉子，可以感覺到樹根的每一個尖端。她覺得她活在人的世界里，人的溫和的眼睛在望著她，她的周圍是一片鬧聲和音樂，色彩和光線。
從一條側街里飄來管樂和手風琴奏的邀舞曲。是的，跳舞吧!跳舞吧!這是叫人歡樂和享受生活的音樂。
這是鼓舞人、馬、車子、樹和房子跳舞的音樂——如果他們能跳舞的話。樹精的心里有一種狂歡的感覺。
“多么幸福啊!多么美啊!”她快樂地高呼著。“我現在是住在巴黎!”
新的日子、新的夜晚和繼續到來的新的日子，帶來同樣的景象，同樣的活動和同樣的生活——一切在不停地變幻，但同時又都是一樣。
“現在我認識這廣場上的每一棵樹，每一朵花!我認識這兒的每一幢房子、每一個陽臺和店鋪。我被安放在這里一個局促的角落里，弄得一點也看不見這個莊嚴偉大的城市。凱旋門、林蔭路和那個世界的奇觀在什么地方呢?這些東西我一點也沒有看到!我被關在這些高房子中間，像在一個囚籠里一樣。這些房子我現在記得爛熟：這包括它們墻上寫的字、招貼、廣告和一切畫出來的糖果——我對這些東西現在沒有任何興趣。我所聽到、知道和渴望的那些東西在什么地方呢?我是為了那些東西到這兒來的呀!我把握了、獲得了和找到了什么呢?我仍然是像從前那樣在渴望著。我已經觸覺到了一種生活，我必須把握住它，我必須過這種生活!我必須走進活生生的人群中去。在人群中跳躍;像鳥兒一樣飛，觀察，體驗，做一個不折不扣的人。我寧愿過半天這樣的生活，而不愿在沉悶和單調中度過一生——這種生活使我感到膩煩，感到沉淪，直到最后像草原上的露珠似的消逝了。我要像云塊，像生活的陽光一樣有光彩，像云塊一樣能夠看見一切東西，像云塊一樣運行——運行到誰也不知道的地方去!”
這是樹精的嘆息。這嘆息聲升到空中，變成一個祈禱：
“請把我一生的歲月拿去吧!我只要求相當于一個蜉蝣的半生的時間!請把我從我的囚籠中釋放出來吧!請讓我過人的生活吧!哪怕只是一瞬間，只是一夜晚都可以!哪怕我的這種大膽和對生活的渴望會招致懲罰都可以!讓我獲得自由吧，哪怕我的這個屋子——這棵新鮮而年輕的樹——萎謝、凋零、變成灰燼、被風吹得無影無蹤都可以!”
樹枝發出一陣沙沙的響聲。一種癢酥酥的感覺通過它的每一片葉子，使它顫抖，好像它里面藏有火花，或者要迸出火花似的。一陣狂風在樹頂上拂過去;正在這時候，一個女子的形體出現了——這是樹精。她坐在煤氣燈照著的。長滿了綠葉的枝子下面，年輕而又美麗，像那個可憐的瑪莉一樣——人們曾經對這個瑪莉說過：“那個大城市將會使你毀滅!”
樹精坐在這樹的腳下。坐在她屋子的門口——她已經把她的門鎖了，而且把鑰匙也扔掉了。她是這么年輕，這么美麗!星星看見了她，對她眨著眼睛!煤氣燈看見了她，對她微笑，對她招手!她是多么苗條，但同時又是多么健康啊!她是一個孩子，但同時又是一個成年的姑娘。她的衣服像綢子一樣柔和，像樹頂上的新葉一樣碧綠。她的棕色頭發上插著一朵半開的栗樹花。她的外貌像春天的女神。
她靜靜坐了一會兒，然后她就跳起來，用羚羊那種輕快的步子，繞過墻腳就不見了。她跑著，跳著，像一面在太陽光里移動著的鏡子所射出的光輝。如果一個人能夠仔細地觀察一下看出實際的情況，他將會感到多么奇異啊!無論什么時候，只要她一停下步子，她的衣服和形體的色調，就會隨著她所在的地方的特點和射在她身上的燈光的顏色而變換。
她走上了林蔭大道。路燈、店鋪和咖啡館所射出的煤氣燈光形成一個光的大海。年輕而瘦削的樹在這兒成行地立著，各自保護著自己的樹精，使她不要受這些人工陽光的損害。無窮盡的人行道，看起來像一個巨大的餐廳：桌子上擺著各種各樣的食品——從香擯酒和蕁麻酒一直到咖啡和啤酒。這兒還有花、繪畫、雕像、書籍和各種顏色布料的展覽。
她從那些高房子下邊的人群中，向樹下可怕的人潮眺望：急駛的馬車，單馬拉著的篷車、轎車、公共馬車、出租馬車，騎馬的紳士和前進的軍隊合起來形成一股浪潮。要想走到對面的人行道上簡直是等于冒生命的危險。一會兒燈光變藍，一會兒煤氣燈發出強烈的閃亮，一會兒火箭向高空射去：它是從什么地方來的，射到什么地方去了呢?
的確，這就是世界名城的大馬路!
這兒有柔和的意大利音樂，有響板伴奏著的西班牙歌曲。不過那淹沒一切的巨大響聲是一個八音盤所奏出的流行音樂——這種刺激人的“康康”音樂⑧連奧爾菲斯⑨也不知道，美麗的海倫⑩簡直沒有聽見過。如果獨輪車能夠跳舞的話，它恐怕也要在它那個獨輪子上跳起舞來了。樹精在跳舞，在旋轉，在飄蕩，像陽光中的蜂鳥⑾一樣在變換著顏色，因為每一幢房子和它的內部都在她身上反射了出來。
像一棵從根拔斷了的鮮艷的蓮花在順水飄流一樣，樹精也被這人潮卷走了。她每到一個地方就變出一個新的形狀;因此誰也沒有辦法追隨她，認出她，甚至觀察她。
一切東西像云塊所形成的種種幻象，在她身旁飄過去了，但是一張張面孔，哪一個她也不認識：她沒有看見過任何一個來自她故鄉的人。她的思想中亮著兩顆明亮的眼珠：她想起了瑪莉——可憐的瑪莉!這個黑發上戴著紅花的、衣衫檻樓的孩子，她現在就在這個豪華富貴、令人目眩神迷的世界名城里，正如她坐在車子里經過牧師的屋子、樹精的樹和那棵老櫟樹的時候一樣。
是的，她就在這兒——在這兒震人耳鼓的鬧聲中。可能她剛剛才從停在那兒的一輛漂亮馬車里走出來呢。這些華貴的馬車都有穿著整齊制服的馬夫和穿著絲襪的仆役。車上走下來的全是些服裝華麗的貴婦人。她們走進敞著的格子門，走上寬闊的、通向一個有大理石圓柱的建筑物的高梯。可能這就是“世界的奇觀”吧?瑪莉一定在這兒!
“圣母瑪莉亞!”里面有人在唱著圣詩，香煙在高大的、色彩鮮明的、鍍金的拱門下繚繞，造成一種昏暗的氣氛。
這是瑪德蘭教堂。
上流社會的貴婦人，穿著最時興的料子所做的黑禮服，在光滑的地板上輕輕地走過。族徽在用天鵝絨精裝的祈禱書的銀扣子上射出來，也在綴有貴重的布魯塞爾花邊的芬芳的絲手帕上露出面。有些人在祭壇面前靜靜地跪著祈禱，有些人在向懺悔室走去。
樹精感到一種不安和恐懼，好像她走進了一個她不應該插足的處所似的。這是一個靜寂之家，一個秘密的大殿。一切話語都是用低聲、或者在沉默的信任中吐露出來的。
樹精把自己用絲綢和面紗打扮起來，在外表上跟別的富貴女子沒有兩樣。她們每人是不是像她一樣，也是“渴望”的產兒呢?
這時空中發出一個痛苦的、深沉的嘆息聲。這是由懺悔室那個角落傳來的呢，還是由樹精的胸中發出來的?她把面紗拉下一點。她吸了一口教堂的香煙——不是新鮮的空氣。這兒不是她渴望的地方。
去吧!去吧!無休無止地飛翔吧!蜉蝣是沒有休息的。飛翔就是它的生活!
她又到外面來了;她是在噴泉旁的耀眼的煤氣燈下面。“所有的流水都洗不凈在這兒流過的、無辜的鮮血。”
她聽到了這樣一句話。
許多外國人站在這兒高聲地、興高采烈地談論著。在那個神秘的深宮里——樹精就是從那里來的——誰也不敢這樣談話。
一塊大石板被翻起來了，而且還被豎起來了。她不了解這件事情;她看到通到地底層的一條寬路。人們從明亮的星空，從太陽似的煤氣燈光，從一切活躍的生命中走到這條路上來。
“我害怕這情景!”站在這兒的一個女人說。“我不敢走下去!我也不愿意看那兒的綺麗的景象!請陪著我吧!”
“要回去!”男人說。“離開了巴黎而沒有看這最稀奇的東西——一個人憑他的天才和意志所創造出來的、現代的真正奇跡!”
“我不愿意走下去，”這是一個回答。
“現代的奇跡!”人們說。樹精聽到了這話，也懂得它的意思。她的最大的渴望已經達到了目的。伸向巴黎的地底層的人口就在這兒。她從來沒有想到過這事情，但是現在她卻聽到了，看到許多外國人朝下面走。于是她就跟著他們走。
螺旋形的梯子是鐵做的，既寬大，又便利。下面點著一盞燈，更下面一點還有另一盞燈。
這兒簡直就是一個迷宮，里面有數不完的大殿和拱形長廊，彼此交叉著。巴黎所有的大街和小巷這兒都可以看得見，好像是在一個模糊的鏡子里一樣。你可以看到它們的名字;每一幢房子都有一個門牌——它的墻基伸到一條石鋪的、空洞的小徑上。這條小路沿著一條填滿了泥巴的寬運河伸展開去。這上面就是運送清水的引水槽;再上面就懸著網一樣的煤氣管和電線。遠處有許多燈在射出光來，很像這個世界的都市的反影。人們不時可以聽到頭上有隆隆聲;這是橋上開過去的載重車輛。
樹精到什么地方去了呢?
你聽到過地下的墓窖吧?比起這個地下的新世界，這個現代的奇跡——這些巴黎的暗溝來，它真是小巫見大巫了。樹精就在那兒，而不在那個馬爾斯廣場上的世界展覽會里。
她聽到驚奇、羨慕和欣賞的歡呼聲。
“從這地層的深處，”人們說，“上面成千成萬的人獲得健康和長壽!我們的時代是一個進步的時代，具有這個時代的一切幸福。”
這是人的意見和言談，但不是生在這兒和住在這兒的那些生物——耗子——的意見或言談。它們從一堵舊墻的裂縫里發出吱吱的叫聲，非常清楚，連樹精都可以聽懂。
這是一只很大的公耗子，它的尾巴被咬掉了;它用刺耳的聲音把它的情感、痛苦和心里的話都叫出來。它的家族對它所說的每一個字都表示支持。
“我討厭這些聲音，這些人類的胡說八道，這些毫無意義的話語!是的，這兒很漂亮，有煤氣，有煤油!但是我不吃這類的東西!這兒現在變得這么清潔和光明，我們不知怎的，不禁對自己感到羞愧起來。我們唯愿活在蠟燭的時代里!那個時代離我們并不很遠!那是一個浪漫的時代——人們都這樣說。”
“你在講什么話?”樹精說。“我從前并沒有看見過你。你在講些什么東西?”
“我在講那些過去的好日子，”耗子說，“曾祖父和曾祖母耗子時代的好日子!那時到這地下來才是一件了不起的事情呢。那時的耗子窩比整個的巴黎都好!鼠疫媽媽就住在這兒。她殺死人，卻不殺死耗子。強盜和販私販子可以在這兒自由呼吸。這兒是許多最有趣的人物的避亂所——現在只有在上面劇院的情節劇中才能看到的那些人物。我們耗子窩里最浪漫的時代也已經過去了;我們這兒現在有了新鮮空氣和煤油。”
耗子發出這樣吱吱的叫聲!它反對新時代，稱贊鼠疫媽媽那些過去了的日子。
一輛車子停在這兒，這是由飛快的小馬拖著的一種敞篷馬車。這一對人坐進去，在地下的塞巴斯托波爾大道上奔馳起來。上面就是那有著同樣名字的巴黎大馬路，擠滿了行人。
馬車在稀薄的光中消逝了。樹精也升到煤氣光中和新鮮自由的空氣中消逝了。她不是在地下那些交叉的拱形走廊里和窒息的空氣中，而是在這兒看見了世界的奇觀——她在這短短的一夜生命中所追尋的奇觀。它定會發出比一切煤氣燈還要強烈的光來——比從天空滑過去的月亮還要強烈的光來。
是的，一點也不錯!她看到它就在那邊，它在她面前射出光來。它閃耀著，像天上的太白星。
她看到一個閃光的門，向一個充滿了光和舞曲的小花園開著。小而寧靜的人造湖和水池邊亮著五光十色的煤氣燈。用彎彎曲曲的彩色錫箔所剪成的水草反射出閃光，同時從它們的花瓣里噴出一碼多高的水來。美麗的垂柳——真正春天的垂柳——垂著它們新鮮的枝條，像一片透明而又能遮面的綠面紗。
在這兒的灌木林中燒起了一堆黃火。它的紅色火焰照著一座小巧的、半暗的、靜寂的花亭。富有勉力的音樂震蕩著耳膜，使血液在人的四肢里激動和奔流。
她看到許多美麗的、盛裝華服的年輕女人;這些女人臉上露出天真的微笑和青春的歡樂。還有一位叫做瑪莉的姑娘;她頭上戴著玫瑰花，但是她卻沒有馬車和車夫。她們在這里盡情地狂舞，飄飛，旋轉!好像“塔蘭得拉舞”⑿刺激著她們似的，她們跳著，笑著。她們感到說不出地幸福，她們打算擁抱整個的世界。
樹精覺得自己不可抗拒地被吸引到這狂舞中去了。她的一雙小巧的腳穿著一雙綢子做的鞋。鞋的顏色是栗色的，跟飄在她的頭發和她的赤裸的肩膀之間的那條緞帶的顏色完全是一樣。她那綠綢衫有許多大折疊，在空中飄蕩，但是遮不住她美麗的腿和纖細的腳。這雙腳好像是要在她的舞伴頭上繪出神奇的圈子。
難道她是在阿爾米達的魔花園里面嗎?這塊地方的名字叫什么呢?
外面的煤氣燈光中照出這樣一個名字：
瑪壁爾
音樂的調子、拍掌聲、放焰火聲、潺潺的水聲、開香檳酒的砰膨聲，都混在一起，舞跳得像酒醉似的瘋狂。在這一切上面是一輪明月——無疑地它做出了一個怪臉。天空是澄靜的，沒有一點云。人們似乎可以從瑪壁爾一直看到天上。
樹精全身感到一種使人疲勞的陶醉，好像吸食雅片過后的那種昏沉。
她的眼睛在講話，她的嘴唇在講話，但是笛子和提琴的聲音把她的話語都淹沒了。她的舞伴在她的耳邊低語，這低語跟康康舞的音樂節奏在一起顫抖。她聽不懂這些私語;我們也聽不懂這些私語。他把手向她伸過來，抱著她，但他所抱著的卻是透明的、充滿了煤氣的空氣。
氣流托著樹精浮走了，正如風把一片玫瑰花瓣托著一樣。她在高空上，在塔頂上，看到一個火焰，一道閃光。一個亮光從她渴望的目的物上射出來，從馬爾斯廣場的“海市蜃樓”的燈塔上射出來。春天的微風把她吹向這兒;她繞著這塔飛。工人們以為他們所看到的是一只蝴蝶在下落，在死去——因為它來得太早了。
月亮在照著，煤氣燈和燈籠在大廳里，在散在各處的“萬國館”里照著，照著那些起伏的草地和人的智慧所創造的巨石——“無血巨人”使瀑布從這上面傾瀉下來。海的深處和淡水的深處——魚兒的天下——都在這兒展覽出來了。你在一個潛水鐘里，可以想象自己是在深深的池底，是在海底。水從四面八方向這厚玻璃壁壓過來，六英尺多長的珊瑚蟲，柔軟和彎曲得像鱔魚一樣，抖著它身上的活刺，正在前后蠕動，同時緊緊地貼著海底。
它旁邊有一條龐大的比目魚：這條魚舒舒服服地躺著，好像有所思的樣子。一只螃蟹像一只巨大的蜘蛛在它身上爬;蝦子在它周圍不停地飛躍，好像它們是海底的蝴蝶和飛蛾。
淡水里長著許多睡蓮、菅茅和燈心草。金魚像田野里的紅色母牛一樣，都排成隊，把頭掉向同一個方向，好讓水潮能夠流進它們的嘴里。又肥又粗的梭魚呆呆地睜著它們的大眼睛望著玻璃墻。它們都知道，它們現在是在巴黎展覽會里。它們也知道，它們曾經在盛滿了水的桶里，做過一段很艱苦的旅行;它們曾經在鐵路上暈過車，正如人在海上暈船一樣。它們是來看這展覽會的，而它們也就在它們的淡水或咸水缸里看見了：它們看到人群從早到晚不停地流動。世界各國送來了和展覽了他們不同的人種，使這些梭魚、鯽魚、活潑的鱸魚和長滿青苔的鯉魚都能看看這些生物和對這些種族表示一點意見。
“他們全是些有殼的生物!”一條粘糊糊的小鯉魚說。“他們一天換兩三次殼，而且用他們的嘴發出聲音——他們把這叫做‘講話’。我們可是什么也不換，我們有更容易的辦法使我們可以互相了解：把嘴角動一下，或者把眼睛瞪一下就得了!我們有許多地方要比人類高明得多!”
“他們可是學會了游泳。”一條小淡水魚說。“我是從一個大湖里來的。那兒人類在熱天里鉆進水里去。他們先把殼脫掉，然后再游泳。游泳是青蛙教給他們的。他們用后腿蹬，用前腿劃。他們支持不了多久。他們倒很想模仿我們呢，但是他們學得一點也不像。可憐的人類啊!”
魚兒們都瞪著眼睛。它們以為這兒擁擠著的人群仍然是它們在強烈的陽光里所看到的那些人。是的，它們相信這仍然是那些第一次觸動了它們的所謂感覺神經的人形。
一條身上長有美麗的條紋和有一個值得羨慕的肥背的小鯽魚，說它仍然可以看到“人泥”。
“我也看見了，看得非常清楚!”一條黃鯉魚說。“我清楚地看到一個身材美麗的人形——一個‘高腿的小姐’——隨便你怎樣叫她吧。她有我們這樣的嘴和一雙瞪著的眼睛;她后面有兩個氣球，前面掛著一把傘，身上叮叮當當懸著一大堆海草。她很想把這些東西都扔掉，像我們一樣地回到自然。她很想在人類所及的范圍內，做一條有身份的鯉魚。”
“那個被拉在魚鉤上的人——那個男人——在做些什么呢?”
“他坐在一個輪椅上。他手邊有紙、筆和墨水;他把什么都寫下來。他在做什么呢?人們把他叫做記者。”
”他仍然坐在輪椅上跑來跑去!”一條全身長滿了青苔的鯉魚老小姐說。她的喉嚨里塞滿了世界的艱難辛苦，因此她的聲音有點嘶啞。她曾有一次吞過一個魚鉤，她仍然把它帶在喉嚨里很有耐心地游來游去。
“一個記者，”她說，“用魚的語言講老實話，那就是人類中間的烏賊⒀!”
魚兒們都談出了自己的一套意見。不過在這人造的水晶洞里響起了一片槌子聲和工人的歌聲。這些工人不得不在夜里做工，好使一切能在最短的時間內完成，他們的歌聲在樹精的仲夏夜之夢里發出回響——她站在那兒，打算飛翔和消逝。
“這都是金魚!”她說，同時對它們點點頭。“我總算看到你們了!我認識你們!我早就認識你們!燕子在我家里講過你們的故事。你們是多么美，多么輝煌，多么可愛啊!我可以把你們每一位都吻一下!我也認識別的魚!這個一定是肥胖的梭魚，那個一定是美麗的鯽魚，這兒一定是長滿了青苔的老鯉魚!我認識你們，但是你們卻不認識我!”
魚兒呆呆地望著，一個字也聽不懂。它們向那稀薄的微光望著。樹精已經不在那兒了。她已經來到外面。從各國運來的“奇花”在這兒發出新鮮的香氣——從黑面包的國度來的，從鱷魚的海岸來的，從產皮革的俄羅斯來的，從德國出產柯龍香水的河岸來的，從產玫瑰花精的東方國度里來的。
晚間的舞會結束以后，我們在半睡的狀態中乘著車子回來了。音樂仍然清晰地在我們的耳朵里發出回音;我們仍然可以聽見每一個調子;我們可以把它們哼出來。一個被謀害者的眼睛可以把最后一剎那間所看到的東西保留一段時間;同樣，白天熙熙攘攘的景象和光彩，也映在夜的眼里。這既不能被吸收，也不能被磨滅。樹精感覺到了這一點，她知道，明天的一切情形仍然會這樣。樹精站在芬芳的玫瑰花中間。她覺得她在故鄉就認識這些花兒，這是御花園和牧師花園里的花，她在這兒還看見了鮮紅的石榴花——瑪莉曾經在她炭一樣黑的頭發上戴過這樣一朵花。
她心中閃過一段回憶——一段在鄉下老家所度過的兒時的回憶。她的熱望的眼睛把周圍的景色望了一下，她感到一陣極度的焦慮不安。這種心情驅使她走過那些壯麗的大廈。
她感到疲倦。這種疲倦的感覺在不停地增長。她很想在那些鋪著的墊子和地毯上躺下來，或者在水邊的垂柳上靠一靠，并且縱身跳人那清澈的水中——像垂柳的枝條一樣。
但是蜉蝣是沒有辦法休息的。在幾分鐘以內，這一天就完了。
她的思想顫抖起來，她的肢體也顫抖起來。她躺到潺潺流水旁邊的草上。
“你帶著永恒的生命從土地里流出來!”她說，“請你使我的舌頭感到清涼，請你給我一點提神藥吧!”
“我并不是一條活泉水!”泉水說。“我是靠機器的力量流動的!”
“綠草啊，請把你的新鮮氣氛贈一點給我吧!”樹精要求說。“請給我一朵芬芳的花吧!”
“如果我們被折斷了，我們就會死亡!”草和花兒一起說。
“清涼的微風啊，請你吻我吧!我只要一個生命的吻!”
“太陽馬上就會把云塊吻得緋紅!”風兒說。“那時你就會走進死人群中去，消逝了，正如這兒的一切輝煌在這一年沒有結束以前就會消逝一樣。那時我就又可以跟廣場上那些輕微的散沙玩耍，吹起地上的塵土，吹到空氣中去——塵土，遍地都是塵土!”
樹精感到一陣恐怖。她像一個正在洗浴的女人，把動脈管劃開了，不停地流著血，而當她流得正要死的時候，她卻仍然希望活下去。她站起來，向前走了幾步，最后在一個小教堂面前又倒下來了。門是開著的，祭壇上燃著蠟燭，風琴奏出音樂。
多美的音樂呵!樹精從來沒有聽見過這樣的調子，但她在這些調子中似乎聽見了熟識的聲音。這聲音是從一切造物的內心深處發出來的。她覺得她聽見了老櫟樹的蕭蕭聲;她覺得她聽到了老牧師在談論著一些偉大的事跡、馳名的名字，談論著上帝的造物可以而且能夠對未來做些什么貢獻，以求自己獲得永恒的生命。
風琴的調子在空中盤旋著，用歌聲說出這樣的話：
“上帝給你一塊地方生下根，但你的要求和渴望卻使你拔去了你的根。可憐的樹精啊，這促使你滅亡!”
柔和的風琴聲好像是在哭泣，好像是在淚水中消逝了。
天上露出紅云。風兒在呼嘯和歌唱：“死者啊，走開吧，太陽出來啦!”
頭一道陽光射在樹精的身上。她的形體放射出五光十色的光彩，像一個肥皂泡在破裂，消逝、變成一滴水、一滴眼淚——一落到地上就消逝了的眼淚。
可憐的樹精啊!一滴露水，一滴眼淚——一流出來就不見了!
太陽照在馬爾斯廣場的“海市蜃樓”上，照在偉大的巴黎上空，照在有許多樹和一個小噴泉的小廣場上，照在許多高大的房屋上——這些房屋旁邊長著一棵栗樹。這樹的枝子垂下來了，葉子也枯萎了，但是昨日它還是清新向上。生氣勃勃。像春天的化身。大家說它現在已經死了。樹精已經離開了，像云塊似地不見了——誰也不知道她到什么地方去了。
地上躺著一朵萎謝了的、殘破的栗樹花。教堂里的圣水沒有力量使它恢復生命。人類的腳不一會兒就把它踩進塵土。
這一切都是發生過的事情。
我們親眼看見過這些事情，在1867年的巴黎展覽會里，在我們這個時代，在偉大的、奇異的、童話的時代里看見過這些事情。
①貞德(Jeanne dArc，1412～1431)是法國女英雄，曾領導法國人對英國抗戰，后來被英國人當做巫婆燒死了。
②夏洛·哥戴(Charlotte Corday，1768～1793)是法國大革命時一個女戰士，在法國大革命中謀殺了當時的著名政治家、記者馬拉。
③據傳說，這個仙女的空中樓閣，就是我們肉眼所見的海市蜃樓。
④阿拉丁是《一千零一夜》中的一個人物。他有一個神燈，他只須把它擦一下，就可以得到他所希望的東西，因此他所住的宮殿非常豪華。
⑤這是位于亞洲和非洲之間的一個游牧民族。
⑥古斯達夫·瓦薩(Gustav Vasa)是瑞典瓦薩王朝(1521～1720)的創始人。達拉爾是瑞典西部的一個地區。這里的人民支持古斯達夫·瓦薩建立這個王朝。
⑦古代的巴別人想建造一座塔通到天上，上帝為了要阻止他們做這件事就使他們的語言混雜起來，使他們無法彼此了解，因而無從協力做完這件工作。“巴別人的語言”形容語言的混雜。事見《圣經·舊約·創世記》第十一章第四至九節。
⑧這是1830年在巴黎舞場流行的一種音樂。
⑨奧爾菲斯(Orpheus)是希臘神話中的有名的歌唱家和音樂師。
⑩古希臘神話一個美人。
⑾蜂鳥(Calibrian)是美洲熱帶所產的一種燕雀。身體很小，羽毛有光，飛時翅膀發出嗡嗡的聲音。
⑿這是意大利那不勒斯的一種土風舞，以動作激烈著稱。
⒀烏賊的原文是Blaeksprutte，這是由Blaek和Sprutte兩字組成的復合字，有雙關意義。照字面講，是“吐墨水的人”，即“黑良心的造謠者”的意思。
《樹精》英文版：
The Dryad
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 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 wereround 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 cafés 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 refreshing draught 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. 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 Vendme 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 appearance, the same to which the Dryad had looked up in her home. She thought she felt a clear pure stream of air which went forth from them. She felt herself lifted up and strengthened, and felt an increased power of seeing through every leaf and through every fibre of the root. Amid all the noise and the turmoil, the colors and the lights, she knew herself watched by mild eyes.
From the side streets sounded the merry notes of fiddles and wind instruments. Up! to the dance, to the dance! to jollity and pleasure! that was their invitation. Such music it was, that horses, carriages, trees, and houses would have danced, if they had known how. The charm of intoxicating delight filled the bosom of the Dryad.
“How glorious, how splendid it is!” she cried, rejoicingly. “Now I am in Paris!”
The next day that dawned, the next night that fell, offered the same spectacle, similar bustle, similar life; changing, indeed, yet always the same; and thus it went on through the sequence of days.
“Now I know every tree, every flower on the square here! I know every house, every balcony, every shop in this narrow cut-off corner, where I am denied the sight of this great mighty city. Where are the arches of triumph, the Boulevards, the wondrous building of the world? I see nothing of all this. As if shut up in a cage, I stand among the high houses, which I now know by heart, with their inscriptions, signs, and placards; all the painted confectionery, that is no longer to my taste. Where are all the things of which I heard, for which I longed, and for whose sake I wanted to come hither? what have I seized, found, won? I feel the same longing I felt before; I feel that there is a life I should wish to grasp and to experience. I must go out into the ranks of living men, and mingle among them. I must fly about like a bird. I must see and feel, and become human altogether. I must enjoy the one half-day, instead of vegetating for years in every-day sameness and weariness, in which I become ill, and at last sink and disappear like the dew on the meadows. I will gleam like the cloud, gleam in the sunshine of life, look out over the whole like the cloud, and pass away like it, no one knoweth whither.”
Thus sighed the Dryad; and she prayed:
“Take from me the years that were destined for me, and give me but half of the life of the ephemeral fly! Deliver me from my prison! Give me human life, human happiness, only a short span, only the one night, if it cannot be otherwise; and then punish me for my wish to live, my longing for life! Strike me out of thy list. Let my shell, the fresh young tree, wither, or be hewn down, and burnt to ashes, and scattered to all the winds!”
A rustling went through the leaves of the tree; there was a trembling in each of the leaves; it seemed as if fire streamed through it. A gust of wind shook its green crown, and from the midst of that crown a female figure came forth. In the same moment she was sitting beneath the brightly-illuminated leafy branches, young and beautiful to behold, like poor Mary, to whom the clergyman had said, “The great city will be thy destruction.”
The Dryad sat at the foot of the tree—at her house door, which she had locked, and whose key had thrown away. So young! so fair! The stars saw her, and blinked at her. The gas-lamps saw her, and gleamed and beckoned to her. How delicate she was, and yet how blooming!—a child, and yet a grown maiden! Her dress was fine as silk, green as the freshly-opened leaves on the crown of the tree; in her nut-brown hair clung a half-opened chestnut blossom. She looked like the Goddess of Spring.
For one short minute she sat motionless; then she sprang up, and, light as a gazelle, she hurried away. She ran and sprang like the reflection from the mirror that, carried by the sunshine, is cast, now here, now there. Could any one have followed her with his eyes, he would have seen how marvellously her dress and her form changed, according to the nature of the house or the place whose light happened to shine upon her.
She reached the Boulevards. Here a sea of light streamed forth from the gas-flames of the lamps, the shops and the cafés. Here stood in a row young and slender trees, each of which concealed its Dryad, and gave shade from the artificial sunlight. The whole vast pavement was one great festive hall, where covered tables stood laden with refreshments of all kinds, from champagne and Chartreuse down to coffee and beer. Here was an exhibition of flowers, statues, books, and colored stuffs.
From the crowd close by the lofty houses she looked forth over the terrific stream beyond the rows of trees. Yonder heaved a stream of rolling carriages, cabriolets, coaches, omnibuses, cabs, and among them riding gentlemen and marching troops. To cross to the opposite shore was an undertaking fraught with danger to life and limb. Now lanterns shed their radiance abroad; now the gas had the upper hand; suddenly a rocket rises! Whence? Whither?
Here are sounds of soft Italian melodies; yonder, Spanish songs are sung, accompanied by the rattle of the castanets; but strongest of all, and predominating over the rest, the street-organ tunes of the moment, the exciting “Can-Can” music, which Orpheus never knew, and which was never heard by the “Belle Helénè.” Even the barrow was tempted to hop upon one of its wheels.
The Dryad danced, floated, flew, changing her color every moment, like a humming-bird in the sunshine; each house, with the world belonging to it, gave her its own reflections.
As the glowing lotus-flower, torn from its stem, is carried away by the stream, so the Dryad drifted along. Whenever she paused, she was another being, so that none was able to follow her, to recognize her, or to look more closely at her.
Like cloud-pictures, all things flew by her. She looked into a thousand faces, but not one was familiar to her; she saw not a single form from home. Two bright eyes had remained in her memory. She thought of Mary, poor Mary, the ragged merry child, who wore the red flowers in her black hair. Mary was now here, in the world-city, rich and magnificent as in that day when she drove past the house of the old clergyman, and past the tree of the Dryad, the old oak.
Here she was certainly living, in the deafening tumult. Perhaps she had just stepped out of one of the gorgeous carriages in waiting. Handsome equipages, with coachmen in gold braid and footmen in silken hose, drove up. The people who alighted from them were all richly-dressed ladies. They went through the opened gate, and ascended the broad staircase that led to a building resting on marble pillars. Was this building, perhaps, the wonder of the world? There Mary would certainly be found.
“Sancta Maria!” resounded from the interior. Incense floated through the lofty painted and gilded aisles, where a solemn twilight reigned.
It was the Church of the Madeleine.
Clad in black garments of the most costly stuffs, fashioned according to the latest mode, the rich feminine world of Paris glided across the shining pavement. The crests of the proprietors were engraved on silver shields on the velvet-bound prayer-books, and embroidered in the corners of perfumed handkerchiefs bordered with Brussels lace. A few of the ladies were kneeling in silent prayer before the altars; others resorted to the confessionals.
Anxiety and fear took possession of the Dryad; she felt as if she had entered a place where she had no right to be. Here was the abode of silence, the hall of secrets. Everything was said in whispers, every word was a mystery.
The Dryad saw herself enveloped in lace and silk, like the women of wealth and of high birth around her. Had, perhaps, every one of them a longing in her breast, like the Dryad?
A deep, painful sigh was heard. Did it escape from some confessional in a distant corner, or from the bosom of the Dryad? She drew the veil closer around her; she breathed incense, and not the fresh air. Here was not the abiding-place of her longing.
Away! away—a hastening without rest. The ephemeral fly knows not repose, for her existence is flight.
She was out again among the gas candelabra, by a magnificent fountain.
“All its streaming waters are not able to wash out the innocent blood that was spilt here.”
Such were the words spoken. Strangers stood around, carrying on a lively conversation, such as no one would have dared to carry on in the gorgeous hall of secrets whence the Dryad came.
A heavy stone slab was turned and then lifted. She did not understand why. She saw an opening that led into the depths below. The strangers stepped down, leaving the starlit air and the cheerful life of the upper world behind them.
“I am afraid,” said one of the women who stood around, to her husband, “I cannot venture to go down, nor do I care for the wonders down yonder. You had better stay here with me.”
“Indeed, and travel home,” said the man, “and quit Paris without having seen the most wonderful thing of all—the real wonder of the present period, created by the power and resolution of one man!”
“I will not go down for all that,” was the reply.
“The wonder of the present time,” it had been called. The Dryad had heard and had understood it. The goal of her ardent longing had thus been reached, and here was the entrance to it. Down into the depths below Paris? She had not thought of such a thing; but now she heard it said, and saw the strangers descending, and went after them.
The staircase was of cast iron, spiral, broad and easy. Below there burned a lamp, and farther down, another. They stood in a labyrinth of endless halls and arched passages, all communicating with each other. All the streets and lanes of Paris were to be seen here again, as in a dim reflection. The names were painted up; and every, house above had its number down here also, and struck its roots under the macadamized quays of a broad canal, in which the muddy water flowed onward. Over it the fresh streaming water was carried on arches; and quite at the top hung the tangled net of gas-pipes and telegraph-wires.
In the distance lamps gleamed, like a reflection from the world-city above. Every now and then a dull rumbling was heard. This came from the heavy wagons rolling over the entrance bridges.
Whither had the Dryad come?
You have, no doubt, heard of the CATACOMBS? Now they are vanishing points in that new underground world—that wonder of the present day—the sewers of Paris. The Dryad was there, and not in the world’s Exhibition in the Champ de Mars.
She heard exclamations of wonder and admiration.
“From here go forth health and life for thousands upon thousands up yonder! Our time is the time of progress, with its manifold blessings.”
Such was the opinion and the speech of men; but not of those creatures who had been born here, and who built and dwelt here—of the rats, namely, who were squeaking to one another in the clefts of a crumbling wall, quite plainly, and in a way the Dryad understood well.
A big old Father-Rat, with his tail bitten off, was relieving his feelings in loud squeaks; and his family gave their tribute of concurrence to every word he said:
“I am disgusted with this man-mewing,” he cried—“with these outbursts of ignorance. A fine magnificence, truly! all made up of gas and petroleum! I can’t eat such stuff as that. Everything here is so fine and bright now, that one’s ashamed of one’s self, without exactly knowing why. Ah, if we only lived in the days of tallow candles! and it does not lie so very far behind us. That was a romantic time, as one may say.”
“What are you talking of there?” asked the Dryad. “I have never seen you before. What is it you are talking about?”
“Of the glorious days that are gone,” said the Rat—“of the happy time of our great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers. Then it was a great thing to get down here. That was a rat’s nest quite different from Paris. Mother Plague used to live here then; she killed people, but never rats. Robbers and smugglers could breathe freely here. Here was the meeting-place of the most interesting personages, whom one now only gets to see in the theatres where they act melodrama, up above. The time of romance is gone even in our rat’s nest; and here also fresh air and petroleum have broken in.”
A carriage stopped, a kind of open omnibus, drawn by swift horses. The company mounted and drove away along the Boulevard de Sebastopol, that is to say, the underground boulevard, over which the well-known crowded street of that name extended.
The carriage disappeared in the twilight; the Dryad disappeared, lifted to the cheerful freshness above. Here, and not below in the vaulted passages, filled with heavy air, the wonder work must be found which she was to seek in her short lifetime. It must gleam brighter than all the gas-flames, stronger than the moon that was just gliding past.
Yes, certainly, she saw it yonder in the distance, it gleamed before her, and twinkled and glittered like the evening star in the sky.
She saw a glittering portal open, that led to a little garden, where all was brightness and dance music. Colored lamps surrounded little lakes, in which were water-plants of colored metal, from whose flowers jets of water spurted up. Beautiful weeping willows, real products of spring, hung their fresh branches over these lakes like a fresh, green, transparent, and yet screening veil. In the bushes burnt an open fire, throwing a red twilight over the quiet huts of branches, into which the sounds of music penetrated—an ear tickling, intoxicating music, that sent the blood coursing through the veins.
Beautiful girls in festive attire, with pleasant smiles on their lips, and the light spirit of youth in their hearts—“Marys,” with roses in their hair, but without carriage and postilion—flitted to and fro in the wild dance.
Where were the heads, where the feet? As if stung by tarantulas, they sprang, laughed, rejoiced, as if in their ecstacies they were going to embrace all the world.
The Dryad felt herself torn with them into the whirl of the dance. Round her delicate foot clung the silken boot, chestnut brown in color, like the ribbon that floated from her hair down upon her bare shoulders. The green silk dress waved in large folds, but did not entirely hide the pretty foot and ankle.
Had she come to the enchanted Garden of Armida? What was the name of the place?
The name glittered in gas-jets over the entrance. It was “Mabille.”
The soaring upwards of rockets, the splashing of fountains, and the popping of champagne corks accompanied the wild bacchantic dance. Over the whole glided the moon through the air, clear, but with a somewhat crooked face.
A wild joviality seemed to rush through the Dryad, as though she were intoxicated with opium. Her eyes spoke, her lips spoke, but the sound of violins and of flutes drowned the sound of her voice. Her partner whispered words to her which she did not understand, nor do we understand them. He stretched out his arms to draw her to him, but he embraced only the empty air.
The Dryad had been carried away, like a rose-leaf on the wind. Before her she saw a flame in the air, a flashing light high up on a tower. The beacon light shone from the goal of her longing, shone from the red lighthouse tower of the Fata Morgana of the Champ de Mars. Thither she was carried by the wind. She circled round the tower; the workmen thought it was a butterfly that had come too early, and that now sank down dying.
The moon shone bright, gas-lamps spread light around, through the halls, over the all-world’s buildings scattered about, over the rose-hills and the rocks produced by human ingenuity, from which waterfalls, driven by the power of “Master Bloodless,” fell down. The caverns of the sea, the depths of the lakes, the kingdom of the fishes were opened here. Men walked as in the depths of the deep pond, and held converse with the sea, in the diving-bell of glass. The water pressed against the strong glass walls above and on every side. The polypi, eel-like living creatures, had fastened themselves to the bottom, and stretched out arms, fathoms long, for prey. A big turbot was making himself broad in front, quietly enough, but not without casting some suspicious glances aside. A crab clambered over him, looking like a gigantic spider, while the shrimps wandered about in restless haste, like the butterflies and moths of the sea.
In the fresh water grew water-lilies, nymphaea, and reeds; the gold-fishes stood up below in rank and file, all turning their heads one way, that the streaming water might flow into their mouths. Fat carps stared at the glass wall with stupid eyes. They knew that they were here to be exhibited, and that they had made the somewhat toilsome journey hither in tubs filled with water; and they thought with dismay of the land-sickness from which they had suffered so cruelly on the railway.
They had come to see the Exhibition, and now contemplated it from their fresh or salt-water position. They looked attentively at the crowds of people who passed by them early and late. All the nations in the world, they thought, had made an exhibition of their inhabitants, for the edification of the soles and haddocks, pike and carp, that they might give their opinions upon the different kinds.
“Those are scaly animals” said a little slimy Whiting. “They put on different scales two or three times a day, and they emit sounds which they call speaking. We don’t put on scales, and we make ourselves understood in an easier way, simply by twitching the corners of our mouths and staring with our eyes. We have a great many advantages over mankind.”
“But they have learned swimming of us,” remarked a well-educated Codling. “You must know I come from the great sea outside. In the hot time of the year the people yonder go into the water; first they take off their scales, and then they swim. They have learnt from the frogs to kick out with their hind legs, and row with their fore paws. But they cannot hold out long. They want to be like us, but they cannot come up to us. Poor people!”
And the fishes stared. They thought that the whole swarm of people whom they had seen in the bright daylight were still moving around them; they were certain they still saw the same forms that had first caught their attention.
A pretty Barbel, with spotted skin, and an enviably round back, declared that the “human fry” were still there.
“I can see a well set-up human figure quite well,” said the Barbel. “She was called ‘contumacious lady,’ or something of that kind. She had a mouth and staring eyes, like ours, and a great balloon at the back of her head, and something like a shut-up umbrella in front; there were a lot of dangling bits of seaweed hanging about her. She ought to take all the rubbish off, and go as we do; then she would look something like a respectable barbel, so far as it is possible for a person to look like one!”
“What’s become of that one whom they drew away with the hook? He sat on a wheel-chair, and had paper, and pen, and ink, and wrote down everything. They called him a ‘writer.’”
“They’re going about with him still,” said a hoary old maid of a Carp, who carried her misfortune about with her, so that she was quite hoarse. In her youth she had once swallowed a hook, and still swam patiently about with it in her gullet. “A writer? That means, as we fishes describe it, a kind of cuttle or ink-fish among men.”
Thus the fishes gossipped in their own way; but in the artificial water-grotto the laborers were busy; who were obliged to take advantage of the hours of night to get their work done by daybreak. They accompanied with blows of their hammers and with songs the parting words of the vanishing Dryad.
“So, at any rate, I have seen you, you pretty gold-fishes,” she said. “Yes, I know you;” and she waved her hand to them. “I have known about you a long time in my home; the swallow told me about you. How beautiful you are! how delicate and shining! I should like to kiss every one of you. You others, also. I know you all; but you do not know me.”
The fishes stared out into the twilight. They did not understand a word of it.
The Dryad was there no longer. She had been a long time in the open air, where the different countries—the country of black bread, the codfish coast, the kingdom of Russia leather, and the banks of eau-de-Cologne, and the gardens of rose oil—exhaled their perfumes from the world-wonder flower.
When, after a night at a ball, we drive home half asleep and half awake, the melodies still sound plainly in our ears; we hear them, and could sing them all from memory. When the eye of the murdered man closes, the picture of what it saw last clings to it for a time like a photographic picture.
So it was likewise here. The bustling life of day had not yet disappeared in the quiet night. The Dryad had seen it; she knew, thus it will be repeated tomorrow.
The Dryad stood among the fragrant roses, and thought she knew them, and had seen them in her own home. She also saw red pomegranate flowers, like those that little Mary had worn in her dark hair.
Remembrances from the home of her childhood flashed through her thoughts; her eyes eagerly drank in the prospect around, and feverish restlessness chased her through the wonder-filled halls.
A weariness that increased continually, took possession of her. She felt a longing to rest on the soft Oriental carpets within, or to lean against the weeping willow without by the clear water. But for the ephemeral fly there was no rest. In a few moments the day had completed its circle.
Her thoughts trembled, her limbs trembled, she sank down on the grass by the bubbling water.
“Thou wilt ever spring living from the earth,” she said mournfully. “Moisten my tongue—bring me a refreshing draught.”
“I am no living water,” was the answer. “I only spring upward when the machine wills it.”
“Give me something of thy freshness, thou green grass,” implored the Dryad; “give me one of thy fragrant flowers.”
“We must die if we are torn from our stalks,” replied the Flowers and the Grass.
“Give me a kiss, thou fresh stream of air—only a single life-kiss.”
“Soon the sun will kiss the clouds red,” answered the Wind; “then thou wilt be among the dead—blown away, as all the splendor here will be blown away before the year shall have ended. Then I can play again with the light loose sand on the place here, and whirl the dust over the land and through the air. All is dust!”
The Dryad felt a terror like a woman who has cut asunder her pulse-artery in the bath, but is filled again with the love of life, even while she is bleeding to death. She raised herself, tottered forward a few steps, and sank down again at the entrance to a little church. The gate stood open, lights were burning upon the altar, and the organ sounded.
What music! Such notes the Dryad had never yet heard; and yet it seemed to her as if she recognized a number of well-known voices among them. They came deep from the heart of all creation. She thought she heard the stories of the old clergyman, of great deeds, and of the celebrated names, and of the gifts that the creatures of God must bestow upon posterity, if they would live on in the world.
The tones of the organ swelled, and in their song there sounded these words:
“Thy wishing and thy longing have torn thee, with thy roots, from the place which God appointed for thee. That was thy destruction, thou poor Dryad!”
The notes became soft and gentle, and seemed to die away in a wail.
In the sky the clouds showed themselves with a ruddy gleam. The Wind sighed:
“Pass away, ye dead! now the sun is going to rise!”
The first ray fell on the Dryad. Her form was irradiated in changing colors, like the soap-bubble when it is bursting and becomes a drop of water; like a tear that falls and passes away like a vapor.
Poor Dryad! Only a dew-drop, only a tear, poured upon the earth, and vanished away!
作者簡介
安徒生，丹麥19世紀著名的童話作家和詩人，世界童話文學的代表人物之一，被譽為“世界兒童文學的太陽”。代表作有《小錫兵》《海的女兒》《拇指姑娘》《賣火柴的小女孩》《丑小鴨》《皇帝的新裝》等。葉君健，中國從丹麥文翻譯并系統全面地介紹安徒生童話的翻譯家。因翻譯丹麥文版安徒生童話故事而享譽世界文壇。1949年，旅居劍橋5年的葉君健回國，時任文化生活出版社總編輯巴金向他約稿。1953年，葉君健翻譯的安徒生童話《沒有畫的畫冊》出版，以后各分冊陸續與讀者見面。1958年，葉君健又將《安徒生童話全集》所有譯文校訂一遍，共16冊。1997年，葉老在原譯文的基礎上，又一次重新進行了整理，成為奉獻給讀者的這套《安徒生童話》。
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