THE STORY WITHOUT AN END.

THE STORY WITHOUT AN END.

FROM THE GERMAN OF F. W. CAROVÉ,

By SARAH AUSTIN.

ILLUSTRATED BY WILLIAM HARVEY.

LONDON: PUBLISHED BY EFFINGHAM WILSON, ROYAL EXCHANGE. 1834.

TO MY DAUGHTER.

MY DEAR CHILD, THE story you love so much in German, I dedicate to you in English. It was in compliance with your earnest wish that other children might share the delight it has so often afforded you, that I translated it; so that it is, in some sort, yours of right. Let us hope that your confident expectations of sympathy in your pleasure may not be disappointed; or that, if others think the story less beautiful than you do, they may find compensation in the graceful designs it has inspired. You have often regretted that it left off so soon, and would, I believe, “have been glad to hear more and more, and for ever.” The continuation you have longed for lies in a wide and magnificent book, which[vi] contains more wonderful and glorious things than all our favourite fairy-tales put together. But to read in that book, so as to discover all its beautiful meanings, you must have pure, clear eyes, and a humble, loving heart; otherwise you will complain, as some do, that it is dim and puzzling; or, as others, that it is dull and monotonous.

May you continue to read in it with new curiosity, new delight, and new profit; and to find it, as long as you live, the untiring “Story without an End.” Your affectionate Mother, S. A. London, Nov. 16th, 1833.

[vii]

[viii]

THE STORY WITHOUT AN END.

I.

THERE was once a Child who lived in a little hut, and in the hut there was nothing but a little bed and a looking-glass which hung in a dark corner. Now the Child cared nothing at all about the looking-glass; but as soon as the first sunbeam glided softly through[10] the casement and kissed his sweet eyelids, and the finch and the linnet waked him merrily with their morning songs, he arose, and went out into the green meadow. And he begged flour of the primrose, and sugar of the violet, and butter of the butter-cup; he shook dew-drops from the cowslip into the cup of a harebell; spread out a large lime leaf, set his little breakfast upon it, and feasted daintily. Sometimes he invited a humming bee, oftener a gay butterfly, to partake his feast; but his favourite guest was the blue dragonfly. The bee murmured a great deal, in a[11] solemn tone, about his riches: but the Child thought that if he were a bee heaps of treasure would not make him gay and happy; and that it must be much more delightful and glorious to float about in the free and fresh breezes

of spring, and to hum joyously in the web of the sunbeams, than, with heavy feet and heavy heart, to stow the silver wax and the golden honey into cells.

To this the butterfly assented; and he told, how, once on a time, he too had been greedy and sordid; how he had thought of nothing but eating, and had never once turned his eyes upwards to[12] the blue heavens. At length, however, a complete change had come over him; and instead of crawling spiritless about the dirty earth, half dreaming, he all at once awaked as out of a deep sleep. And now he would rise into the air;—and it was his greatest joy sometimes to play with the light, and to reflect the heavens in the bright eyes of his wings; sometimes to listen to the soft language of the flowers and catch their secrets. Such talk delighted the Child, and his breakfast was the sweeter to him, and the sunshine on leaf and flower seemed to him more bright and cheering.

[13]But when the bee had flown off to beg from flower to flower, and the butterfly had fluttered away to his playfellows, the dragonfly still remained, poised on a blade of grass. Her slender and burnished body, more brightly and deeply blue than the deep blue sky, glistened in the sunbeam; and her net-like wings laughed at the flowers because they could not fly, but must stand still and abide the wind and the rain. The dragonfly sipped a little of the Child’s clear dew-drops and blue violet-honey, and then whispered her winged words. And the Child made an end of[14] his repast, closed his dark blue eyes, bent down his beautiful head, and listened to the sweet prattle.

Then the dragonfly told much of the merry life in the green wood; how sometimes she played hide-and-seek with her playfellows under the broad leaves of the oak and the beech trees; or hunt-the-hare along the surface of the still waters; sometimes quietly watched the sunbeams, as they flew busily from moss to flower and from flower to bush, and shed life and warmth over all. But at night, she said, the moonbeams glided softly around the[15] wood, and dropped dew into the mouths of all the thirsty plants; and when the dawn pelted the slumberers with the soft roses of heaven, some of the half drunken flowers looked up and smiled; but most of them could not so much as raise their heads for a long, long time.

Such stories did the dragonfly tell; and as the Child sat motionless with his eyes shut, and his head rested on his little hand, she thought he had fallen asleep;—so she poised her double wings and flew into the rustling wood.

[16] [17]

[18]

II.

But the Child was only sunk into a dream of delight, and was wishing he were a sunbeam or a moonbeam; and he would have been glad to hear more and more, and for ever. But at last, as all was still, he opened his eyes and looked around for his dear guest; but she was flown far away; so he could not bear to sit there any longer alone, and he rose and went to the gurgling[20] brook. It gushed and rolled so merrily, and tumbled so wildly along as it hurried to throw itself head-over-heels into the river, just as if the great, massy rock out of which it sprang, were close behind it, and could only be escaped by a break-neck leap.

Then the Child began to talk to the little waves, and asked them whence they came. They would not stay to give him an answer, but danced away, one over another; till at last, that the sweet Child might not be grieved, a drop of water stopped behind a piece of rock. From her the Child heard[21] strange histories, but he could not understand them all, for she told him about her former life, and about the depths of the mountain.

“A long while ago,” said the drop of water, “I lived with my countless sisters in the great ocean, in peace and unity. We had all sorts of pastimes; sometimes we mounted up high into the air, and peeped at the stars; then we sank plump down deep below, and looked how the coral builders work till they are tired, that they may reach the light of day at last. But I was conceited, and thought myself much[22] better than my sisters. And so one day when the sun rose out of the sea, I clung fast to one of his hot beams, and thought that now I should reach the stars, and become one of them. But I had not ascended far, when the sunbeam shook me off, and in spite of all I could say or do, let me fall into a dark cloud. And soon a flash of fire darted through the cloud, and now I thought I must surely die; but the whole cloud laid itself down softly upon the top of a mountain, and so I escaped with my fright, and a black eye. Now I thought I should remain hidden, when,[23] all on a sudden, I slipped over a round pebble, fell from one stone to another, down into the depths of the mountain,

till at last it was pitch dark, and I could neither see nor hear any thing. Then I found, indeed, that ‘pride goeth before a fall,’ resigned myself to my fate, and, as I had already laid aside all my unhappy pride in the cloud, my portion was now the salt of humility; and after undergoing many purifications from the hidden virtues of metals and minerals, I was at length permitted to come up once more into the free cheerful air; and now will I run back to my sisters,[24] and there wait patiently till I am called to something better.”

But hardly had she done, when the root of a forget-me-not caught the drop of water by her hair and sucked her in, that she might become a floweret, and twinkle brightly as a blue star on the green firmament of earth.

[25]

[26]

III.

The Child did not very well know what to think of all this; he went thoughtfully home and laid himself on his little bed; and all night long he was wandering about on the ocean, and among the stars, and over the dark mountain. But the moon loved to look on the slumbering Child as he lay with his little head softly pillowed on his right arm. She lingered a long time[28] before his little window, and went slowly away to lighten the dark chamber of some sick person.

As the moon’s soft light lay on the Child’s eyelids, he fancied he sat in a golden boat, on a great, great water; countless stars swam glittering on the dark mirror. He stretched out his hand to catch the nearest star, but it had vanished, and the water sprayed up against him. Then he saw clearly that these were not the real stars; he looked up to heaven, and wished he could fly thither.

But in the mean time the moon had[29] wandered on her way; and now the Child was led in his dream into the clouds, and he thought he was sitting on a white sheep, and he saw many lambs grazing around him. He tried to catch a little lamb to play with, but it was all mist and vapour; and the Child was sorrowful, and wished himself down again in his own meadow, where his own lamb was sporting gaily about.

Meanwhile the moon was gone to sleep behind the mountains, and all around was dark. Then the Child dreamt that he fell down into the dark, gloomy caverns of the mountain, and at[30] that he was so frightened, that he suddenly awoke, just as morning opened her clear eye over the nearest hill.

[31]

[32]

IV.

The Child started up, and, to recover himself from his fright, went into the little flower-garden behind his cottage, where the beds were surrounded by ancient palm-trees, and where he knew that all the flowers would nod kindly at him. But behold, the tulip turned up her nose, and the ranunculus held her head as stiffly as possible, that she might not bow good-morrow to him. The[34] rose, with her fair round cheeks, smiled and greeted the Child lovingly; so he went up to her and kissed her fragrant mouth. And then the rose tenderly complained that he so seldom came into the garden, and that she gave out her bloom and her fragrance the live-long day in vain; for the other flowers either could not see her, because they were too low, or did not care to look at her, because they themselves were so rich in bloom and fragrance. But she was most delighted when she glowed in the blooming head of a child, and could pour out all her[35] heart’s secrets to him in sweet odours. Among other things, the rose whispered in his ear that she was the Fulness of Beauty.

And in truth the Child, while looking at her beauty, seemed to have quite forgotten to go on; till the blue larkspur called to him, and asked whether he cared nothing more about his faithful friend; she said that she was unchanged, and that even in death she should look upon him with eyes of unfading blue.

The Child thanked her for her true-heartedness, and passed on to the hyacinth who stood near the puffy, full-cheeked,[36] gaudy tulips. Even from a distance the hyacinth sent forth kisses to him, for she knew not how to express her love. Although she was not remarkable for her beauty, yet the Child felt himself wondrously attracted by her, for he thought no flower loved him so well. But the hyacinth poured out her full heart and wept bitterly, because she stood so lonely; the tulips indeed were her countrymen, but they were so cold and unfeeling that she was ashamed of them. The Child encouraged her, and told her he did not think things were so bad as she fancied. The[37] tulips spoke their love in bright looks, while she uttered her’s in fragrant words; that these, indeed, were lovelier and more intelligible, but that the others were not to be despised.

Then the hyacinth was comforted, and said she would be content; and the Child went on to the powdered auricula, who, in her bashfulness, looked kindly up to him, and would gladly have given him more than kind looks, had she had more to give. But the Child was satisfied with her modest greeting; he felt that he was poor too, and he saw the deep, thoughtful colours that[38] lay beneath her golden dust. But the humble flower of her own accord sent him to her neighbour, the lily, whom she willingly acknowledged as her queen. And when the Child came to the lily, the slender flower waved to and fro, and bowed her pale head with gentle pride and stately modesty, and sent forth a fragrant greeting to him. The Child knew not what had come to him: it reached his inmost heart, so that his eyes filled with soft tears. Then he marked how the lily gazed with a clear and steadfast eye upon the sun, and how the sun looked down[39] again into her pure chalice, and how, amid this interchange of looks, the three golden threads united in the centre. And the Child heard how

one scarlet lady-bird at the bottom of the cup, said to another, “knowest thou not that we dwell in the flower of heaven?” and the other replied, “yes, and now will the mystery be fulfilled.” And as the Child saw and heard all this, the dim image of his unknown parents, as it were veiled in a holy light, floated before his eyes: he strove to grasp it, but the light was gone, and the Child slipped, and would have[40] fallen, had not the branch of a currant bush[A] caught and held him; and he took some of the bright berries for his morning’s meal, and went back to his hut and stripped the little branches.

[A] The red currant is called in Germany, Johannis-beere, St. John’s berry.

[41]

[42]

V.

But in the hut he staid not long, all was so gloomy, close, and silent within; and abroad every thing seemed to smile, and to exult in the clear and unbounded space. Therefore the Child went out into the green wood, of which the dragonfly had told him such pleasant stories. But he found every thing far more beautiful and lovely even than she had described it; for all about, wherever[44] he went, the tender moss pressed his little feet, and the delicate grass embraced his knees, and the flowers kissed his hands, and even the branches stroked his cheeks with a kind and refreshing touch, and the high trees threw their fragrant shade around him.

There was no end to his delight. The little birds warbled and sang, and fluttered and hopped about, and the delicate wood-flowers gave out their beauty and their odours; and every sweet sound took a sweet odour by the hand, and thus walked through the open door of the Child’s heart, and[45] held a joyous nuptial dance therein. But the nightingale and the lily of the valley led the dance; for the nightingale sang of nought but love, and the lily breathed of nought but innocence, and he was the bridegroom and she was the bride. And the nightingale was never weary of repeating the same thing a hundred times over, for the spring of love which gushed from his heart was ever new; and the lily bowed her head bashfully, that no one might see her glowing heart. And yet the one lived so solely and entirely in the other, that no one could see whether the notes of[46] the nightingale were floating lilies, or the lilies visible notes, falling like dew-drops from the nightingale’s throat.

The Child’s heart was full of joy even to the brim. He set himself down, and he almost thought he should like to take root there, and live for ever among the sweet plants and flowers, and so become a true sharer in all their gentle pleasures. For he felt a deep delight in the still, secluded, twilight existence of the mosses and small herbs, which felt not the storm nor the frost, nor the scorching sunbeam; but dwelt quietly among their many friends and[47] neighbours, feasting in peace and good fellowship on the dew and the cool shadows which the mighty trees shed upon them. To them it was a high festival when a sunbeam chanced to visit their lowly home; whilst the tops of the lofty trees could find joy and beauty only in the purple rays of morning or evening.

[48]

[49]

[50]

VI.

And as the Child sat there, a little mouse rustled from among the dry leaves of the former year, and a lizard half glided from a crevice in the rock, and both of them fixed their bright eyes upon the little stranger; and when they saw that he designed them no evil, they took courage and came nearer to him.

“I should like to live with you,” said the Child to the two little creatures, in[52] a soft subdued voice, that he might not frighten them. “Your chambers are so snug, so warm, and yet so shaded, and the flowers grow in at your windows, and the birds sing you their morning song, and call you to table and to bed with their clear warblings.”

“Yes,” said the mouse, “it would be all very well if all the plants bore nuts and mast, instead of those silly flowers; and if I were not obliged to grub under ground in the spring, and gnaw the bitter roots, whilst they are dressing themselves in their fine flowers and flaunting it to the world, as if[53] they had endless stores of honey in their cellars.”

“Hold your tongue,” interrupted the lizard pertly, “do you think, because you are grey, that other people must throw away their handsome clothes, or let them lie in the dark wardrobe under ground, and wear nothing but grey too? I am not so envious. The flowers may dress themselves as they like for me; they pay for it out of their own pockets, and they feed bees and beetles from their cups; but what I want to know is, of what use are birds in the world? Such a fluttering and[54] chattering, truly, from morning early to evening late, that one is worried and stunned to death, and there is never a day’s peace for them. And they do nothing; only snap up the flies and the spiders out of the mouths of such as I. For my part, I should be perfectly satisfied, provided all the birds in the world were flies and beetles.”

The Child changed colour, and his heart was sick and saddened when he heard their evil tongues. He could not imagine how any body could speak ill of the beautiful flowers, or scoff at his beloved birds. He was waked out of[55] a sweet dream, and the wood seemed to him lonely and desert, and he was ill at ease. He started up hastily, so that the mouse and the lizard shrank back alarmed, and did not look around them till they thought themselves safe out of the reach of the stranger with the large, severe eyes.

[56] [57]

[58]

VII.

But the Child went away from the place; and as he hung down his head thoughtfully, he did not observe that he took the wrong path, nor see how the flowers on either side bowed their heads to welcome him, nor hear how the old birds from the boughs, and the young from the nests, cried aloud to him, “God bless thee, our dear little prince.” And he went on and on, farther[60] and farther, into the deep wood; and he thought over the foolish and heartless talk of the two selfish chatterers, and could not understand it. He would fain have forgotten it, but he could not. And the more he pondered, the more it seemed to him as if a malicious spider had spun her web around him, and as if his eyes were weary with trying to look through it.

And suddenly he came to a still water, above which young beeches lovingly entwined their arms. He looked in the water, and his eyes were riveted to it as if by enchantment. He[61] could not move, but stood and gazed in the soft, placid mirror, from the bosom of which the tender green foliage, with the deep blue heavens between, gleamed so wondrously upon him. His sorrow was all forgotten, and even the echo of the discord in his little heart was hushed. That heart was once more in his eyes; and fain would he have drunk in the soft beauty of the colours that lay beneath him, or have plunged into the lovely deep.