THE DRYAD

                                  1872

                 FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

                               THE DRYAD

                       by Hans Christian Andersen



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 were twittering round them in the most beautiful sunshine.

Then a stately carriage came rolling along that way, and in it sat a

grand lady driving the spirited, light-footed horses. On the back seat

a little smart groom balanced himself. The Dryad knew the lady, and

the old clergyman knew her also. He shook his head gravely when he saw

her, and said:

"So you went there after all, and it was your ruin, poor Mary!"

"That one poor?" thought the Dryad. "No; she wears a dress fit for

a countess" (she had become one in the city of magic changes). "Oh, if

I were only there, amid all the splendor and pomp! They shine up

into the very clouds at night; when I look up, I can tell in what

direction the town lies."

Towards that direction the Dryad looked every evening. She saw

in the dark night the gleaming cloud on the horizon; in the clear

moonlight nights she missed the sailing clouds, which showed her

pictures of the city and pictures from history.

The child grasps at the picture-books, the Dryad grasped at the

cloud-world, her thought-book. A sudden, cloudless sky was for her a

blank leaf; and for several days she had only had such leaves before

her.

It was in the warm summer-time: not a breeze moved through the

glowing hot days. Every leaf, every flower, lay as if it were

torpid, and the people seemed torpid, too.

Then the clouds arose and covered the region round about where the

gleaming mist announced "Here lies Paris."

The clouds piled themselves up like a chain of mountains,

hurried on through the air, and spread themselves abroad over the

whole landscape, as far as the Dryad's eye could reach.

Like enormous blue-black blocks of rock, the clouds lay piled over

one another. Gleams of lightning shot forth from them.

"These also are the servants of the Lord God," the old clergyman

had said. And there came a bluish dazzling flash of lightning, a

lighting up as if of the sun itself, which could burst blocks of

rock asunder. The lightning struck and split to the roots the old

venerable oak. The crown fell asunder. It seemed as if the tree were

stretching forth its arms to clasp the messengers of the light.

No bronze cannon can sound over the land at the birth of a royal

child as the thunder sounded at the death of the old oak. The rain

streamed down; a refreshing wind was blowing; the storm had gone by,

and there was quite a holiday glow on all things. The old clergyman

spoke a few words for honorable remembrance, and a painter made a

drawing, as a lasting record of the tree.

"Everything passes away," said the Dryad, "passes away like a

cloud, and never comes back!"

The old clergyman, too, did not come back. The green roof of his

school was gone, and his teaching-chair had vanished. The children did

not come; but autumn came, and winter came, and then spring also. In

all this change of seasons the Dryad looked toward the region where,

at night, Paris gleamed with its bright mist far on the horizon.

Forth from the town rushed engine after engine, train after train,

whistling and screaming at all hours in the day. In the evening,

towards midnight, at daybreak, and all the day through, came the

trains. Out of each one, and into each one, streamed people from the

country of every king. A new wonder of the world had summoned them

to Paris.

In what form did this wonder exhibit itself?

"A splendid blossom of art and industry," said one, "has

unfolded itself in the Champ de Mars, a gigantic sunflower, from whose

petals one can learn geography and statistics, and can become as

wise as a lord mayor, and raise one's self to the level of art and

poetry, and study the greatness and power of the various lands."

"A fairy tale flower," said another, "a many-colored

lotus-plant, which spreads out its green leaves like a velvet carpet

over the sand. The opening spring has brought it forth, the summer

will see it in all its splendor, the autumn winds will sweep it

away, so that not a leaf, not a fragment of its root shall remain."

In front of the Military School extends in time of peace the arena

of war- a field without a blade of grass, a piece of sandy steppe,

as if cut out of the Desert of Africa, where Fata Morgana displays her

wondrous airy castles and hanging gardens. In the Champ de Mars,

however, these were to be seen more splendid, more wonderful than in

the East, for human art had converted the airy deceptive scenes into

reality.

"The Aladdin's Palace of the present has been built," it was said.

"Day by day, hour by hour, it unfolds more of its wonderful splendor."

The endless halls shine in marble and many colors. "Master

Bloodless" here moves his limbs of steel and iron in the great

circular hall of machinery. Works of art in metal, in stone, in

Gobelins tapestry, announce the vitality of mind that is stirring in

every land. Halls of paintings, splendor of flowers, everything that

mind and skill can create in the workshop of the artisan, has been

placed here for show. Even the memorials of ancient days, out of old

graves and turf-moors, have appeared at this general meeting.

The overpowering great variegated whole must be divided into small

portions, and pressed together like a plaything, if it is to be

understood and described.

Like a great table on Christmas Eve, the Champ de Mars carried a

wonder-castle of industry and art, and around this knickknacks from

all countries had been ranged, knickknacks on a grand scale, for every

nation found some remembrance of home.

Here stood the royal palace of Egypt, there the caravanserai of

the desert land. The Bedouin had quitted his sunny country, and

hastened by on his camel. Here stood the Russian stables, with the

fiery glorious horses of the steppe. Here stood the simple

straw-thatched dwelling of the Danish peasant, with the Dannebrog

flag, next to Gustavus Vasa's wooden house from Dalarne, with its

wonderful carvings. American huts, English cottages, French pavilions,

kiosks, theatres, churches, all strewn around, and between them the

fresh green turf, the clear springing water, blooming bushes, rare

trees, hothouses, in which one might fancy one's self transported into

the tropical forest; whole gardens brought from Damascus, and blooming

under one roof. What colors, what fragrance!

Artificial grottoes surrounded bodies of fresh or salt water,

and gave a glimpse into the empire of the fishes; the visitor seemed

to wander at the bottom of the sea, among fishes and polypi.

"All this," they said, "the Champ de Mars offers;" and around

the great richly-spread table the crowd of human beings moves like a

busy swarm of ants, on foot or in little carriages, for not all feet

are equal to such a fatiguing journey.

Hither they swarm from morning till late in the evening. Steamer

after steamer, crowded with people, glides down the Seine. The

number of carriages is continually on the increase. The swarm of

people on foot and on horseback grows more and more dense. Carriages

and omnibuses are crowded, stuffed and embroidered with people. All

these tributary streams flow in one direction- towards the Exhibition.

On every entrance the flag of France is displayed; around the

world's bazaar wave the flags of all nations. There is a humming and a

murmuring from the hall of the machines; from the towers the melody of

the chimes is heard; with the tones of the organs in the churches

mingle the hoarse nasal songs from the cafes of the East. It is a

kingdom of Babel, a wonder of the world!

In very truth it was. That's what all the reports said, and who

did not hear them? The Dryad knew everything that is told here of

the new wonder in the city of cities.

"Fly away, ye birds! fly away to see, and then come back and

tell me," said the Dryad.

The wish became an intense desire- became the one thought of a

life. Then, in the quiet silent night, while the full moon was

shining, the Dryad saw a spark fly out of the moon's disc, and fall

like a shooting star. And before the tree, whose leaves waved to and

fro as if they were stirred by a tempest, stood a noble, mighty, and

grand figure. In tones that were at once rich and strong, like the

trumpet of the Last Judgment bidding farewell to life and summoning to

the great account, it said:

"Thou shalt go to the city of magic; thou shalt take root there,

and enjoy the mighty rushing breezes, the air and the sunshine

there. But the time of thy life shall then be shortened; the line of

years that awaited thee here amid the free nature shall shrink to

but a small tale. Poor Dryad! It shall be thy destruction. Thy

yearning and longing will increase, thy desire will grow more

stormy, the tree itself will be as a prison to thee, thou wilt quit

thy cell and give up thy nature to fly out and mingle among men.

Then the years that would have belonged to thee will be contracted

to half the span of the ephemeral fly, that lives but a day: one

night, and thy life-taper shall be blown out- the leaves of the tree

will wither and be blown away, to become green never again!"

Thus the words sounded. And the light vanished away, but not the

longing of the Dryad. She trembled in the wild fever of expectation.

"I shall go there!" she cried, rejoicingly. "Life is beginning and

swells like a cloud; nobody knows whither it is hastening."

When the gray dawn arose and the moon turned pale and the clouds

were tinted red, the wished-for hour struck. The words of promise were

fulfilled.

People appeared with spades and poles; they dug round the roots of

the tree, deeper and deeper, and beneath it. A wagon was brought

out, drawn by many horses, and the tree was lifted up, with its

roots and the lumps of earth that adhered to them; matting was

placed around the roots, as though the tree had its feet in a warm

bag. And now the tree was lifted on the wagon and secured with chains.

The journey began- the journey to Paris. There the tree was to grow as

an ornament to the city of French glory.

The twigs and the leaves of the chestnut tree trembled in the

first moments of its being moved; and the Dryad trembled in the

pleasurable feeling of expectation.

"Away! away!" it sounded in every beat of her pulse. "Away!

away" sounded in words that flew trembling along. The Dryad forgot

to bid farewell to the regions of home; she thought not of the

waving grass and of the innocent daisies, which had looked up to her

as to a great lady, a young Princess playing at being a shepherdess

out in the open air.

The chestnut tree stood upon the wagon, and nodded his branches;

whether this meant "farewell" or "forward," the Dryad knew not; she

dreamed only of the marvellous new things, that seemed yet so

familiar, and that were to unfold themselves before her. No child's

heart rejoicing in innocence- no heart whose blood danced with

passion- had set out on the journey to Paris more full of

expectation than she.

Her "farewell" sounded in the words "Away! away!"

The wheels turned; the distant approached; the present vanished.

The region was changed, even as the clouds change. New vineyards,

forests, villages, villas appeared- came nearer- vanished!

The chestnut tree moved forward, and the Dryad went with it.

Steam-engine after steam-engine rushed past, sending up into the air

vapory clouds, that formed figures which told of Paris, whence they

came, and whither the Dryad was going.

Everything around knew it, and must know whither she was bound. It

seemed to her as if every tree she passed stretched out its leaves

towards her, with the prayer- "Take me with you! take me with you!"

for every tree enclosed a longing Dryad.

What changes during this flight! Houses seemed to be rising out of

the earth- more and more- thicker and thicker. The chimneys rose

like flower-pots ranged side by side, or in rows one above the

other, on the roofs. Great inscriptions in letters a yard long, and

figures in various colors, covering the walls from cornice to

basement, came brightly out.

"Where does Paris begin, and when shall I be there?" asked the

Dryad.

The crowd of people grew; the tumult and the bustle increased;

carriage followed upon carriage; people on foot and people on

horseback were mingled together; all around were shops on shops, music

and song, crying and talking.

The Dryad, in her tree, was now in the midst of Paris. The great

heavy wagon all at once stopped on a little square planted with trees.

The high houses around had all of them balconies to the windows,

from which the inhabitants looked down upon the young fresh chestnut

tree, which was coming to be planted here as a substitute for the dead

tree that lay stretched on the ground.

The passers-by stood still and smiled in admiration of its pure

vernal freshness. The older trees, whose buds were still closed,

whispered with their waving branches, "Welcome! welcome!" The

fountain, throwing its jet of water high up in the air, to let it fall

again in the wide stone basin, told the wind to sprinkle the new-comer

with pearly drops, as if it wished to give him a 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 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 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 cafes. 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 Helene." 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."

Thus squeaked the Rat; he squeaked in honor of the old time,

when Mother Plague was still alive.

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!

                        THE END

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