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.
