THE

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 spaned, 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 spanided

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 spaning-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