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树精的童话轶事_安徒生童话树精,安徒生童话

来源:http://www.handanfc.com 作者:澳门皇冠金沙网站 时间:2019-12-06 03:49

  我们去巴黎旅行,去看展览会①。   现在我们在那里了!这是一次快速的旅行,就像一阵风似地,但完全不是凭什么魔法,我们是借助水陆蒸汽交通工具去的。   我们的时代是童话一般的时代。   我们在巴黎市中心,在一家大旅店里。楼梯一直到最顶端都摆设着鲜花,楼梯上还都铺着地毯。   我们的房间很舒适。阳台的门朝一个大广场开着。那儿居住着春天,它是和我们同时进入巴黎的。它的外表是一棵大栗子树,上面长满了新绽开的嫩叶;比起广场上其他的树木来,它的那套春天的华装是多么漂亮啊!那些树中有一棵已经不再列入活树的行列了。它躺在那里,是被连根拔起甩在地上的。在它原先生长的地方,这棵清新的栗子树将被裁进去②。   现在,它还高高地竖在今天早晨把它运到巴黎来的那辆车子里,这车是从许多里地之外,从乡村把它运来的。这棵树紧靠着一块大草坪立了许多年了,树下常常坐着一位老牧师,讲故事给那些聚精会神的孩子们听。这年轻的栗子树也跟着听。住在里面的树精——要知道那时她还是一个孩子呢,她能回忆起那棵树小的时候的情形。它出土时还不及草叶和蕨秆高。这些草那时已经不能再长了,可是树每年都在生长,越来越高。它吸收着空气和阳光,得到雨露的滋润,被强劲的风吹打,推来搡去,这对它是必要的,是对它教育的一部分。   树精很喜欢自己的生活和环境,喜欢阳光和鸟儿的歌唱,然而她最喜欢的是人类的声音。她能像听懂鸟兽的语言一样听懂人的语言。   蝴蝶、蜻蜓和苍蝇,是的,一切会飞的东西都来拜访她。他们要聊天闲谈;讲城市,讲葡萄园、树林、古老的宫堡和宫堡里的花园里的情形。花园里还有人工河和水坝,水里有生物,这些生物会用自己的方式从一处飞向另一处,是有智能、有思想的生物;它们什么也不会说,但就是这么聪明。还有曾经钻进水里去的燕子。他们谈论美丽的金鱼,肥鲫、胖鲈和浑身长了青苔的老鲤鱼。燕子绘声绘色地描述着他们,不过她说,还是亲自去看看更好一些。可是树精哪能看见这些生物!她只能满足于看眼前的美丽景色和感受一下人类的忙碌活动罢了。   这是美好的,但最美好的事却是听老牧师坐在橡树下讲法国、讲那些流芳千古的男人女人的壮举。   树精倾听着牧羊姑娘贞德③和夏洛特·科戴依④的事迹。她听着他讲上古时代、亨利四世和拿破伦一世的时代,一直到我们这个时代的成就和伟大的事迹。她听着许多在人民的心中引起共鸣的人名。法国是具有世界意义的国家,是一块培养自由精神的神智的沃土!   村里的孩子们专注地听着,树精聚精会神的程度一点也不亚于他们;她和其他的孩子一样,是小学生。她能在天空移动的浮云中看出她听到的东西的具体形象。   云天是她的画册。   在美丽的法国国度里她感到很幸福。但是她仍有一种感觉,觉得鸟儿和任何会飞的动物昆虫都比她的地位要高。连苍蝇都能四处张望,比树精的眼界远得多。   法国是那么地大,那么美丽,可是她只能看到它的一小部分儿。这个国家像个大世界,葡萄园、树林和大城市向四处展开。所有这些当中,巴黎是最美丽、最宏伟的。鸟儿可以到达那边,可是她却永远不能。   在农村的孩子中有一个小姑娘,她衣衫褴褛,但模样很好看。她总是在唱在笑,往自己的黑发上插红花。   “别去巴黎!”老牧师说道。“可怜的孩子!你要是去了巴黎,你会遭灾的!”   然而她仍然去了。   树精常常想着她。你知道,她们两个都对那了不起的都城有同样的兴趣,同样向往。   春天、夏天、秋天、冬天相继过去了;两年过去了。树精所在的那棵树第一次开了栗子花,鸟儿在阳光下在围着它歌唱。这时大路上来了一辆华丽的车子,车里坐着一位高贵的妇人,她亲自驾驭着那几匹美丽的快马;一个穿着漂亮的小马车夫坐在后面。树精认出这位妇人,老牧师也认出了她,他摇着头,哀伤地说道:   “你到那边去了!你要遭灾的,可怜的玛莉⑤!”   “她,可怜?”树精想道,“不,多大的变化啊!她的穿着打扮简直像公爵夫人了!她去了魔幻都市。啊,要是我能到那灿烂华丽的都市去多好!当我朝着我知道的大都会的方向望去的时候,那里就连夜里也都闪亮,一直亮到云端。”是的,树精每天黄昏,每天夜里都朝那个方向望去。她的视野中是一片明亮的雾霭。在月光明媚的夜晚她想念它,她想念那些为她显示图景和故事的浮云。   孩子们翻看他们的画册,树精盯着云的世界,那是她的思想之书。   炎热的夏天,无云的天空对她是空白的一页。现在好几天了,她只能看到这样一片空白。   在炎热的夏季,每天烈日当空,一点风都没有。每片叶子,每一朵花都无精打彩地昏睡,人也如此。   接着云块出现了,夜间明亮的雾霭在提示:这里是巴黎。云升了起来,形状像连绵的山脉,它们飞驰着穿过天空,扩散到天际,一直到树精看不到的地方。   云朵在高空中犹如藏青色的巨石,一层一层叠在一起。电光从云朵间射出,“它们也是上帝的仆人。”老牧师这样说过。一道蓝色闪电,亮得像太阳,从石块一般的云朵中跃出,落了下来,把那棵巨大的老橡树连根劈为两半;树冠被劈开了,树干被劈开了。它倒伏到了地上,摊了开来,就像是要拥抱光的使者一样。   王子诞生时响彻天空、响彻全国的礼炮声,也比不上那老橡树被击倒时的响声。大雨倾盆而下,一阵清新的风吹了过来。暴风雨过去了,四周一片欢欣的节日景像。城里的人都聚拢到倒下的老橡树的周围;老牧师说着颂扬它的话,一位画家亲笔画下了这棵树,留作纪念。   “一切都消逝了!”树精说道,“消逝了,像浮云一样,再不回来了!”   老牧师再也不来了;学校的校舍坍塌了,老师的桌子不见了,孩子们也不来了。可是秋天来了,冬天来了,当然春天也来了。在这些不断变迁的日子里,树精总望着那个方向,每个黄昏和夜晚,在那遥远的地方,巴黎都明亮得像耀眼的雾霭。火车头一个接着一个,拉着一列又一列的车厢从那里驶了出来,每时每刻都在呼啸着,轰隆轰隆地奔去。每个黄昏、夜晚、清晨以及白天火车都行驶过来,从世界各地开来。每趟车里都挤满了人,一个新的世界奇迹把他们召唤到巴黎。这奇迹是怎样展现出来的呢?   “一朵艺术和工业的绚丽之花”,他们这样说,“在马尔斯广场的荒地上绽露出来了,像一朵巨大的向日葵⑥。从它的花瓣上人们可以学习到地理、统计的知识,可以学到工艺师傅们的手艺,提高艺术和诗的素质,认识各国的面积和成就。”——“一朵童话之花,”另外一些人说道。“一朵鲜艳多彩的莲花。它把自己的绿叶铺在土地上,像一块丝绒地毯,在早春的季节绽放。夏天大家可以欣赏它全盛时期的美;秋天的风暴会把它刮走,连叶和根都不留。”   在“军事学校”的外面,伸展着一片和平时期的战场;一块没有草的沙地,是从非洲的大沙漠那里割来的。在那里莫甘娜仙女展示她奇异的空中楼阁和空中花园。马尔斯广场的楼阁和花园却更加壮丽、更加奇妙。因为经过能工巧匠的手艺,幻景都已经变成了事实。   “现代的阿拉丁之宫出现了!”传来了这样的声音。每过一天,每过一刻,它显现出更多的华丽。无穷尽的厅堂用大理石建造成了,一间间五彩缤纷。“无血的师傅”⑦在圆形机械大厅里挥动着它的四肢。金属制成的,石雕的和纺织成的工艺品展示了全世界各地的精神风貌。造型艺术厅如花似锦,人们用智慧和双手在工艺师的作坊中能生产的一切东西都在这里展出了。就连古代宫殿和泥炭沼泽的遗留物,也都在这里露面了。   那些巨大的、五彩缤纷的景物必须微缩成为玩具那样大小,以便能在别的地方展示,让人们了解和看到它的全貌。马尔斯广场就像是巨大的圣诞宴席桌,上面摆着工业和艺术的阿拉丁宫殿。在它的周围陈列着来自各国的物品,引以为自豪的物品:每个民族都有纪念自己国家的东西。   这儿有埃及的王宫,有沙漠国家的长列商队;游牧的贝督因人⑧从太阳之国而来,骑在骆驼上匆匆而过;这里有一个个俄国马厩,里面养着性子刚烈的草原骏马;挂着丹麦国旗的丹麦草顶农舍和瑞典古斯塔夫·瓦萨时代河谷地区美丽的木雕屋子紧靠在一起;美国的牧舍,英国的乡村小屋,法国的亭台、小店、教堂和剧场都奇妙地排列在一起。其中间有绿色的草坪、清亮的流水、鲜花盛开的灌木丛、珍奇树木和玻璃暖房。在这里你不由得觉得自己到了热带丛林,从大马士革运来的大片的玫瑰园在屋顶下盛开着花朵。多么艳丽,多么芳香!   人工造的钟乳石洞里有淡水湖和咸水湖,展示了鱼的王国;人们站在海底,置身在鱼和水螅之间。   他们说,马尔斯广场上陈列着这一切。在这个丰盛的宴席桌周围,人群像蚂蚁似地挤在一起,推推搡搡;有的步行,有的乘坐小马车,所有人的腿都支撑不了如此疲劳的参观。从清早到天黑,人们不断地拥向那里。载满了人的汽船一艘又一艘地驶过塞纳河,车子的数量在不停地增加。步行和乘车的人越来越多,有轨车和公共马车上挤满了人。所有的人都在朝一个目标汇集:巴黎博览会!所有的入口处都挂着法国的国旗,各国展室的外面则悬挂着各自的国旗。机器厅里机器发出轰鸣声;教堂钟楼的钟奏着音乐,教堂里传出了风琴声;粗犷、沙哑的歌声混在一起从东方国家的咖啡厅里传出。这就好像是一个巴别的国度⑨,巴别的语言,一个世界奇迹。   看来的确如此,关于博览会的报道就是这么说的,谁没有听到过?树精知道一切关于城市中之城市的“新奇迹”。“飞啊,你们这些鸟儿!飞到那边去看看,再回来讲讲!”这是树精的请求。   这种向往变为愿望,成为生命的渴望——于是在安宁、寂静的夜里,当圆圆的月亮正闪耀着明亮的光时,树精看见从月亮里飞出一颗火星,它往下坠落,就像一颗流星那样明亮。树叶好像被一阵狂风吹动似地抖起来,树的前面出现了一个明亮的形体。它用一种柔和但强烈如世界末日来临的巴松管的声音说话,唤醒生命,召唤去接受判决。   “你将到那个魔术般的都城去,你将在那里生根,去体会那里喃喃细语的流水、空气和阳光。但是你的寿命将会缩短,在这个自由自在的天地里能享受的寿命将缩短成几年。可怜的树精,这将是你的灾难!你的向往将增长,你的追求、你的渴望会越来越强烈!树将变成你的监牢。你将离开你的居所,脱离你的本性,飞了出去,和人类在一起。于是你的生命便会缩短到只有蜉蝣生命的一半,只有短短的一夜。你的生命要熄灭,树叶枯萎脱落,再也不会回来。”   这声音在空中这样说,这样唱。光亮消逝,可是树精的渴望和向往没有破灭。她在渴望中颤抖,像发高烧。   “我要去城中之城!”她高兴地喊道。“生命开始了,像云一样膨胀,谁也不知道它会飞向何方。”   黎明时分,月光淡下去,彤云升起。愿望实现的时候来了,允诺的语言变成了现实。   来了一些手拿铁锹和棍棒的人。他们围着树根挖,挖得很深,一直挖到根底下。又来了一辆马车,这树连根带土一起被挖了出来,被芦蓆包上,简直是一个保暖袋;然后它被搬到车上,捆得很结实,它将被运走,运到巴黎去,在法国的骄傲的首都——城中之城生长生活。   在车子启动的一霎那,栗子树的叶子颤抖起来,树精在期待的幸福中颤抖起来。   “走了!走了!”这声音随着每一次脉搏跳动响着。“走了!走了!”这声音震荡着、颤抖着。树精忘记对她家乡的草坪说再见,忘记向摇曳着的小草和天真无邪的春黄菊道别;它们一直把她尊崇为上帝的花园⑩中的一位贵妇人,一位在广阔自由的天地里装扮成牧羊女的年轻公主。   栗子树坐在车上,它用叶子点头表示,“好好过日子”或者“再见”。树精不知道这些,她只是梦想着眼前将展现出来的那些奇异新鲜而又十分熟悉的东西。没有任何一颗充满天真欢乐的孩子的心,没有任何一滴沸腾的血液会像她去巴黎旅行时那样浮想联翩了。   “好好过日子!”变成“走了!走了!”   车轮转着,远处变近了,落在后面。眼前的情景在变,像云块变幻。新葡萄园、树林、乡镇、别墅和花园出现了,来到眼前,又消失了。栗子树向前去,树精随着它前去。一辆接一辆的火车疾驶而过或相对开过去。火车吐着的云雾变成各种形状。这些形状在讲述火车从哪里开、树精要去巴黎。周围的一切知道、也应该懂得她是要去哪里的。她觉得,她经过的每一棵树都向她伸出枝子,央求着:“把我带上吧!带上我吧!”你知道,每棵树里都住着一个充满渴望的树精呢。多大的变化哟!奔驰得多么迅速哟!房屋好像是从土里冒出来一样,越来越多,越来越密。烟囱像许多花盆,一座挨着一座,在屋顶上排成一排。由巨大的字母拼写成的字、各种各样形状的图,从墙角一直画到屋檐下面,正闪闪发光。“什么地方是巴黎的开头?我什么时候才算到了巴黎?”树精问自己。人群越挤越大,车子一辆接着一辆,步行的人和骑马的人挤在一起;铺子挨着铺子;到处是音乐声、歌声、叫喊声、说话声。   树精坐在她的树中到了巴黎的中心。   这辆沉重的大车在一个小广场上停下来。广场上种着树,周围有许多高屋子,每扇窗子都有一个阳台。人们站在那里往下看这棵被运来的新鲜年轻的栗子树,它将栽在这里,代替那棵倒在地上的、被连根拔起的死树。站在广场上的人们微笑着,愉快地望着那春天的嫩绿。那些刚刚吐出芽的老树,枝子沙沙作响,表示着“欢迎!欢迎!”喷泉将水柱喷到空中,又溅到宽阔的池子里,让风儿把水珠吹到新的树上,请它喝欢迎之水。   树精感到,她居住的那棵树被人从车上抬起,栽在它未来的位置上。树根被埋进土里,上面植上了新鲜的绿草。开着花的灌木丛像树一样地被种在这里,还搬来了盆花。广场的中心形成了一个小花园。那棵被煤气、炊烟以及各种令植物窒息的城市空气薰死的被连根拔起的老树被拉上了车,运走了。拥挤的人们观看着,绿荫下孩子和老人坐在木凳上,望着新栽的树叶。而我们这些讲故事的人,则站在阳台上往下看着这棵从清新的乡间运来的年轻的树,像那位老牧师那样说着:“可怜的树精!”   “我是多么幸福啊,多么幸福啊!”树精说道,“然而我却不太理解、不太能表达我的感觉。一切都像我想的那样,却又不完全像我想的那样!”   四周的房子太高,靠得太近;太阳只能照到一面墙上,而这墙又被广告和招贴贴满。人们在那里站定,造成了堵塞。车子一辆辆驶过,有的轻快,有的沉重;公共马车满载着人,像一幢幢活动房子,飞快地跑着;骑马的人奔驰向前,货车和游览车也要求同样的权利。树精想,这些紧挨着的高耸的房屋可不可以挪开变成天上的浮云那样的形状,移到一旁去,好让她望一眼巴黎和望过巴黎之外的地方。圣母院⑾得露一露脸,还有汶多姆圆柱⑿以及那些吸引了无数外国人来参观的奇迹。   可是,房屋没有让开。   天还没有黑下来,灯已点燃了;商店里的煤气灯光射了出来,树枝间射出亮光;就像是夏天的阳光。天上出现了星星,和树精在故乡看到的星星一样;她感到一股清爽新鲜的空气吹来。她觉得自己得到了补充,精力充沛起来,感觉到每片树叶都获得了活力,连树根的最尖端的地方也有了感觉。她觉得自己生存于这个活跃的人的世界里,被温和的眼睛注视着。她的周围是阵阵喧哗声,音乐、颜色和光彩。   从一侧的巷子里传来了管乐器和手风琴演奏的舞曲。是啊,跳舞吧!跳舞吧!寻欢作乐吧,音乐这样呼唤着。   这是人、马、车子、树和房屋该跟着跳舞的音乐,若是它们能够跳舞的话;树精胸中涌起一阵令人陶醉的欢乐。“多么幸福啊,多么美好啊!”她欢呼着。“我到达巴黎了!”接下去的一天,新的夜晚和随后到来的昼夜,带来同样的情景、同样的活动、同样的生活,循环着但却总是一个样子。   “现在我认识广场里的每一棵树和每一朵花了!我认识了这里的每一幢房子、每个阳台和店铺。我怎么被安顿在这么一个闭塞的犄角里,一点儿也看不到那宏伟的大都市。凯旋门、大道和世界奇迹都在什么地方?这些东西怎么我一个都没有看见?我站在这些高楼中间就像站在笼子中。这些高楼墙上的字、招贴、牌子,现在我都可以背出来了,还有那一大堆不再合我口味的食品,可是我听说过的,知道的,向往的、我为之而来的那一切东西却又在什么地方呢?我享有、获得和发现了些什么呢!我依然和从前一样渴望着,我感觉到了一种生活,我必须把握它,必须过这样的生活!我必须参加到生命的行列中去!在那儿跳跃,像鸟儿一样地飞,观看、体察,成为一个真正的人,宁愿过半天这种生活,也不愿在疲惫和枯燥中长年累月地生活;这种生活使我沉沦,像草地上的雾一样消逝。我要像云一样在生命的阳光中发光;像云一样能眺望远处,像云一样地飞行,谁也不知道飞向何方!”这是树精的叹息,这叹息变成了祈祷:   “把我的余生拿去吧,给我蜉蝣生命的一半吧!把我从我的牢狱中解救出来吧!给我人的生命,短短的人的一刻欢乐吧,若必须如此,就给我今天这一夜吧,为我这种大胆的要求、对生命的渴望而惩罚我吧!放我出去,让我的这个房屋,这棵鲜嫩年轻的树,枯萎、倒下,变成灰烬随风飘走吧!”树枝沙沙作响,产生了一阵令人痒酥酥的感觉。每片叶子都在颤抖,好像生出了火花,或者是从外面飞溅来了火花。树冠上刮起一阵狂风,在风暴中出现了一个女子的形像,她是树精。突然她坐在煤气灯照亮的长满树叶的树枝下,她年轻、美丽,像可怜的玛莉一样,人们对她曾说过这样的话:“那个大城市会使你遭灾!”   树精坐在树根旁,坐在自己的家门口。她已经把门锁上,把钥匙扔了。她是如此年轻,如此美貌!星星看见她,对她眨眼,煤气灯看见她,闪闪发光,向她挥手!她是多么纤秀又多么健美啊。她是一个孩子却又是一个成熟的姑娘。她的衣服像丝绸一样精致,像树冠上绽开的新叶一样碧绿;在她那栗色头发上,插着一朵半开的栗子花;她就像是春之女神。她只静静地坐了一小会儿,便跳了起来,像羚羊似的飞快地离开了那个地方,来到了街上。她跑啊,跳啊,像置放在太阳光里的镜子,反射出一道光束来,这光不断地移动,时而到这里,时而在那里;若是一个人仔细地观察,能看见实际看到的东西,那是多奇妙啊!她的衣着和形体的色调都随着她暂停的地方的特点,随着屋子里射在她衣服上的灯光而变化着。   她来到了大道上。从街灯、店铺和咖啡馆的煤气灯射出的光汇成了一个光的海洋。年轻纤秀的树在这里排得整整齐齐,每棵树里都躲藏着自己的树精,要避开人工阳光。那望不到尽头的人行道,像一个巨大的宴会厅;摆设着各种各样的食品,从香槟、卡尔特荨麻酒直到咖啡和啤酒。这里还摆着鲜花、图片、雕塑、书籍和五颜六色的衣料。   她从高楼下的人群中向树外可怕的人潮望去;那边是滚动着的车子、单马拉的双轮篷车、轿车、公共马车、街车、骑马的绅士们和列队前进的士兵们形成的起伏的波涛。要走到街对面去,是要冒生命危险的。一会儿是蓝光焰火,一会儿又是煤气灯光。突然有一个火箭冲向天空,它是从哪儿来的,射到哪儿去了?   很明显,这是世界之城的大道!   这边传来了柔和的意大利歌曲,那边是有响板伴奏的西班牙歌曲。但是最强烈、淹过一切的是八音盒奏出的流行音乐,那富刺激性的坎坎舞曲⒀,连奥菲欧⒁也不知道,美丽的海伦娜⒂更没有听到过,就连独轮手推车也不禁想用自己的那只独轮跳起舞来,要是它会跳舞的话。树精舞着,旋转着,飞跃着,像蜂鸟一样在阳光下变化着颜色,因为每座房子和房子里的一切都在她身上反射出来。   她像断了茎的齿叶睡莲⒃随着水的旋涡漂走了。她每在一个地方停下的时候,都要变成一个新的形象,因此没有人能跟随她,认出她,也看不见她。   一切都如云中的幻象那样在她身边飞过,一幅又一幅面孔但是她哪一副面孔也不认识,她没有看到来自故乡的任何一个人。她的脑海中浮现出两只闪闪发光的眼睛:她想着玛莉,可怜的玛莉!这个衣衫褴褛、头发上插着红花的欢快的孩子。你们知道,她在这世界大城市里很有钱、容光焕发,就像她乘车经过牧师的屋子、树精的树和那棵老橡树的时候那样。   她显然就在这震耳欲聋的一片喧闹声中。也许她刚刚从停在一旁的华丽的马车里走出来;这些华贵的马车的马车夫都穿着制服,仆人也都穿着丝袜。从车上下来的主人都是衣着华贵的夫人。她们走进敞开的花格大门,走上通向大理石圆柱的建筑物那高宽的台阶。这难道是“世界奇迹”?玛莉一定在里面。   “圣玛利亚!”里面有人在歌唱。香烟从高大、涂金、半明半暗的拱门里飘出。   这是圣母教堂。   高贵的妇女,穿着用最值钱的料子裁剪成最时新款式的黑礼服,走过了光洁的地板。族徽印在镶有银扣、用丝绒装帧的祈祷书上,也绣在散发着强烈的香水味,缀有布鲁塞尔花边的手绢上。有几位妇女静静地跪在圣坛前面作祷告,另外几人走向忏悔室。   树精感到一种不安,一种恐惧,就好像她走进了一个不该去的地方。这里似乎是寂静之家,是秘密的大厅;所有的话都是用极低的声音、在几乎听不见的喃喃声中讲出来的。树精看见自己穿着丝绸的衣服,披着纱,和那些富有、高贵的妇人一样。谁知道她们是不是也像她一样,是满怀“渴望”的孩子呢?   这时传来一阵叹息声,声音痛苦而深沉;是从忏悔室那个角落还是从树精的胸中传出来的?她把披纱拉得更紧地围着自己。她吸到的不是大自然中的新鲜空气,而是教堂香烟的气味。这不是她渴望的地方。   走开!走开吧!无止境地飞走吧!蜉蝣是没有休息的,它飞着便是生活。   她又来到喷泉边的煤气灯之下。“然而所有泉水都洗不净洒在这里的无辜的鲜血⒄。”   有人这样说。   这儿站着许多外国人,他们在兴高采烈地高谈阔论;她刚从那里走出来的那个秘密的大厅里是没有人敢这样做的。有一块大石板被人翻动了一下,被抬了起来。她不明白这事。她看到了进入地下深处的那个入口;人们从满天星斗的明朗的天空、从太阳似闪光的煤气灯下,从所有生气勃勃的地方走了下去。   “我有些怕它!”站在这里的一位妇女说道:“我不敢走下去!我不稀罕那里的胜景!陪着我吧!”   “就这么回去,”男人说道,“离开巴黎而没有看过这由个人的智慧和意志创造的、真正奇妙的当代奇迹⒅!”   “我不下去。”这是回答。   “当代的奇迹,”有人说道。树精听到了,也明白它的意思。她最初渴望的目的已经实现了,这里是进入到巴黎深处的入口;她没有想到过这点。但是现在她听到了,看到了那些外国人走了下去,她跟着走下去了。   台阶是铁铸的,螺旋形状,很宽大很便利。下面燃着一盏灯,更下面又有一盏灯。   他们站在一座迷宫里,里面尽是交错的大厅和拱门。巴黎所有的大街和小巷在这里都可以看到,像在一面粗糙的镜子里。可以读到街名。每所房子都有自己的门牌号码,墙基砌在空旷的沥青小道上。这道路沿着一条宽阔的、淤积许多烂泥的人工河延展出去。高处是一条引水槽,清新的流水被引向人工河。最上面悬着煤气管和电报线网。远处灯光闪烁着,像世界大都会的倒影。人们不时地听到上面传来隆隆声,这是载重车辆从地下道上的桥上驶过去。   树精在什么地方?   你听说过地下墓穴吧,比起这个新的地下世界、这个当代的奇迹:巴黎的下水道来,它太微不足道了。树精就在这儿,而没有在马尔斯广场的世界博览会里。   她听到了惊奇、羡慕和赞赏声。   “从这深处,”有人说,“上面成千上万的人获得健康和长寿!我们的时代是进步的时代,具有这个时代应有的一切幸福。”   这是人的意见和说法,而不是在这里出生,在这里安家落户的那些生灵——老鼠的意见和说法。他们在一堵旧墙的缝里吱吱叫,声音非常清楚,连树精都能听懂。   这是一只上年纪的公老鼠,他的尾巴被咬断掉了,他用尖锐的吱吱声道出了自己的感受、痛苦和唯一正确的意见,他的全家赞同他说的每一个字。   “我讨厌死了人的喵喵声,那些无知的言谈!这里很不错,有煤气,有煤油!那类东西我是不吃的。这儿很舒服,很明亮,让你呆着不禁惭愧起来,而且竟不知道为什么感到惭愧。要是我们生活在油灯时代多好!那并不是离现在太久远的事儿!那是浪漫的时代,人们是这么说的。”   “你在说些什么?”树精问道。“我以前没有见过你。你在讲什么事情?”   “我在讲过去那美好的时光!”老鼠说道。“曾祖父和曾祖母老鼠的幸福时代!在那个时代到下面来可是一件大事。那时的老鼠窝和整个巴黎都不一样!鼠疫妈妈住在这下面;她杀死人,可不杀老鼠,强盗和走私贩在这里自由地呼吸。这里是最有趣的人物、现在只有在歌舞剧舞台上才能看到的那些人的避护所。我们老鼠窝里的浪漫时代已经过去了;我们这儿有了新鲜空气,有了煤油。”   老鼠就是这样吱吱说的;他抱怨新的时代,称赞有鼠疫的旧时代。   一辆车子停了下来,这是由健壮的小马拉着的敞篷公共马车。主人坐了进去,沿着塞巴斯托波尔大道驶远了。地下的上面是巴黎挤满了人群的著名的地方,向四方伸展开来。车子在半明半暗的灯光中消逝了。树精不见了,出现在煤气灯光中和自由空气之中,而不是在那纵横交错的拱形通道里和令人窒息的空气里,寻找奇迹,世界奇迹,她在自己短促的一夜生命中追求的那种东西;它发的光比这里所有的煤气灯的火焰还要强烈,比正在滑过天空的月亮还要明亮。是的,的确不错!她看见它就在那里,在她的前面闪光,它闪耀着,向她招手,就像天上的太白星。   她看到一扇光亮的大门,朝一个小小的花园开着。花园里灯火辉煌,舞曲不绝于耳。煤气灯在闪烁,犹如围绕着平静的湖泊和水池的一条小径。湖泊和水池旁用铅皮剪制的人工花卉低垂着,五颜六色,光彩夺目,从花蕊喷出一股高高的水泉。美丽的垂柳——真正的春天的垂柳将自己清新的柳枝垂落,像一片透明但又能遮面的绿纱。这里的灌木丛中燃起一堆篝火,红色的火光照着那些朦胧、幽静的凉亭。感人肺腑的音乐在耳际震荡着,富有诱人的魅力,使血液流遍周身。   她看见了许多美丽、身着节日盛装的年轻妇女,脸上露出迷人的微笑和青春的欢乐。一位“玛莉”,头发上插着玫瑰花,但没有马车和马车夫。她们在狂舞中是何等欢快,摇摆、旋转,不辨方向,像是被南欧巨蛛⒆咬了一口!她们在欢笑,幸福得要去拥抱整个世界。   树精觉得自己被卷入狂舞之中。她那小巧玲珑的脚穿着丝绸鞋子,是栗色的,和飘在她头发下,披在她裸露的肩上的那条丝带的颜色一样。她的绿绸衣裙有许多大折摺在飘曳,但是遮不住她那美丽的腿和可爱的脚。这双脚像要在那欢舞的男士的头前画出魔圈似的。   她是在阿尔米达的魔幻花园⒇中吗?这个地方叫什么名字?   名字在外面的煤气灯中闪闪发光:   玛毕尔(21)   音乐声、拍掌声,焰火,银铃般的流水声和香槟酒杯碰撞声混在一起;舞蹈跳得如醉如痴。在这一切之上,月亮慢慢移过,作了一个不屑的鬼脸。天空中没有云,明朗蔚蓝,人们似乎是从玛毕尔一直望到天上。   树精浑身有一种精疲力尽的陶醉感,如同吸过鸦片之后的那种沉迷。   她的眼睛在说话,嘴唇在说话,但是她的话语被笛子和提琴声所淹没。她的舞伴在她的耳边轻语,他们在坎坎舞曲中摇摆;她听不懂这些私语,我们听不懂。他把手朝她伸去,搂住她,但却只拥抱着那透明的、充满煤气的空气。   树精被气流托起,就像风托起一片玫瑰花瓣。在高空中,她看到在一座塔顶上有一道火焰,一道闪动的火光。火从她的渴望的目的物上射出,从马尔斯广场的“莫甘娜仙女”的红色的灯塔射出。春天的风把她吹向那里。她绕着塔飞着;正在工作的人们以为他们看到的是一只蝴蝶在飘落,在过早到来的死亡中死去。   月亮照着,煤气灯和其他明灯在大厅中,在分散在各处的“万国馆”里燃照着。照着那些绿色覆盖的高坡,照着那些人类智慧创造的岩石堆,“无血师傅”的力量使泉水从上面倾泻下来。海底的洞穴、淡水河、湖泊的深处,鱼的世界在这里一览无余。你置身在深潭里,你似乎到了海的深处,你在玻璃潜水罩里。水从四面八方压向那厚厚的玻璃壁。滑溜的水螅好几尺长,像鳗鱼一样弯弯曲曲,抖动着它的内脏、触肢,在探寻什么似地蠕动,浮上去,又牢牢地贴在海底。一条大比目鱼,若有所思地躺在附近,舒服自在。螃蟹像大蜘蛛似地从它上面爬过,虾飞快地游着,好像它们是海里的飞蛾和蝴蝶。   淡水中生长着睡莲,灯芯草和苇子。金鱼排成队,就像是田野里的奶牛,头都朝着一个方向,好让水流进它们的嘴里。又肥又胖的鲤鱼呆呆地望着玻璃壁;它们知道,它们是在巴黎博览会上,它们知道,它们被放在装满了水的桶里,经历千辛万苦的旅行,在火车里还怕晕车,就像人在海上怕晕船一样。它们是来看博览会的,它们在自己的淡水缸或咸水缸中看到了博览会,看到了从早到晚川流不息的人群。世界各国都把自己国家的人送来展出,好让梭鱼、鲫鱼、活泼的鲈鱼和浑身长满青苔的大鲤鱼看看这种生灵,对这个种族表示自己的意见。   “他们是长鳞的动物!”一条浑身污泥的小鲤鱼说道。“他们每天更换两三次鳞,嘴里还发出一种声音,他们把它叫做讲话。我们不换鳞,用一种更简单的办法让别的鱼了解我们;动一动嘴角,瞪一瞪眼睛!我们比人类先进得多!”   “但是他们还是学会了游泳。”一条小淡水鱼说道;“我是从一个大内湖来的。那里的人们在炎热的时候钻到水里,但是他们先把鳞脱掉,然后再游,这是青蛙教会他们的。他们用后腿蹬着,用前腿划着,他们支持不了多久。他们要想模仿我们,可是不成!可怜的人啊!”   鱼儿都瞪大了眼;它们以为在强烈的阳光中看到的那些拥挤的人群,现在仍在这里走动着。是的,它们认为它们看到的仍然是那些人形,就是这些人形第一次触动了它们的感觉神经。一条长有花条纹和令人羡慕的肥脊背的小鲈鱼保证说,它看到的那“人稀泥”仍旧在那里。   “我也看见了,看得很清楚!”一条黄鲤鱼说道。“我清楚地看到了长得很匀称的美丽人形,‘高腿夫人’,或者随便叫她什么。她长着和我们一样的嘴角和圆圆的大眼睛,背后是两只气球,前面是合拢的伞,身上披着丁丁当当的水草。她想把这些都甩掉,像我们一样,返朴归真,她想尽人类所能,把自己打扮成一条高贵的鲤鱼。”   “那个被钩在鱼线上的人,那个男人哪里去了?”“他坐在一辆手推车上,带着纸、笔和墨水,把什么东西都从上到下写一遍,他们管他叫记者!”   “他仍坐在车上跑来跑去呢!”一条浑身长着青苔的鲤鱼老姑娘说道。她的喉咙里有着世上的艰辛,所以她的声音有些沙哑;有一次她吞了一个鱼钩,现在她还带着它不耐烦地游着。   “记者?”她说道,“挺有点鱼的味道,用易懂的话说,他就是人类中的墨斗鱼。”   鱼就是这样用自己的方式讲话。不过在这有水的人造的洞穴中传来了鎯头声和工人的歌声,他们要在夜里加班劳动,使一切很快能完成。他们在树精的夏夜梦中歌唱,她站在这里,等着飞翔出去消失掉。   “这都是金鱼!”她说道,向它们点着头。“我总算看见你们了!是的,我认识你们,我早就知道你们了!在老家时燕子对我讲过你们。你们好漂亮啊,真可爱!我想要把你们每位都亲吻一遍!那些我也知道!这肯定是肥梭鱼,那是美味的鲫鱼,这儿是长了青苔的大鲤鱼!我知道你们!你们不认识我。”   鱼儿们瞪大了眼睛,一个字也不懂,它们透过昏暗的光亮往外看着。   树精已经不在那儿。她站在外面空地上,世界各地的“奇异之花”散发出不同的芳香,裸麦黑面包国度的(22)、鳕鱼海岸的(23),产皮革的俄罗斯的,产科隆香水的河岸的(24)和产玫瑰油的东方国家(25)的芳香。   参加完一夜的舞会,我们睡眼惺忪地乘车回家的时候,我们的耳际仍清晰地回响着我们听到的那些曲子,每个曲子我们都会唱。像在一个被谋杀的人的眼睛里,可以将最后的一瞬间像照相一样保留一段时间。同样在这夜里,白天生活中的喧哗和光彩依旧未散,没有消失,树精感觉到了这一点,她也知道:明天还要继续喧哗下去。   树精站在芬芳的玫瑰之间,她觉得她在家乡就认识它们,这是从宫廷花园和牧师花园里来的。她在这里还看到了红色的石榴花,玛莉就在她的漆黑的头发上插过这样一朵花。她的脑海中闪过儿时乡间家园的情景;她用渴求的眼凝望四周的景色,极度的不安充斥着她的心,把她带过一座座奇异的大厦。   她感到疲乏,这种疲乏在不断地增强。她盼望躺在铺在地上的柔软的东方垫子和地毯上休息,或者和垂柳一起垂向清澈的水,钻入水中。   但是蜉蝣并没有休息。再有几分钟,一天便结束了。她的思想在颤抖,她的肢体也颤抖起来,她倒在潺潺流水旁边的草地上。   “你从地底涌出,有永恒的生命!”她说道,“润一润我的舌头,给我点提神的药吧!”   “我不是长流的清泉!”流水说道,“我是用机器抽上来的。”   “那请把你的清新给我一点儿吧,绿草,”树精恳求着,“请给我一朵芳香的花儿吧!”   “把我们摘下来,我们便要死亡!”草和花说道。   “吻我一下吧,清新的空气啊!我只要一个唤起生命的吻。”   “不一会儿太阳便要将浮云吻红!”风说道,“那时你便与死者为伍了,消失了,正如一年结束时这里的一切胜景都要消失一样。于是我便可以和广场上的轻微的散沙一起玩耍了,将尘土吹过世界,吹到空中,尘土!到处是尘土(26)!”树精感到一种恐惧,像一位正在沐浴的妇人被割破血管,血流了出来,却在不断流血中希望活下去一样。她爬起来,往前走了几步,又在一个小教堂的前面倒下。教堂的门是敞开着的,圣坛上灯火明亮,风琴在鸣奏着。   多美妙的音乐啊!树精从来没有听到过这样的乐曲,然而在这种音乐中她听到了熟悉的声音,这声音发自一切生灵的内心深处。她又感觉到了老橡树的飒飒声,她又听到了老牧师在谈论最高尚的行为、有声望的名字;谈论上帝创造的生灵可以而且必须对未来作出些什么贡献,才能赢得永恒的生命。   风琴声在弥漫,在荡漾,它唱道:   “你的欲念和渴求把你从上帝赐予你的土地上连根拔起。这是你的灾难,可怜的树精!”   风琴声柔和,婉转,像是哭泣并在哭泣中消失。   天上彤云闪闪发光。风飒飒响着,唱着:“飘逝了吧,你,死者,现在太阳升起了!”   第一道阳光落到树精身上。缤纷的色彩交替在她的身体上闪现,像一个肥皂泡,破碎了,在消失,成为一滴水珠,一滴眼泪,落到了地上,不见了。   可怜的树精!一滴露珠,一滴眼泪,圆圆地流出来消失了!   太阳照射在马尔斯广场的“莫甘娜仙女”之上,照射着宏大的巴黎,照着高楼之间那块有树有淙淙泉水的地方。那棵栗树立在那里,但是枝子垂下了,叶子枯萎了,昨天它还像春天一样清新,充满青春活力。现在它死了,人们都说树精离开了它,像云一样飞走了,谁也不知道她去了何方。地上有一朵萎谢、折下的栗树花,教堂的圣水无力挽回它的生命。人很快就把它踩进土里。   所有这一切都发生过,为人们所经历过。   我们亲眼所见这些事情,在1867年巴黎的博览会期间,在我们这个时代,在童话的伟大和奇妙的时代里。   ①1867年4月15日至5月9日巴黎举行了第一次“巴黎万国博览会”,安徒生去那里看了这个博览会。他在解释自己的童话时说,当时有一位丹麦记者在报上说,对巴黎万国博览会的宏伟场面,只有狄更斯才能描述。安徒生于是萌生了写巴黎博览会的想法。   ②这里记的是安徒生于1866年3月14日(巴黎万国博览会的前一年)在巴黎所见的事。他所住的旅馆外面有一小片空地,他看到有人运来两棵树,种在那里。   ③指法国女英雄贞德,参见《通向荣誉的荆棘路》注14。   ④一个法国妇女(1768—1793),在法国大革命中谋杀了当时的著名政治家、记者马拉。   ⑤牧师认为玛莉已沦为妓女。在当时,略有身份的人是不亲自驾马车的,而且玛莉在两年中日子变得这样好,这只能是操不正当的职业才有可能。   ⑥万国博览会的宏伟建筑。   ⑦安徒生很喜欢把机器称作无血师傅。   ⑧非洲游牧民族。   ⑨形容语言众多。见圣经旧约《创世纪》。上帝让诺亚造方舟躲过了洪水,诺亚敷衍了后代。世上的人都是诺亚的后代,散布在世界各地(实际上是中东地区),人们分为邦国。但是天下人的口音语言都是一样的。有一大群人聚在一个叫示拿的地方,他们开始建房造塔。上帝看到他们是同样的人种,说的都是同一语言,害怕他们今后无所不能,于是改变他们的口音,使他们的语言彼此不通。发生此事的地方便是巴别,意思是变乱。巴别就是巴比伦。   ⑩指大自然。   ⑾巴黎最主要的教堂,是世界著名的建筑。   ⑿纪念拿破仑1805年10月12日战役胜利的碑柱,在汶多姆广场。   ⒀、⒁、⒂19世纪初坎坎舞在法国流行,是一种轻快的舞台舞蹈。但这种舞蹈暴露舞女的腿部过多,颇受非议。奥菲欧和美丽的海伦娜指法国19世纪重要作曲家奥芬巴赫的两部歌剧《地狱中的奥菲欧》和《美丽的海伦娜》。安徒生对奥芬巴赫的这两部歌剧持批评态度,说它们有坎坎舞的味道。   ⒃埃及睡莲,无根生长。   ⒄指1789年法国资产阶级革命中的死亡者。   ⒅巴黎下水道和地下管道设施是由工程师欧仁·贝尔格兰(1810—1878)设计的,建于1860年左右。   ⒆据说被这种巨蛛咬一口,会产生疯狂的跳舞欲。   ⒇意大利诗人塔索(1544—1595)有20歌叙事长诗《被解放的耶路撒冷》。第16歌讲骑士们在阿尔米达魔幻花园中被骗去攻打耶路撒冷。   (21)巴黎的一个花园酒店。   (22)指丹麦。   (23)指挪威。   (24)指科隆和莱茵河。   (25)指波斯,即伊朗。   (26)尘土是人死亡的象征。圣经旧约《创世纪》第3章第17至19句,上帝对亚当说“你必须终身劳苦……直到你归了土。……你本是尘土,仍要归于尘土。”

我们的房间是很舒服的;阳台的门是朝着一个宽大的广场开着的。春天就住在那上面。它是和我们乘车子同时到来的。它的外表是一株年轻的大栗树,长满了新出的嫩叶子。它的春天的新装是多么美丽啊!它穿得比广场上任何其他的树都漂亮!这些树中有一棵已经不能算是有生命的树了,它直直地倒在地上,连根都拔起来了。在它过去立着的那块地方,这棵新的粟树将会被裁进去,生长起来。

安徒生 安徒生的作品有哪些 代表作有:《拇指姑娘》、《卖火柴的小女孩》、《丑小鸭》、《海的女儿》、《皇帝的新装》、《坚定的锡兵》、《树精》、《最后的一天》等。 小说:《即兴诗人》、《奥·特》、《两位男爵夫人》、《幸运的贝儿》等。 剧本:《阿夫索尔》、《乌鸦》、《幸福之花》、《睡魔》、《长桥》、《接骨木树妈妈》等。 游记:《西班牙风光》、《瑞典纪行》、《访问葡萄牙》、《从霍尔门运河至阿迈厄岛东角步行记》。 诗集:《幻想与现实》、《一年的十二个月》等。 安徒生童话 安徒生的童话创作分早、中、晚三个时期。 早期童话多充满绮丽的幻想、乐观的精神,体现现实主义和浪漫主义相结合的特点。中期童话,幻想成分减弱,现实成分相对增强。晚期童话比中期更加面对现实,着力描写底层民众的悲苦命运,揭露社会生活的阴冷、黑暗和人间的不平。 安徒生童话中更多的是来自《新约》而非《旧约》的原型。在作品中,一如在生活中,面对世间的苦难与不幸,安徒生没有选择仇恨、暴力和反抗,只是从他的情仰中汲取受与盼望,如同他的一首诗中所说,“你不懂世界上最激烈的斗争而只认识爱”。安徒生的童话中从无绝望的气息;虽然常常是感伤的,却是充满盼望的感伤。这种盼望赋予他的作品超乎时空的慰藉力量。安徒生在他的自传中所说,“无论对上帝还是对所有的人,我都充满爱意!”并且他认为,自己的一生证明了“有一个可亲可爱的上帝把—切引导得尽善尽美”。这委实在他的童话中得到充分的体现。

孩子喜欢自己的画册;树精喜欢自己的云世界——她的思想之书。

作为享誉世界的童话作家,安徒生将毕生精力贡献给了童话创作,写了许多流传至今的童话故事,其中就有我们很熟悉的《卖火柴的小女孩》、《皇帝的新装》、《海的女儿》、《丑小鸭》等,他还在童话中赋予深层的寓意。澳门皇冠金沙网站 1

这儿简直就是一个迷宫,里面有数不完的大殿和拱形长廊,彼此交叉着。巴黎所有的大街和小巷这儿都可以看得见,好像是在一个模糊的镜子里一样。你可以看到它们的名字;每一幢房子都有一个门牌——它的墙基伸到一条石铺的、空洞的小径上。这条小路沿着一条填满了泥巴的宽运河伸展开去。这上面就是运送清水的引水槽;再上面就悬着网一样的煤气管和电线。远处有许多灯在射出光来,很像这个世界的都市的反影。人们不时可以听到头上有隆隆声;这是桥上开过去的载重车辆。

我们亲眼看见过这些事情,在1867年的巴黎展览会里,在我们这个时代,在伟大的、奇异的、童话的时代里看见过这些事情。

树精常常想念着她。的确,她们俩对这个伟大的城市有同样的向往和渴望。

“我是多么幸福啊!多么幸福啊!”树精说。“但是我却不能了解,也不能解释我的这种情感。一切跟我所盼望的是一样,但也不完全跟我所盼望的是一样!”

这儿有埃及的皇宫,这儿有沙漠的旅行商队。这儿有从太阳的国度来的,骑着骆驼走过的贝杜因人⑤,这儿有养着草原上美丽烈马的俄国马厩。挂着丹麦国旗的、丹麦农民的茅屋,跟瑞典达拉尔的古斯达夫·瓦萨时代⑥的精巧的木雕房子,并排站在一起。美国的木房子、英国的村屋、法国的亭子。清真寺、教堂和戏院都很艺术地在一起陈列了出来。在它们中间有清新的绿草地、清澈的溪流、开着花朵的灌木丛、珍奇的树和玻璃房子——你在这里面可以想象你是在热带的树林中。整片整片的玫瑰花畦像是从大马士革运来的,在屋顶下盛开着的花朵,多么美的色彩!多么芬芳的香气!人工造的钟乳石岩洞里面有淡水湖和咸水湖;它们代表鱼的世界。人们现在是站在海底,在鱼和珊瑚虫的中间。

这是一个炎热的夏天,一连串闷人的日子,没有一点风。

她走上了林荫大道。路灯、店铺和咖啡馆所射出的煤气灯光形成一个光的大海。年轻而瘦削的树在这儿成行地立着,各自保护着自己的树精,使她不要受这些人工阳光的损害。无穷尽的人行道,看起来像一个巨大的餐厅:桌子上摆着各种各样的食品——从香摈酒和荨麻酒一直到咖啡和啤酒。这儿还有花、绘画、雕像、书籍和各种颜色布料的展览。

英文版:The Dryad

WE are travelling to Paris to the Exhibition.

Now we are there. That was a journey, a flight without magic. We flew on the wings of steam over the sea and across the land.

Yes, our time is the time of fairy tales.

We are in the midst of Paris, in a great hotel. Blooming flowers ornament the staircases, and soft carpets the floors.

Our room is a very cosy one, and through the open balcony door we have a view of a great square. Spring lives down there; it has come to Paris, and arrived at the same time with us. It has come in the shape of a glorious young chestnut tree, with delicate leaves newly opened. How the tree gleams, dressed in its spring garb, before all the other trees in the place! One of these latter had been struck out of the list of living trees. It lies on the ground with roots exposed. On the place where it stood, the young chestnut tree is to be planted, and to flourish.

It still stands towering aloft on the heavy wagon which has brought it this morning a distance of several miles to Paris. For years it had stood there, in the protection of a mighty oak tree, under which the old venerable clergyman had often sat, with children listening to his stories.

The young chestnut tree had also listened to the stories; for the Dryad who lived in it was a child also. She remembered the time when the tree was so little that it only projected a short way above the grass and ferns around. These were as tall as they would ever be; but the tree grew every year, and enjoyed the air and the sunshine, and drank the dew and the rain. Several times it was also, as it must be, well shaken by the wind and the rain; for that is a part of education.

The Dryad rejoiced in her life, and rejoiced in the sunshine, and the singing of the birds; but she was most rejoiced at human voices; she understood the language of men as well as she understood that of animals.

Butterflies, cockchafers, dragon-flies, everything that could fly came to pay a visit. They could all talk. They told of the village, of the vineyard, of the forest, of the old castle with its parks and canals and ponds. Down in the water dwelt also living beings, which, in their way, could fly under the water from one place to another—beings with knowledge and delineation. They said nothing at all; they were so clever!

And the swallow, who had dived, told about the pretty little goldfish, of the thick turbot, the fat brill, and the old carp. The swallow could describe all that very well, but, “Self is the man,” she said. “One ought to see these things one’s self.” But how was the Dryad ever to see such beings? She was obliged to be satisfied with being able to look over the beautiful country and see the busy industry of men.

It was glorious; but most glorious of all when the old clergyman sat under the oak tree and talked of France, and of the great deeds of her sons and daughters, whose names will be mentioned with admiration through all time.

Then the Dryad heard of the shepherd girl, Joan of Arc, and of Charlotte Corday; she heard about Henry the Fourth, and Napoleon the First; she heard names whose echo sounds in the hearts of the people.

The village children listened attentively, and the Dryad no less attentively; she became a school-child with the rest. In the clouds that went sailing by she saw, picture by picture, everything that she heard talked about. The cloudy sky was her picture-book.

She felt so happy in beautiful France, the fruitful land of genius, with the crater of freedom. But in her heart the sting remained that the bird, that every animal that could fly, was much better off than she. Even the fly could look about more in the world, far beyond the Dryad’s horizon.

France was so great and so glorious, but she could only look across a little piece of it. The land stretched out, world-wide, with vineyards, forests and great cities. Of all these Paris was the most splendid and the mightiest. The birds could get there; but she, never!

Among the village children was a little ragged, poor girl, but a pretty one to look at. She was always laughing or singing and twining red flowers in her black hair.

“Don’t go to Paris!” the old clergyman warned her. “Poor child! if you go there, it will be your ruin.”

But she went for all that.

The Dryad often thought of her; for she had the same wish, and felt the same longing for the great city.

The Dryad’s tree was bearing its first chestnut blossoms; the birds wereround them in the most beautiful sunshine. Then a stately carriage came rolling along that way, and in it sat a grand lady driving the spirited, light-footed horses. On the back seat a little smart groom balanced himself. The Dryad knew the lady, and the old clergyman knew her also. He shook his head gravely when he saw her, and said:

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

“That one poor?” thought the Dryad. “No; she wears a dress fit for a countess” (she had become one in the city of magic changes). “Oh, if I were only there, amid all the splendor and pomp! They shine up into the very clouds at night; when I look up, I can tell in what direction the town lies.”

Towards that direction the Dryad looked every evening. She saw in the dark night the gleaming cloud on the horizon; in the clear moonlight nights she missed the sailing clouds, which showed her pictures of the city and pictures from history.

The child grasps at the picture-books, the Dryad grasped at the cloud-world, her thought-book. A sudden, cloudless sky was for her a blank leaf; and for several days she had only had such leaves before her.

It was in the warm summer-time: not a breeze moved through the glowing hot days. Every leaf, every flower, lay as if it were torpid, and the people seemed torpid, too.

Then the clouds arose and covered the region round about where the gleaming mist announced “Here lies Paris.”

The clouds piled themselves up like a chain of mountains, hurried on through the air, and spread themselves abroad over the whole landscape, as far as the Dryad’s eye could reach.

Like enormous blue-black blocks of rock, the clouds lay piled over one another. Gleams of lightning shot forth from them.

“These also are the servants of the Lord God,” the old clergyman had said. And there came a bluish dazzling flash of lightning, a lighting up as if of the sun itself, which could burst blocks of rock asunder. The lightning struck and split to the roots the old venerable oak. The crown fell asunder. It seemed as if the tree were stretching forth its arms to clasp the messengers of the light.

No bronze cannon can sound over the land at the birth of a royal child as the thunder sounded at the death of the old oak. The rain streamed down; a refreshing wind was blowing; the storm had gone by, and there was quite a holiday glow on all things. The old clergyman spoke a few words for honorable remembrance, and a painter made a drawing, as a lasting record of the tree.

“Everything passes away,” said the Dryad, “passes away like a cloud, and never comes back!”

The old clergyman, too, did not come back. The green roof of his school was gone, and his teaching-chair had vanished. The children did not come; but autumn came, and winter came, and then spring also. In all this change of seasons the Dryad looked toward the region where, at night, Paris gleamed with its bright mist far on the horizon.

Forth from the town rushed engine after engine, train after train, whistling and screaming at all hours in the day. In the evening, towards midnight, at daybreak, and all the day through, came the trains. Out of each one, and into each one, streamed people from the country of every king. A new wonder of the world had summoned them to Paris.

In what form did this wonder exhibit itself?

“A splendid blossom of art and industry,” said one, “has unfolded itself in the Champ de Mars, a gigantic sunflower, from whose petals one can learn geography and statistics, and can become as wise as a lord mayor, and raise one’s self to the level of art and poetry, and study the greatness and power of the various lands.”

“A fairy tale flower,” said another, “a many-colored lotus-plant, which spreads out its green leaves like a velvet carpet over the sand. The opening spring has brought it forth, the summer will see it in all its splendor, the autumn winds will sweep it away, so that not a leaf, not a fragment of its root shall remain.”

In front of the Military School extends in time of peace the arena of war—a field without a blade of grass, a piece of sandy steppe, as if cut out of the Desert of Africa, where Fata Morgana displays her wondrous airy castles and hanging gardens. In the Champ de Mars, however, these were to be seen more splendid, more wonderful than in the East, for human art had converted the airy deceptive scenes into reality.

“The Aladdin’s Palace of the present has been built,” it was said. “Day by day, hour by hour, it unfolds more of its wonderful splendor.”

The endless halls shine in marble and many colors. “Master Bloodless” here moves his limbs of steel and iron in the great circular hall of machinery. Works of art in metal, in stone, in Gobelins tapestry, announce the vitality of mind that is stirring in every land. Halls of paintings, splendor of flowers, everything that mind and skill can create in the workshop of the artisan, has been placed here for show. Even the memorials of ancient days, out of old graves and turf-moors, have appeared at this general meeting.

The overpowering great variegated whole must be divided into small portions, and pressed together like a plaything, if it is to be understood and described.

Like a great table on Christmas Eve, the Champ de Mars carried a wonder-castle of industry and art, and around this knickknacks from all countries had been ranged, knickknacks on a grand scale, for every nation found some remembrance of home.

Here stood the royal palace of Egypt, there the caravanserai of the desert land. The Bedouin had quitted his sunny country, and hastened by on his camel. Here stood the Russian stables, with the fiery glorious horses of the steppe. Here stood the simple straw-thatched dwelling of the Danish peasant, with the Dannebrog flag, next to Gustavus Vasa’s wooden house from Dalarne, with its wonderful carvings. American huts, English cottages, French pavilions, kiosks, theatres, churches, all strewn around, and between them the fresh green turf, the clear springing water, blooming bushes, rare trees, hothouses, in which one might fancy one’s self transported into the tropical forest; whole gardens brought from Damascus, and blooming under one roof. What colors, what fragrance!

Artificial grottoes surrounded bodies of fresh or salt water, and gave a glimpse into the empire of the fishes; the visitor seemed to wander at the bottom of the sea, among fishes and polypi.

“All this,” they said, “the Champ de Mars offers;” and around the great richly-spread table the crowd of human beings moves like a busy swarm of ants, on foot or in little carriages, for not all feet are equal to such a fatiguing journey.

Hither they swarm from morning till late in the evening. Steamer after steamer, crowded with people, glides down the Seine. The number of carriages is continually on the increase. The swarm of people on foot and on horseback grows more and more dense. Carriages and omnibuses are crowded, stuffed and embroidered with people. All these tributary streams flow in one direction—towards the Exhibition. On every entrance the flag of France is displayed; around the world’s bazaar wave the flags of all nations. There is a humming and a murmuring from the hall of the machines; from the towers the melody of the chimes is heard; with the tones of the organs in the churches mingle the hoarse nasal songs from the cafés of the East. It is a kingdom of Babel, a wonder of the world!

In very truth it was. That’s what all the reports said, and who did not hear them? The Dryad knew everything that is told here of the new wonder in the city of cities.

“Fly away, ye birds! fly away to see, and then come back and tell me,” said the Dryad.

The wish became an intense desire—became the one thought of a life. Then, in the quiet silent night, while the full moon was shining, the Dryad saw a spark fly out of the moon’s disc, and fall like a shooting star. And before the tree, whose leaves waved to and fro as if they were stirred by a tempest, stood a noble, mighty, and grand figure. In tones that were at once rich and strong, like the trumpet of the Last Judgment bidding farewell to life and summoning to the great account, it said:

“Thou shalt go to the city of magic; thou shalt take root there, and enjoy the mighty rushing breezes, the air and the sunshine there. But the time of thy life shall then be shortened; the line of years that awaited thee here amid the free nature shall shrink to but a small tale. Poor Dryad! It shall be thy destruction. Thy yearning and longing will increase, thy desire will grow more stormy, the tree itself will be as a prison to thee, thou wilt quit thy cell and give up thy nature to fly out and mingle among men. Then the years that would have belonged to thee will be contracted to half the span of the ephemeral fly, that lives but a day: one night, and thy life-taper shall be blown out—the leaves of the tree will wither and be blown away, to become green never again!”

Thus the words sounded. And the light vanished away, but not the longing of the Dryad. She trembled in the wild fever of expectation.

“I shall go there!” she cried, rejoicingly. “Life is beginning and swells like a cloud; nobody knows whither it is hastening.”

When the gray dawn arose and the moon turned pale and the clouds were tinted red, the wished-for hour struck. The words of promise were fulfilled.

People appeared with spades and poles; they dug round the roots of the tree, deeper and deeper, and beneath it. A wagon was brought out, drawn by many horses, and the tree was lifted up, with its roots and the lumps of earth that adhered to them; matting was placed around the roots, as though the tree had its feet in a warm bag. And now the tree was lifted on the wagon and secured with chains. The journey began—the journey to Paris. There the tree was to grow as an ornament to the city of French glory.

The twigs and the leaves of the chestnut tree trembled in the first moments of its being moved; and the Dryad trembled in the pleasurable feeling of expectation.

“Away! away!” it sounded in every beat of her pulse. “Away! away” sounded in words that flew trembling along. The Dryad forgot to bid farewell to the regions of home; she thought not of the waving grass and of the innocent daisies, which had looked up to her as to a great lady, a young Princess playing at being a shepherdess out in the open air.

The chestnut tree stood upon the wagon, and nodded his branches; whether this meant “farewell” or “forward,” the Dryad knew not; she dreamed only of the marvellous new things, that seemed yet so familiar, and that were to unfold themselves before her. No child’s heart rejoicing in innocence—no heart whose blood danced with passion—had set out on the journey to Paris more full of expectation than she.

Her “farewell” sounded in the words “Away! away!”

The wheels turned; the distant approached; the present vanished. The region was changed, even as the clouds change. New vineyards, forests, villages, villas appeared—came nearer—vanished!

The chestnut tree moved forward, and the Dryad went with it. Steam-engine after steam-engine rushed past, sending up into the air vapory clouds, that formed figures which told of Paris, whence they came, and whither the Dryad was going.

Everything around knew it, and must know whither she was bound. It seemed to her as if every tree she passed stretched out its leaves towards her, with the prayer—“Take me with you澳门皇冠金沙网站,! take me with you!” for every tree enclosed a longing Dryad.

What changes during this flight! Houses seemed to be rising out of the earth—more and more—thicker and thicker. The chimneys rose like flower-pots ranged side by side, or in rows one above the other, on the roofs. Great inscriptions in letters a yard long, and figures in various colors, covering the walls from cornice to basement, came brightly out.

“Where does Paris begin, and when shall I be there?” asked the Dryad.

The crowd of people grew; the tumult and the bustle increased; carriage followed upon carriage; people on foot and people on horseback were mingled together; all around were shops on shops, music and song, crying and talking.

The Dryad, in her tree, was now in the midst of Paris. The great heavy wagon all at once stopped on a little square planted with trees. The high houses around had all of them balconies to the windows, from which the inhabitants looked down upon the young fresh chestnut tree, which was coming to be planted here as a substitute for the dead tree that lay stretched on the ground.

The passers-by stood still and smiled in admiration of its pure vernal freshness. The older trees, whose buds were still closed, whispered with their waving branches, “Welcome! welcome!” The fountain, throwing its jet of water high up in the air, to let it fall again in the wide stone basin, told the wind to sprinkle the new-comer with pearly drops, as if it wished to give him a refreshing draught to welcome him.

The Dryad felt how her tree was being lifted from the wagon to be placed in the spot where it was to stand. The roots were covered with earth, and fresh turf was laid on top. Blooming shrubs and flowers in pots were ranged around; and thus a little garden arose in the square.

The tree that had been killed by the fumes of gas, the steam of kitchens, and the bad air of the city, was put upon the wagon and driven away. The passers-by looked on. Children and old men sat upon the bench, and looked at the green tree. And we who are telling this story stood upon a balcony, and looked down upon the green spring sight that had been brought in from the fresh country air, and said, what the old clergyman would have said, “Poor Dryad!”

“I am happy! I am happy!” the Dryad cried, rejoicing; “and yet I cannot realize, cannot describe what I feel. Everything is as I fancied it, and yet as I did not fancy it.”

The houses stood there, so lofty, so close! The sunlight shone on only one of the walls, and that one was stuck over with bills and placards, before which the people stood still; and this made a crowd.

Carriages rushed past, carriages rolled past; light ones and heavy ones mingled together. Omnibuses, those over-crowded moving houses, came rattling by; horsemen galloped among them; even carts and wagons asserted their rights.

The Dryad asked herself if these high-grown houses, which stood so close around her, would not remove and take other shapes, like the clouds in the sky, and draw aside, so that she might cast a glance into Paris, and over it. Notre Dame must show itself, the Vendme Column, and the wondrous building which had called and was still calling so many strangers to the city.

But the houses did not stir from their places. It was yet day when the lamps were lit. The gas-jets gleamed from the shops, and shone even into the branches of the trees, so that it was like sunlight in summer. The stars above made their appearance, the same to which the Dryad had looked up in her home. She thought she felt a clear pure stream of air which went forth from them. She felt herself lifted up and strengthened, and felt an increased power of seeing through every leaf and through every fibre of the root. Amid all the noise and the turmoil, the colors and the lights, she knew herself watched by mild eyes.

From the side streets sounded the merry notes of fiddles and wind instruments. Up! to the dance, to the dance! to jollity and pleasure! that was their invitation. Such music it was, that horses, carriages, trees, and houses would have danced, if they had known how. The charm of intoxicating delight filled the bosom of the Dryad.

“How glorious, how splendid it is!” she cried, rejoicingly. “Now I am in Paris!”

The next day that dawned, the next night that fell, offered the same spectacle, similar bustle, similar life; changing, indeed, yet always the same; and thus it went on through the sequence of days.

“Now I know every tree, every flower on the square here! I know every house, every balcony, every shop in this narrow cut-off corner, where I am denied the sight of this great mighty city. Where are the arches of triumph, the Boulevards, the wondrous building of the world? I see nothing of all this. As if shut up in a cage, I stand among the high houses, which I now know by heart, with their inscriptions, signs, and placards; all the painted confectionery, that is no longer to my taste. Where are all the things of which I heard, for which I longed, and for whose sake I wanted to come hither? what have I seized, found, won? I feel the same longing I felt before; I feel that there is a life I should wish to grasp and to experience. I must go out into the ranks of living men, and mingle among them. I must fly about like a bird. I must see and feel, and become human altogether. I must enjoy the one half-day, instead of vegetating for years in every-day sameness and weariness, in which I become ill, and at last sink and disappear like the dew on the meadows. I will gleam like the cloud, gleam in the sunshine of life, look out over the whole like the cloud, and pass away like it, no one knoweth whither.”

Thus sighed the Dryad; and she prayed:

“Take from me the years that were destined for me, and give me but half of the life of the ephemeral fly! Deliver me from my prison! Give me human life, human happiness, only a short span, only the one night, if it cannot be otherwise; and then punish me for my wish to live, my longing for life! Strike me out of thy list. Let my shell, the fresh young tree, wither, or be hewn down, and burnt to ashes, and scattered to all the winds!”

A rustling went through the leaves of the tree; there was a trembling in each of the leaves; it seemed as if fire streamed through it. A gust of wind shook its green crown, and from the midst of that crown a female figure came forth. In the same moment she was sitting beneath the brightly-illuminated leafy branches, young and beautiful to behold, like poor Mary, to whom the clergyman had said, “The great city will be thy destruction.”

The Dryad sat at the foot of the tree—at her house door, which she had locked, and whose key had thrown away. So young! so fair! The stars saw her, and blinked at her. The gas-lamps saw her, and gleamed and beckoned to her. How delicate she was, and yet how blooming!—a child, and yet a grown maiden! Her dress was fine as silk, green as the freshly-opened leaves on the crown of the tree; in her nut-brown hair clung a half-opened chestnut blossom. She looked like the Goddess of Spring.

For one short minute she sat motionless; then she sprang up, and, light as a gazelle, she hurried away. She ran and sprang like the reflection from the mirror that, carried by the sunshine, is cast, now here, now there. Could any one have followed her with his eyes, he would have seen how marvellously her dress and her form changed, according to the nature of the house or the place whose light happened to shine upon her.

She reached the Boulevards. Here a sea of light streamed forth from the gas-flames of the lamps, the shops and the cafés. Here stood in a row young and slender trees, each of which concealed its Dryad, and gave shade from the artificial sunlight. The whole vast pavement was one great festive hall, where covered tables stood laden with refreshments of all kinds, from champagne and Chartreuse down to coffee and beer. Here was an exhibition of flowers, statues, books, and colored stuffs.

From the crowd close by the lofty houses she looked forth over the terrific stream beyond the rows of trees. Yonder heaved a stream of rolling carriages, cabriolets, coaches, omnibuses, cabs, and among them riding gentlemen and marching troops. To cross to the opposite shore was an undertaking fraught with danger to life and limb. Now lanterns shed their radiance abroad; now the gas had the upper hand; suddenly a rocket rises! Whence? Whither?

Here are sounds of soft Italian melodies; yonder, Spanish songs are sung, accompanied by the rattle of the castanets; but strongest of all, and predominating over the rest, the street-organ tunes of the moment, the exciting “Can-Can” music, which Orpheus never knew, and which was never heard by the “Belle Helénè.” Even the barrow was tempted to hop upon one of its wheels.

The Dryad danced, floated, flew, changing her color every moment, like a humming-bird in the sunshine; each house, with the world belonging to it, gave her its own reflections.

As the glowing lotus-flower, torn from its stem, is carried away by the stream, so the Dryad drifted along. Whenever she paused, she was another being, so that none was able to follow her, to recognize her, or to look more closely at her.

Like cloud-pictures, all things flew by her. She looked into a thousand faces, but not one was familiar to her; she saw not a single form from home. Two bright eyes had remained in her memory. She thought of Mary, poor Mary, the ragged merry child, who wore the red flowers in her black hair. Mary was now here, in the world-city, rich and magnificent as in that day when she drove past the house of the old clergyman, and past the tree of the Dryad, the old oak.

Here she was certainly living, in the deafening tumult. Perhaps she had just stepped out of one of the gorgeous carriages in waiting. Handsome equipages, with coachmen in gold braid and footmen in silken hose, drove up. The people who alighted from them were all richly-dressed ladies. They went through the opened gate, and ascended the broad staircase that led to a building resting on marble pillars. Was this building, perhaps, the wonder of the world? There Mary would certainly be found.

“Sancta Maria!” resounded from the interior. Incense floated through the lofty painted and gilded aisles, where a solemn twilight reigned.

It was the Church of the Madeleine.

Clad in black garments of the most costly stuffs, fashioned according to the latest mode, the rich feminine world of Paris glided across the shining pavement. The crests of the proprietors were engraved on silver shields on the velvet-bound prayer-books, and embroidered in the corners of perfumed handkerchiefs bordered with Brussels lace. A few of the ladies were kneeling in silent prayer before the altars; others resorted to the confessionals.

Anxiety and fear took possession of the Dryad; she felt as if she had entered a place where she had no right to be. Here was the abode of silence, the hall of secrets. Everything was said in whispers, every word was a mystery.

The Dryad saw herself enveloped in lace and silk, like the women of wealth and of high birth around her. Had, perhaps, every one of them a longing in her breast, like the Dryad?

A deep, painful sigh was heard. Did it escape from some confessional in a distant corner, or from the bosom of the Dryad? She drew the veil closer around her; she breathed incense, and not the fresh air. Here was not the abiding-place of her longing.

Away! away—a hastening without rest. The ephemeral fly knows not repose, for her existence is flight.

She was out again among the gas candelabra, by a magnificent fountain.

“All its streaming waters are not able to wash out the innocent blood that was spilt here.”

Such were the words spoken. Strangers stood around, carrying on a lively conversation, such as no one would have dared to carry on in the gorgeous hall of secrets whence the Dryad came.

A heavy stone slab was turned and then lifted. She did not understand why. She saw an opening that led into the depths below. The strangers stepped down, leaving the starlit air and the cheerful life of the upper world behind them.

“I am afraid,” said one of the women who stood around, to her husband, “I cannot venture to go down, nor do I care for the wonders down yonder. You had better stay here with me.”

“Indeed, and travel home,” said the man, “and quit Paris without having seen the most wonderful thing of all—the real wonder of the present period, created by the power and resolution of one man!”

“I will not go down for all that,” was the reply.

“The wonder of the present time,” it had been called. The Dryad had heard and had understood it. The goal of her ardent longing had thus been reached, and here was the entrance to it. Down into the depths below Paris? She had not thought of such a thing; but now she heard it said, and saw the strangers descending, and went after them.

The staircase was of cast iron, spiral, broad and easy. Below there burned a lamp, and farther down, another. They stood in a labyrinth of endless halls and arched passages, all communicating with each other. All the streets and lanes of Paris were to be seen here again, as in a dim reflection. The names were painted up; and every, house above had its number down here also, and struck its roots under the macadamized quays of a broad canal, in which the muddy water flowed onward. Over it the fresh streaming water was carried on arches; and quite at the top hung the tangled net of gas-pipes and telegraph-wires.

In the distance lamps gleamed, like a reflection from the world-city above. Every now and then a dull rumbling was heard. This came from the heavy wagons rolling over the entrance bridges.

Whither had the Dryad come?

You have, no doubt, heard of the CATACOMBS? Now they are vanishing points in that new underground world—that wonder of the present day—the sewers of Paris. The Dryad was there, and not in the world’s Exhibition in the Champ de Mars.

She heard exclamations of wonder and admiration.

“From here go forth health and life for thousands upon thousands up yonder! Our time is the time of progress, with its manifold blessings.”

Such was the opinion and the speech of men; but not of those creatures who had been born here, and who built and dwelt here—of the rats, namely, who were squeaking to one another in the clefts of a crumbling wall, quite plainly, and in a way the Dryad understood well.

A big old Father-Rat, with his tail bitten off, was relieving his feelings in loud squeaks; and his family gave their tribute of concurrence to every word he said:

“I am disgusted with this man-mewing,” he cried—“with these outbursts of ignorance. A fine magnificence, truly! all made up of gas and petroleum! I can’t eat such stuff as that. Everything here is so fine and bright now, that one’s ashamed of one’s self, without exactly knowing why. Ah, if we only lived in the days of tallow candles! and it does not lie so very far behind us. That was a romantic time, as one may say.”

“What are you talking of there?” asked the Dryad. “I have never seen you before. What is it you are talking about?”

“Of the glorious days that are gone,” said the Rat—“of the happy time of our great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers. Then it was a great thing to get down here. That was a rat’s nest quite different from Paris. Mother Plague used to live here then; she killed people, but never rats. Robbers and smugglers could breathe freely here. Here was the meeting-place of the most interesting personages, whom one now only gets to see in the theatres where they act melodrama, up above. The time of romance is gone even in our rat’s nest; and here also fresh air and petroleum have broken in.”

A carriage stopped, a kind of open omnibus, drawn by swift horses. The company mounted and drove away along the Boulevard de Sebastopol, that is to say, the underground boulevard, over which the well-known crowded street of that name extended.

The carriage disappeared in the twilight; the Dryad disappeared, lifted to the cheerful freshness above. Here, and not below in the vaulted passages, filled with heavy air, the wonder work must be found which she was to seek in her short lifetime. It must gleam brighter than all the gas-flames, stronger than the moon that was just gliding past.

Yes, certainly, she saw it yonder in the distance, it gleamed before her, and twinkled and glittered like the evening star in the sky.

She saw a glittering portal open, that led to a little garden, where all was brightness and dance music. Colored lamps surrounded little lakes, in which were water-plants of colored metal, from whose flowers jets of water spurted up. Beautiful weeping willows, real products of spring, hung their fresh branches over these lakes like a fresh, green, transparent, and yet screening veil. In the bushes burnt an open fire, throwing a red twilight over the quiet huts of branches, into which the sounds of music penetrated—an ear tickling, intoxicating music, that sent the blood coursing through the veins.

Beautiful girls in festive attire, with pleasant smiles on their lips, and the light spirit of youth in their hearts—“Marys,” with roses in their hair, but without carriage and postilion—flitted to and fro in the wild dance.

Where were the heads, where the feet? As if stung by tarantulas, they sprang, laughed, rejoiced, as if in their ecstacies they were going to embrace all the world.

The Dryad felt herself torn with them into the whirl of the dance. Round her delicate foot clung the silken boot, chestnut brown in color, like the ribbon that floated from her hair down upon her bare shoulders. The green silk dress waved in large folds, but did not entirely hide the pretty foot and ankle.

Had she come to the enchanted Garden of Armida? What was the name of the place?

The name glittered in gas-jets over the entrance. It was “Mabille.”

The soaring upwards of rockets, the splashing of fountains, and the popping of champagne corks accompanied the wild bacchantic dance. Over the whole glided the moon through the air, clear, but with a somewhat crooked face.

A wild joviality seemed to rush through the Dryad, as though she were intoxicated with opium. Her eyes spoke, her lips spoke, but the sound of violins and of flutes drowned the sound of her voice. Her partner whispered words to her which she did not understand, nor do we understand them. He stretched out his arms to draw her to him, but he embraced only the empty air.

The Dryad had been carried away, like a rose-leaf on the wind. Before her she saw a flame in the air, a flashing light high up on a tower. The beacon light shone from the goal of her longing, shone from the red lighthouse tower of the Fata Morgana of the Champ de Mars. Thither she was carried by the wind. She circled round the tower; the workmen thought it was a butterfly that had come too early, and that now sank down dying.

The moon shone bright, gas-lamps spread light around, through the halls, over the all-world’s buildings scattered about, over the rose-hills and the rocks produced by human ingenuity, from which waterfalls, driven by the power of “Master Bloodless,” fell down. The caverns of the sea, the depths of the lakes, the kingdom of the fishes were opened here. Men walked as in the depths of the deep pond, and held converse with the sea, in the diving-bell of glass. The water pressed against the strong glass walls above and on every side. The polypi, eel-like living creatures, had fastened themselves to the bottom, and stretched out arms, fathoms long, for prey. A big turbot was making himself broad in front, quietly enough, but not without casting some suspicious glances aside. A crab clambered over him, looking like a gigantic spider, while the shrimps wandered about in restless haste, like the butterflies and moths of the sea.

In the fresh water grew water-lilies, nymphaea, and reeds; the gold-fishes stood up below in rank and file, all turning their heads one way, that the streaming water might flow into their mouths. Fat carps stared at the glass wall with stupid eyes. They knew that they were here to be exhibited, and that they had made the somewhat toilsome journey hither in tubs filled with water; and they thought with dismay of the land-sickness from which they had suffered so cruelly on the railway.

They had come to see the Exhibition, and now contemplated it from their fresh or salt-water position. They looked attentively at the crowds of people who passed by them early and late. All the nations in the world, they thought, had made an exhibition of their inhabitants, for the edification of the soles and haddocks, pike and carp, that they might give their opinions upon the different kinds.

“Those are scaly animals” said a little slimy Whiting. “They put on different scales two or three times a day, and they emit sounds which they call speaking. We don’t put on scales, and we make ourselves understood in an easier way, simply by twitching the corners of our mouths and staring with our eyes. We have a great many advantages over mankind.”

“But they have learned swimming of us,” remarked a well-educated Codling. “You must know I come from the great sea outside. In the hot time of the year the people yonder go into the water; first they take off their scales, and then they swim. They have learnt from the frogs to kick out with their hind legs, and row with their fore paws. But they cannot hold out long. They want to be like us, but they cannot come up to us. Poor people!”

And the fishes stared. They thought that the whole swarm of people whom they had seen in the bright daylight were still moving around them; they were certain they still saw the same forms that had first caught their attention.

A pretty Barbel, with spotted skin, and an enviably round back, declared that the “human fry” were still there.

“I can see a well set-up human figure quite well,” said the Barbel. “She was called ‘contumacious lady,’ or something of that kind. She had a mouth and staring eyes, like ours, and a great balloon at the back of her head, and something like a shut-up umbrella in front; there were a lot of dangling bits of seaweed hanging about her. She ought to take all the rubbish off, and go as we do; then she would look something like a respectable barbel, so far as it is possible for a person to look like one!”

“What’s become of that one whom they drew away with the hook? He sat on a wheel-chair, and had paper, and pen, and ink, and wrote down everything. They called him a ‘writer.’”

“They’re going about with him still,” said a hoary old maid of a Carp, who carried her misfortune about with her, so that she was quite hoarse. In her youth she had once swallowed a hook, and still swam patiently about with it in her gullet. “A writer? That means, as we fishes describe it, a kind of cuttle or ink-fish among men.”

Thus the fishes gossipped in their own way; but in the artificial water-grotto the laborers were busy; who were obliged to take advantage of the hours of night to get their work done by daybreak. They accompanied with blows of their hammers and with songs the parting words of the vanishing Dryad.

“So, at any rate, I have seen you, you pretty gold-fishes,” she said. “Yes, I know you;” and she waved her hand to them. “I have known about you a long time in my home; the swallow told me about you. How beautiful you are! how delicate and shining! I should like to kiss every one of you. You others, also. I know you all; but you do not know me.”

The fishes stared out into the twilight. They did not understand a word of it.

The Dryad was there no longer. She had been a long time in the open air, where the different countries—the country of black bread, the codfish coast, the kingdom of Russia leather, and the banks of eau-de-Cologne, and the gardens of rose oil—exhaled their perfumes from the world-wonder flower.

When, after a night at a ball, we drive home half asleep and half awake, the melodies still sound plainly in our ears; we hear them, and could sing them all from memory. When the eye of the murdered man closes, the picture of what it saw last clings to it for a time like a photographic picture.

So it was likewise here. The bustling life of day had not yet disappeared in the quiet night. The Dryad had seen it; she knew, thus it will be repeated tomorrow.

The Dryad stood among the fragrant roses, and thought she knew them, and had seen them in her own home. She also saw red pomegranate flowers, like those that little Mary had worn in her dark hair.

Remembrances from the home of her childhood flashed through her thoughts; her eyes eagerly drank in the prospect around, and feverish restlessness chased her through the wonder-filled halls.

A weariness that increased continually, took possession of her. She felt a longing to rest on the soft Oriental carpets within, or to lean against the weeping willow without by the clear water. But for the ephemeral fly there was no rest. In a few moments the day had completed its circle.

Her thoughts trembled, her limbs trembled, she sank down on the grass by the bubbling water.

“Thou wilt ever spring living from the earth,” she said mournfully. “Moisten my tongue—bring me a refreshing draught.”

“I am no living water,” was the answer. “I only spring upward when the machine wills it.”

“Give me something of thy freshness, thou green grass,” implored the Dryad; “give me one of thy fragrant flowers.”

“We must die if we are torn from our stalks,” replied the Flowers and the Grass.

“Give me a kiss, thou fresh stream of air—only a single life-kiss.”

“Soon the sun will kiss the clouds red,” answered the Wind; “then thou wilt be among the dead—blown away, as all the splendor here will be blown away before the year shall have ended. Then I can play again with the light loose sand on the place here, and whirl the dust over the land and through the air. All is dust!”

The Dryad felt a terror like a woman who has cut asunder her pulse-artery in the bath, but is filled again with the love of life, even while she is bleeding to death. She raised herself, tottered forward a few steps, and sank down again at the entrance to a little church. The gate stood open, lights were burning upon the altar, and the organ sounded.

What music! Such notes the Dryad had never yet heard; and yet it seemed to her as if she recognized a number of well-known voices among them. They came deep from the heart of all creation. She thought she heard the stories of the old clergyman, of great deeds, and of the celebrated names, and of the gifts that the creatures of God must bestow upon posterity, if they would live on in the world.

The tones of the organ swelled, and in their song there sounded these words:

“Thy wishing and thy longing have torn thee, with thy roots, from the place which God appointed for thee. That was thy destruction, thou poor Dryad!”

The notes became soft and gentle, and seemed to die away in a wail.

In the sky the clouds showed themselves with a ruddy gleam. The Wind sighed:

“Pass away, ye dead! now the sun is going to rise!”

The first ray fell on the Dryad. Her form was irradiated in changing colors, like the soap-bubble when it is bursting and becomes a drop of water; like a tear that falls and passes away like a vapor.

Poor Dryad! Only a dew-drop, only a tear, poured upon the earth, and vanished away!

文章来源:安徒生童话

的确,这就是世界名城的大马路!

一切东西像云块所形成的种种幻象,在她身旁飘过去了,但是一张张面孔,哪一个她也不认识:她没有看见过任何一个来自她故乡的人。她的思想中亮着两颗明亮的眼珠:她想起了玛莉——可怜的玛莉!这个黑发上戴着红花的、衣衫槛楼的孩子,她现在就在这个豪华富贵、令人目眩神迷的世界名城里,正如她坐在车子里经过牧师的屋子、树精的树和那棵老栎树的时候一样。

地上躺着一朵萎谢了的、残破的栗树花。教堂里的圣水没有力量使它恢复生命。人类的脚不一会儿就把它踩进尘土。

树精感觉到,她的这株树已经从车子上被抬下来了,而且被栽在它未来的位置上。树根被埋在地里,上面还盖了一层草土。开着花的灌木也像这株树一样被栽下来了;四周还安放了许多盆花。这么着,广场的中央就出现了一个小小的花园。

这儿有柔和的意大利音乐,有响板伴奏着的西班牙歌曲。不过那淹没一切的巨大响声是一个八音盘所奏出的流行音乐——这种刺激人的“康康”音乐⑧连奥尔菲斯⑨也不知道,美丽的海伦⑩简直没有听见过。如果独轮车能够跳舞的话,它恐怕也要在它那个独轮子上跳起舞来了。树精在跳舞,在旋转,在飘荡,像阳光中的蜂鸟⑾一样在变换着颜色,因为每一幢房子和它的内部都在她身上反射了出来。

云块凝结成为紫色的庞大石块,一层一层地叠在高空中。闪电从它们中间射出来。“这是上帝的仆人,”老牧师说。接着一道蓝色的。耀眼的光——一道像太阳似的光——出现了。它射穿石块;于是闪电打下来,把这株可敬的老株树连根劈成两半。它的顶裂开了,它的躯干裂开了;它倒下来,伏在地上,好像是它想要拥抱光的使者似的。

马车在稀薄的光中消逝了。树精也升到煤气光中和新鲜自由的空气中消逝了。她不是在地下那些交叉的拱形走廊里和窒息的空气中,而是在这儿看见了世界的奇观——她在这短短的一夜生命中所追寻的奇观。它定会发出比一切煤气灯还要强烈的光来——比从天空滑过去的月亮还要强烈的光来。

法国是那么广阔和可爱,但是她只能看到它的一个片段。这个国家是一个世界,有葡萄园、树林和大城市。在这些东西之中,巴黎要算是最美丽,最伟大的了。鸟儿可以飞进它里面去,但是她却不能。

村精喜欢自己的生活和环境、太阳光和鸟儿的歌声。不过她最喜欢听人类的声音。她懂得人类的语言,也同样懂得动物的语言。

④阿拉丁是《一千零一夜》中的一个人物。他有一个神灯,他只须把它擦一下,就可以得到他所希望的东西,因此他所住的宫殿非常豪华。

“从这地层的深处,”人们说,“上面成千成万的人获得健康和长寿!我们的时代是一个进步的时代,具有这个时代的一切幸福。”

“巴黎是从什么地方开始的呢?我什么时候才算是到了巴黎呢?”树精问着自己。

①贞德(Jeanne d'Arc,1412~1431)是法国女英雄,曾领导法国人对英国抗战,后来被英国人当做巫婆烧死了。

她看到许多美丽的、盛装华服的年轻女人;这些女人脸上露出天真的微笑和青春的欢乐。还有一位叫做玛莉的姑娘;她头上戴着玫瑰花,但是她却没有马车和车夫。她们在这里尽情地狂舞,飘飞,旋转!好像“塔兰得拉舞”⑿刺激着她们似的,她们跳着,笑着。她们感到说不出地幸福,她们打算拥抱整个的世界。

树精感到一阵恐怖。她像一个正在洗浴的女人,把动脉管划开了,不停地流着血,而当她流得正要死的时候,她却仍然希望活下去。她站起来,向前走了几步,最后在一个小教堂面前又倒下来了。门是开着的,祭坛上燃着蜡烛,风琴奏出音乐。

“你将到那个迷人的城市里去,你将在那儿生根,你将会接触到那儿潺潺的流水、空气和阳光,但是你的生命将会缩短。你在这儿旷野中所能享受到的一连串的岁月,将会缩为短短的几个季节。可怜的树精啊,这将会是你的灭亡!你的向往将会不断地增大,你的渴望将会一天一天地变得强烈!这棵树将会成为你的一个监牢。你将会离开你的住处,你将会改变你的性格,你将会飞走,跟人类混在一起。那时你的寿命将会缩短,缩短得只有蜉蝣的半生那么长——只能活一夜。你的生命的火焰将会熄灭,这树的叶子将会凋零和被吹走,永远再也不回来。”

“一个记者,”她说,“用鱼的语言讲老实话,那就是人类中间的乌贼⒀!”

太阳照在马尔斯广场的“海市蜃楼”上,照在伟大的巴黎上空,照在有许多树和一个小喷泉的小广场上,照在许多高大的房屋上——这些房屋旁边长着一棵栗树。这树的枝子垂下来了,叶子也枯萎了,但是昨日它还是清新向上。生气勃勃。像春天的化身。大家说它现在已经死了。树精已经离开了,像云块似地不见了——谁也不知道她到什么地方去了。

“你在讲什么话?”树精说。“我从前并没有看见过你。你在讲些什么东西?”

她静静坐了一会儿,然后她就跳起来,用羚羊那种轻快的步子,绕过墙脚就不见了。她跑着,跳着,像一面在太阳光里移动着的镜子所射出的光辉。如果一个人能够仔细地观察一下看出实际的情况,他将会感到多么奇异啊!无论什么时候,只要她一停下步子,她的衣服和形体的色调,就会随着她所在的地方的特点和射在她身上的灯光的颜色而变换。

真是变幻莫测!真是急驶如飞!房子好像是从地上冒出来的一般,越冒越多,越聚越密。烟囱一个接着一个,一排接着一排,罗列在屋顶上,像许多花盆一样。由一码多长的字母所组成的字,绘在墙上的图画,从墙脚一直伸到屋檐,射出光彩。

树枝发出一阵沙沙的响声。一种痒酥酥的感觉通过它的每一片叶子,使它颤抖,好像它里面藏有火花,或者要迸出火花似的。一阵狂风在树顶上拂过去;正在这时候,一个女子的形体出现了——这是树精。她坐在煤气灯照着的。长满了绿叶的枝子下面,年轻而又美丽,像那个可怜的玛莉一样——人们曾经对这个玛莉说过:“那个大城市将会使你毁灭!”

玛壁尔

⑨奥尔菲斯是希腊神话中的有名的歌唱家和音乐师。

上流社会的贵妇人,穿着最时兴的料子所做的黑礼服,在光滑的地板上轻轻地走过。族徽在用天鹅绒精装的祈祷书的银扣子上射出来,也在缀有贵重的布鲁塞尔花边的芬芳的丝手帕上露出面。有些人在祭坛面前静静地跪着祈祷,有些人在向忏悔室走去。

螺旋形的梯子是铁做的,既宽大,又便利。下面点着一盏灯,更下面一点还有另一盏灯。

军事学校面前是一片和平时的战争演习场。这一片土地没有长草和粮食。它是从非洲沙漠里割下来的一块沙洲。在那个沙漠上,莫甘娜仙女③常常显示出她的奇异的楼阁和悬空的花园。现在这块马尔斯广场显得更美丽,更奇异,因为人类的天才把幻景变成了真实。

月亮在照着,煤气灯和灯笼在大厅里,在散在各处的“万国馆”里照着,照着那些起伏的草地和人的智慧所创造的巨石——“无血巨人”使瀑布从这上面倾泻下来。海的深处和淡水的深处——鱼儿的天下——都在这儿展览出来了。你在一个潜水钟里,可以想象自己是在深深的池底,是在海底。水从四面八方向这厚玻璃壁压过来,六英尺多长的珊瑚虫,柔软和弯曲得像鳝鱼一样,抖着它身上的活刺,正在前后蠕动,同时紧紧地贴着海底。

⑦古代的巴别人想建造一座塔通到天上,上帝为了要阻止他们做这件事就使他们的语言混杂起来,使他们无法彼此了解,因而无从协力做完这件工作。“巴别人的语言”形容语言的混杂。事见《圣经·旧约·创世记》第十一章第四至九节。

我们现在是在巴黎的中心,在一个大旅馆里面。整个的楼梯上都装饰着花朵;所有的梯级上都铺满了柔软的地毯。

”他仍然坐在轮椅上跑来跑去!”一条全身长满了青苔的鲤鱼老小姐说。她的喉咙里塞满了世界的艰难辛苦,因此她的声音有点嘶哑。她曾有一次吞过一个鱼钩,她仍然把它带在喉咙里很有耐心地游来游去。

这时空中发出一个痛苦的、深沉的叹息声。这是由忏悔室那个角落传来的呢,还是由树精的胸中发出来的?她把面纱拉下一点。她吸了一口教堂的香烟——不是新鲜的空气。这儿不是她渴望的地方。

曾经钻进水里去过的燕子谈论着美丽的金鱼、肥胖的鲫鱼、粗大的鲈鱼和长得有青苔的老鲤鱼。它把它们描写得非常生动,但是它说:“最好你还是亲自去看看吧。”不过树精怎样能看到这些生物呢?她能看到美丽的风景和忙碌的人间活动——她也只能满足于这些东西了。这是很美丽的事情。不过最美丽的事情还是听那位老牧师在株树下谈论法兰西和许多男人和女人的伟大事迹——这些人的名字,任何时代的人一提起来就要表示钦慕。

许多人带着铲子和杠子来了。他们在这树的周围挖,挖得很深,一直挖到根底下。于是一辆马拉的车子开过来了。这树连根带土被抬起来,还包上一块芦席,使它的根能够保持温暖。接着,它就被牢牢地系在车上。它要旅行到巴黎去,在这个法国的首都,世界的名城里长大。

去吧!去吧!无休无止地飞翔吧!蜉蝣是没有休息的。飞翔就是它的生活!

坐在树里的树精现在来到了巴黎的中心。这辆沉重的大马车在一个小广场上停下来。广场上种满了树。它的周围全是些高房子,而且每个窗子都有一个阳台。阳台上的人望着这棵新鲜年轻的栗树;它现在被运来,而且要栽在这里,来代替那棵连根拔起的、现在倒在地上的老树。广场上的人们,带着微笑和愉快的心情,静静地望着这代表春天的绿色。那些刚刚冒芽的老树,摇动着它们的枝叶,对它致敬:“欢迎!欢迎!”喷泉向空中射着水,水又哗啦哗啦地落到它宽广的池里。它现在叫风儿把它的水点吹到这新来的树上,作为一种欢迎的表示。

她心中闪过一段回忆——一段在乡下老家所度过的儿时的回忆。她的热望的眼睛把周围的景色望了一下,她感到一阵极度的焦虑不安。这种心情驱使她走过那些壮丽的大厦。

淡水里长着许多睡莲、菅茅和灯心草。金鱼像田野里的红色母牛一样,都排成队,把头掉向同一个方向,好让水潮能够流进它们的嘴里。又肥又粗的梭鱼呆呆地睁着它们的大眼睛望着玻璃墙。它们都知道,它们现在是在巴黎展览会里。它们也知道,它们曾经在盛满了水的桶里,做过一段很艰苦的旅行;它们曾经在铁路上晕过车,正如人在海上晕船一样。它们是来看这展览会的,而它们也就在它们的淡水或咸水缸里看见了:它们看到人群从早到晚不停地流动。世界各国送来了和展览了他们不同的人种,使这些梭鱼、鲫鱼、活泼的鲈鱼和长满青苔的鲤鱼都能看看这些生物和对这些种族表示一点意见。

“不要到巴黎去吧!”老牧师说。“可怜的孩子,如果你去,你就会毁灭!”

风琴的调子在空中盘旋着,用歌声说出这样的话:

树精所住的这棵树第一次开出了栗花,鸟儿在美丽的阳光中喃喃地歌颂这件事情。这时路上有一辆漂亮的马车开过来了。车里坐着一位华贵的太太。她亲自赶着那几匹美丽的快马,一个俊秀的小马车夫坐在她的后面。树精认出了她,那个老牧师也认出了她。牧师摇摇头,惋惜地说:

晚间的舞会结束以后,我们在半睡的状态中乘着车子回来了。音乐仍然清晰地在我们的耳朵里发出回音;我们仍然可以听见每一个调子;我们可以把它们哼出来。一个被谋害者的眼睛可以把最后一刹那间所看到的东西保留一段时间;同样,白天熙熙攘攘的景象和光彩,也映在夜的眼里。这既不能被吸收,也不能被磨灭。树精感觉到了这一点,她知道,明天的一切情形仍然会这样。树精站在芬芳的玫瑰花中间。她觉得她在故乡就认识这些花儿,这是御花园和牧师花园里的花,她在这儿还看见了鲜红的石榴花——玛莉曾经在她炭一样黑的头发上戴过这样一朵花。

老牧师不再来了,学校的屋顶塌下来了,老师的坐位也没有了,孩子们也不再来了。但是秋天来了,冬天来了,春天也来了。在这些变换的季节中,树精遥遥地向远方望——在那远方,巴黎每夜像一层放光的薄雾似的,在地平线上出现。火车头一架接着一架、车厢一串接着一串,时时刻刻地从巴黎开出来,发出隆隆的吼声。火车在晚间和半夜开行,在早晨和白天开行。世界各国来的人,有的钻进车厢里去,有的从车厢里走出来。一件世界的奇观把他们吸引到巴黎来了。

一切的确是这个样子——关于展览会的报道是这样说的。谁没有听过这些报道呢?所有这儿一切关于这个世界名城的“新的奇迹”的议论,树精都听到过。

村里的孩子聚精会神地听着;树精也聚精会神地听着。她像别的孩子一样,也是一个小学生。凡是她所听到的东西,她都能在那些移动着的浮云中看出具体的形象。

声音在空中这样响着,引起回音。于是这道强光就消逝了;但是树精的向往和渴望却没有消逝。她在狂热的期盼中颤抖着:

⑤这是位于亚洲和非洲之间的一个游牧民族。

白云朵朵的天空就是她的画册。

我们的时代是一个童话的时代。

这是怎样的一种奇观呢?

树精感到一种不安和恐惧,好像她走进了一个她不应该插足的处所似的。这是一个静寂之家,一个秘密的大殿。一切话语都是用低声、或者在沉默的信任中吐露出来的。

“我要到这个世界的名城里去!”她兴高采烈地说。“我的生命开始了。它像密集的云块;谁也不知道它会飘向什么地方去。”

“再会!”成为“去了!去了!”

你听到过地下的墓窖吧?比起这个地下的新世界,这个现代的奇迹——这些巴黎的暗沟来,它真是小巫见大巫了。树精就在那儿,而不在那个马尔斯广场上的世界展览会里。

大理石和各种色彩把那些无穷尽的大厅装饰得非常漂亮。“没有血液”的巨人在那巨大的“机器馆”里动着它的钢铁的四肢。钢铁制成的、石头雕成的和手工织成的艺术品说明了在世界各个国家所搏动着的精神生活。画廊、美丽的花朵、手艺人在他们的工作室里用智慧和双手所创造出来的东西,现在全都在这儿陈列出来了。古代宫殿和沼泽地的遗物现在也在这儿展览出来了。

“你到那儿去!那会带给你损害呀!可怜的玛莉啊!”

“多么幸福啊!多么美啊!”她快乐地高呼着。“我现在是住在巴黎!”

那株被煤烟、炊烟和城里一切足以致命的气味所杀死了的、连根拔起的老树,现在被装在马车上拖走了。民众在旁边观看;小孩子和老年人坐在草地上的凳子上,望着新栽的树上的绿叶。至于我们讲这个故事的人呢,我们站在阳台上,俯视着这株从乡下新鲜空气中运来的年轻的树。我们像那个老牧师一样,也很想说一声:“可怜的树精啊!”

“我在讲那些过去的好日子,”耗子说,“曾祖父和曾祖母耗子时代的好日子!那时到这地下来才是一件了不起的事情呢。那时的耗子窝比整个的巴黎都好!鼠疫妈妈就住在这儿。她杀死人,却不杀死耗子。强盗和贩私贩子可以在这儿自由呼吸。这儿是许多最有趣的人物的避乱所——现在只有在上面剧院的情节剧中才能看到的那些人物。我们耗子窝里最浪漫的时代也已经过去了;我们这儿现在有了新鲜空气和煤油。”

新的日子、新的夜晚和继续到来的新的日子,带来同样的景象,同样的活动和同样的生活——一切在不停地变幻,但同时又都是一样。

“我讨厌这些声音,这些人类的胡说八道,这些毫无意义的话语!是的,这儿很漂亮,有煤气,有煤油!但是我不吃这类的东西!这儿现在变得这么清洁和光明,我们不知怎的,不禁对自己感到羞愧起来。我们唯愿活在蜡烛的时代里!那个时代离我们并不很远!那是一个浪漫的时代——人们都这样说。”

这是树精的叹息。这叹息声升到空中,变成一个祈祷:

③据传说,这个仙女的空中楼阁,就是我们肉眼所见的海市蜃楼。

树精想:这些挤在一起的高房子,可不可以马上走开,或者变成像天上云块那样的东西浮走,以便让她看看巴黎和巴黎以外的东西呢?她要看看圣母院、万多姆塔和那件一直吸引着许多观众来参观的奇迹。

一块大石板被翻起来了,而且还被竖起来了。她不了解这件事情;她看到通到地底层的一条宽路。人们从明亮的星空,从太阳似的煤气灯光,从一切活跃的生命中走到这条路上来。

“现在正在建筑的是一座近代阿拉丁之宫④,”人们说。“每过一天,每过一点钟,它就显露出更多和更美丽的光彩。”

“他们可是学会了游泳。”一条小淡水鱼说。“我是从一个大湖里来的。那儿人类在热天里钻进水里去。他们先把壳脱掉,然后再游泳。游泳是青蛙教给他们的。他们用后腿蹬,用前腿划。他们支持不了多久。他们倒很想模仿我们呢,但是他们学得一点也不像。可怜的人类啊!”

但是她却去了。

“你们这些鸟儿啊,飞吧!飞到那儿去看看,然后再回来告诉我吧!”这是树精的祈求。

⑧这是1830年在巴黎舞场流行的一种音乐。

⒀乌贼的原文是Blaeksprutte,这是由Blaek和Sprutte两字组成的复合字,有双关意义。照字面讲,是“吐墨水的人”,即“黑良心的造谣者”的意思。

柔和的风琴声好像是在哭泣,好像是在泪水中消逝了。

“这都是金鱼!”她说,同时对它们点点头。“我总算看到你们了!我认识你们!我早就认识你们!燕子在我家里讲过你们的故事。你们是多么美,多么辉煌,多么可爱啊!我可以把你们每一位都吻一下!我也认识别的鱼!这个一定是肥胖的梭鱼,那个一定是美丽的鲫鱼,这儿一定是长满了青苔的老鲤鱼!我认识你们,但是你们却不认识我!”

她周围的一切知道、同时也必须懂得,她的旅行的目的地。她觉得,她所经过的每一棵树都在向她伸出枝子,同时恳求她说;“把我带去吧!把我带去吧!”每一株树里面也住着一位怀着渴望心情的树精。

这是鼓舞人、马、车子、树和房子跳舞的音乐——如果他们能跳舞的话。树精的心里有一种狂欢的感觉。

参观者从大清早一直到深夜都在不停地到来。装满了客人的轮船,一艘接着一艘地在塞纳河上开过去。车子的数目在不断地增加,步行和骑马的人也在不断地增加。公共马车和电车上都挤满了人。这些人群都向同一个目的地汇聚:巴黎展览会!所有的入口都悬着法国的国旗,展览馆的周围则飘扬着其他国家的国旗。“机器馆”发出隆隆的响声;塔上的钟声奏起和谐的音乐。教堂里有风琴在响;东方的咖啡馆飘出混杂着音乐的粗嘎的歌声。这简直像一个巴别人的王国,一种巴别人的语言⑦,一种世界的奇观。

春天来了;接着就是夏天、秋天和冬天。两年过去了。

“我也看见了,看得非常清楚!”一条黄鲤鱼说。“我清楚地看到一个身材美丽的人形——一个‘高腿的小姐’——随便你怎样叫她吧。她有我们这样的嘴和一双瞪着的眼睛;她后面有两个气球,前面挂着一把伞,身上叮叮当当悬着一大堆海草。她很想把这些东西都扔掉,像我们一样地回到自然。她很想在人类所及的范围内,做一条有身份的鲤鱼。”

耗子发出这样吱吱的叫声!它反对新时代,称赞鼠疫妈妈那些过去了的日子。

但是蜉蝣是没有办法休息的。在几分钟以内,这一天就完了。

在车子最初开动的一瞬间,这棵栗树的枝叶都颤抖起来。树精在幸福的期待中也颤抖起来。

气流托着树精浮走了,正如风把一片玫瑰花瓣托着一样。她在高空上,在塔顶上,看到一个火焰,一道闪光。一个亮光从她渴望的目的物上射出来,从马尔斯广场的“海市蜃楼”的灯塔上射出来。春天的微风把她吹向这儿;她绕着这塔飞。工人们以为他们所看到的是一只蝴蝶在下落,在死去——因为它来得太早了。

“去了!去了!”每一次脉搏都发出这样一个声音。“去了!去了!”这是一个震荡、颤抖的回响。树精忘记了对她的故乡、摇动的草儿和天真的雏菊告别。这些东西一直把她看作是我们上帝花园里的一位贵妇人——一位扮作牧羊女下乡的公主。

鱼儿们都谈出了自己的一套意见。不过在这人造的水晶洞里响起了一片槌子声和工人的歌声。这些工人不得不在夜里做工,好使一切能在最短的时间内完成,他们的歌声在树精的仲夏夜之梦里发出回响——她站在那儿,打算飞翔和消逝。

马尔斯广场上,像个巨大的圣诞餐桌一样,就是这个工业和艺术的阿拉丁之宫。宫的周围陈列着来自世界各国的展品:每个民族都能在这儿找到一件令他们想起他们的国家的东西。

车轮在不停地转动着;距离缩短了,落在后面。景色在变幻,像云块在变幻一样。新的葡萄园、树林、村庄、别墅和花园跃人视线,又消逝了。栗树在向前进,树精也在向前进。火车彼此在旁经过或彼此对开。火车头吐出一层烟云。烟云变成种种的形象,好像是巴黎的缩影——火车离开了的和树精正在奔赴的巴黎。

⑾蜂鸟(Calibrian)是美洲热带所产的一种燕雀。身体很小,羽毛有光,飞时翅膀发出嗡嗡的声音。

到目前为止,它还是立在一辆沉重的车子里。是这辆车子今天从许多里以外的乡下把它运进巴黎来的。在这以前,有好几年,它一直是立在一棵大栎树旁边。一位和善的老牧师常常坐在这棵栎树下,讲故事给那些聚精会神的孩子们听。这棵年轻的栗树也跟着他们一起听。住在它里面的树精那时也还不过是一个孩子。她还记得这树儿童时代的情景。那时它很小,还没有草叶或凤尾草那么高。这些草类可以说是大得不可再大了,但是栗树却在不断地生长,每年总要增大一点。它吸收空气和太阳光,喝着露水和雨点,被大风摇撼和吹打,这是它的教育的一部分。

“太阳马上就会把云块吻得绯红!”风儿说。“那时你就会走进死人群中去,消逝了,正如这儿的一切辉煌在这一年没有结束以前就会消逝一样。那时我就又可以跟广场上那些轻微的散沙玩耍,吹起地上的尘土,吹到空气中去——尘土,遍地都是尘土!”

“他们全是些有壳的生物!”一条粘糊糊的小鲤鱼说。“他们一天换两三次壳,而且用他们的嘴发出声音——他们把这叫做‘讲话’。我们可是什么也不换,我们有更容易的办法使我们可以互相了解:把嘴角动一下,或者把眼睛瞪一下就得了!我们有许多地方要比人类高明得多!”

从一条侧街里飘来管乐和手风琴奏的邀舞曲。是的,跳舞吧!跳舞吧!这是叫人欢乐和享受生活的音乐。

树精全身感到一种使人疲劳的陶醉,好像吸食雅片过后的那种昏沉。

“如果我们被折断了,我们就会死亡!”草和花儿一起说。

可是这些房子却一动也不动。

我们旅行去,去看巴黎的展览会。

多美的音乐呵!树精从来没有听见过这样的调子,但她在这些调子中似乎听见了熟识的声音。这声音是从一切造物的内心深处发出来的。她觉得她听见了老栎树的萧萧声;她觉得她听到了老牧师在谈论着一些伟大的事迹、驰名的名字,谈论着上帝的造物可以而且能够对未来做些什么贡献,以求自己获得永恒的生命。

“圣母玛莉亚!”里面有人在唱着圣诗,香烟在高大的、色彩鲜明的、镀金的拱门下缭绕,造成一种昏暗的气氛。

云块升起来了,形成一整串连绵的山脉。它们在空中,在大地上飞驰,树精一眼都望不着边际。

“这是一朵童话之花,”另外有些人说,“一朵多彩的荷花。它把它在初春冒出的绿叶铺在沙土上,像一块天鹅绒的地毯。它在夏天表现出它的一切美丽。秋天的风暴把它连根带叶全部都扫走了。”

她看到一个闪光的门,向一个充满了光和舞曲的小花园开着。小而宁静的人造湖和水池边亮着五光十色的煤气灯。用弯弯曲曲的彩色锡箔所剪成的水草反射出闪光,同时从它们的花瓣里喷出一码多高的水来。美丽的垂柳——真正春天的垂柳——垂着它们新鲜的枝条,像一片透明而又能遮面的绿面纱。

这是玛德兰教堂。

音乐的调子、拍掌声、放焰火声、潺潺的水声、开香槟酒的砰膨声,都混在一起,舞跳得像酒醉似的疯狂。在这一切上面是一轮明月——无疑地它做出了一个怪脸。天空是澄静的,没有一点云。人们似乎可以从玛壁尔一直看到天上。

树精把自己用丝绸和面纱打扮起来,在外表上跟别的富贵女子没有两样。她们每人是不是像她一样,也是“渴望”的产儿呢?

“他坐在一个轮椅上。他手边有纸、笔和墨水;他把什么都写下来。他在做什么呢?人们把他叫做记者。”

“现在我认识这广场上的每一棵树,每一朵花!我认识这儿的每一幢房子、每一个阳台和店铺。我被安放在这里一个局促的角落里,弄得一点也看不见这个庄严伟大的城市。凯旋门、林荫路和那个世界的奇观在什么地方呢?这些东西我一点也没有看到!我被关在这些高房子中间,像在一个囚笼里一样。这些房子我现在记得烂熟:这包括它们墙上写的字、招贴、广告和一切画出来的糖果——我对这些东西现在没有任何兴趣。我所听到、知道和渴望的那些东西在什么地方呢?我是为了那些东西到这儿来的呀!我把握了、获得了和找到了什么呢?我仍然是像从前那样在渴望着。我已经触觉到了一种生活,我必须把握住它,我必须过这种生活!我必须走进活生生的人群中去。在人群中跳跃;像鸟儿一样飞,观察,体验,做一个不折不扣的人。我宁愿过半天这样的生活,而不愿在沉闷和单调中度过一生——这种生活使我感到腻烦,感到沉沦,直到最后像草原上的露珠似的消逝了。我要像云块,像生活的阳光一样有光彩,像云块一样能够看见一切东西,像云块一样运行——运行到谁也不知道的地方去!”

像一棵从根拔断了的鲜艳的莲花在顺水飘流一样,树精也被这人潮卷走了。她每到一个地方就变出一个新的形状;因此谁也没有办法追随她,认出她,甚至观察她。

她的眼睛在讲话,她的嘴唇在讲话,但是笛子和提琴的声音把她的话语都淹没了。她的舞伴在她的耳边低语,这低语跟康康舞的音乐节奏在一起颤抖。她听不懂这些私语;我们也听不懂这些私语。他把手向她伸过来,抱着她,但他所抱着的却是透明的、充满了煤气的空气。

许多外国人站在这儿高声地、兴高采烈地谈论着。在那个神秘的深宫里——树精就是从那里来的——谁也不敢这样谈话。

一条身上长有美丽的条纹和有一个值得羡慕的肥背的小鲫鱼,说它仍然可以看到“人泥”。

一个王子诞生时向天空和全国所放的炮声,怎样也赶不上这株老株树死亡时的雷轰。雨水在向下流;一阵清新的和风在吹。暴风雨已经过去了;处处都笼罩着礼拜日一样的宁静气氛。村里的人在这株倒下的老株树周围聚集起来。那位可尊敬的老牧师说了几句赞美它的话;一位画家把这株树绘下来。留作最后的纪念。

天上露出红云。风儿在呼啸和歌唱:“死者啊,走开吧,太阳出来啦!”

“我害怕这情景!”站在这儿的一个女人说。“我不敢走下去!我也不愿意看那儿的绮丽的景象!请陪着我吧!”

“我并不是一条活泉水!”泉水说。“我是靠机器的力量流动的!”

难道她是在阿尔米达的魔花园里面吗?这块地方的名字叫什么呢?

人们说,这一切东西现在马尔斯广场都有了,都陈列出来了。整群的人,有的步行,有的坐在小马车里,都在这个丰盛的餐桌上移动,像一大堆忙碌的蚂蚁一样。一般人的腿子是无法支持这种疲劳的参观的。

“一朵艺术和工业的美丽之花,”人们说,“在马尔斯广场的荒土上开出来了。它是一朵庞大的向日葵。它的每片花瓣都使我们学习到关于地理和统计的知识,了解到各行师傅的技术,把我们提高到艺术和诗的境地,使我们认识到各个国家的面积和伟大。”

这种向往扩大成为一个希望——成为生活的一个中心思想。于是在一个静寂的夜里,当满月正在照着的时候,她看到一颗火星从月亮上落下来了。这火星像一颗流星似地发着亮。这时有一个庄严、光芒四射的人形在这树前出现——树枝全在动摇,好像有一阵狂风吹来似的。这人形用一种柔和而强有力的调子,像唤醒人的生命的、催人受审的末日号角一样,对她说:

她听到了这样一句话。

“要回去!”男人说。“离开了巴黎而没有看这最稀奇的东西——一个人凭他的天才和意志所创造出来的、现代的真正奇迹!”

“绿草啊,请把你的新鲜气氛赠一点给我吧!”树精要求说。“请给我一朵芬芳的花吧!”

⑩古希腊神话一个美人。

外面的煤气灯光中照出这样一个名字:

是的,她就在这儿——在这儿震人耳鼓的闹声中。可能她刚刚才从停在那儿的一辆漂亮马车里走出来呢。这些华贵的马车都有穿着整齐制服的马夫和穿着丝袜的仆役。车上走下来的全是些服装华丽的贵妇人。她们走进敞着的格子门,走上宽阔的、通向一个有大理石圆柱的建筑物的高梯。可能这就是“世界的奇观”吧?玛莉一定在这儿!

“上帝给你一块地方生下根,但你的要求和渴望却使你拔去了你的根。可怜的树精啊,这促使你灭亡!”

可怜的树精啊!一滴露水,一滴眼泪——一流出来就不见了!

她觉得住在美丽的法国是非常幸福的。但是她也觉得鸟儿和各种能飞的动物都比她幸运得多。甚至苍蝇都能向周围看得很远,比一个树精的眼界要大得多。

在一个灰色的早晨,当月亮发白、云块变红的时候,她的愿望实现的时刻到来了。诺言现在成为了事实。

在这儿的灌木林中烧起了一堆黄火。它的红色火焰照着一座小巧的、半暗的、静寂的花亭。富有勉力的音乐震荡着耳膜,使血液在人的四肢里激动和奔流。

它旁边有一条庞大的比目鱼:这条鱼舒舒服服地躺着,好像有所思的样子。一只螃蟹像一只巨大的蜘蛛在它身上爬;虾子在它周围不停地飞跃,好像它们是海底的蝴蝶和飞蛾。

人越来越多了,闹声和噪音也扩大了。车子后面跟着车子,骑马的人后面跟着步行的人。前后左右全是店铺、音乐、歌声、叫声和讲话声。

②夏洛·哥戴(Charlotte Corday,1768~1793)是法国大革命时一个女战士,在法国大革命中谋杀了当时的著名政治家、记者马拉。

她感到疲倦。这种疲倦的感觉在不停地增长。她很想在那些铺着的垫子和地毯上躺下来,或者在水边的垂柳上靠一靠,并且纵身跳人那清澈的水中——像垂柳的枝条一样。

“她可怜吗?”树精想。“不,这是一种多么大的改变啊!她打扮得像一位公爵夫人!这是因为她到了一个迷人的城市才改变得这样。啊,我希望我自己也能到那豪华富贵的环境中去!当我在夜里向我所知道的这个城市所在的方向望去的时候,我只见它射出光来,把天空的云块都照亮了。”

⑿这是意大利那不勒斯的一种土风舞,以动作激烈著称。

周围的房屋都很高,而且很密。只有一面墙上映着阳光。墙上贴满了招贴和广告。人们站在它面前看,而且人越集越多。轻车和重车从旁边开过去。公共马车,像挤满了人的、移动着的房子,也哗啦哗啦地开过去了。骑在马上的人向前驰骋;货车和马车也要求有同样的权利。

一辆车子停在这儿,这是由飞快的小马拖着的一种敞篷马车。这一对人坐进去,在地下的塞巴斯托波尔大道上奔驰起来。上面就是那有着同样名字的巴黎大马路,挤满了行人。

“请把我一生的岁月拿去吧!我只要求相当于一个蜉蝣的半生的时间!请把我从我的囚笼中释放出来吧!请让我过人的生活吧!哪怕只是一瞬间,只是一夜晚都可以!哪怕我的这种大胆和对生活的渴望会招致惩罚都可以!让我获得自由吧,哪怕我的这个屋子——这棵新鲜而年轻的树——萎谢、凋零、变成灰烬、被风吹得无影无踪都可以!”

“那个被拉在鱼钩上的人——那个男人——在做些什么呢?”

栗树坐在车子上,用它的枝子点头表示“再会”和“去了”的意思。树精一点也不知道这些事情。她只是梦想着将要在她眼前展开的那些新奇而又熟悉的事物。没有任何充满了天真幸福感的孩子的心,没有任何充满了热情的灵魂,会像她动身到巴黎去时那样,是那么地思绪万端。

蝴蝶啦、蜻蜓啦、苍蝇啦——的确,所有能飞的东西都来拜访她。他们到一起就聊天。他们谈论着关于乡村、葡萄园、树林和带花园的皇宫——宫里还有一个大花园——这类的事情。皇宫的花园之中还有溪流和水坝。水里也住得有生物,而且这些生物也有自己的一套办法在水里从这里飞到那里。它们都是有知识、有思想的生物,但是它们不说话,因为它们非常聪明。

树精到什么地方去了呢?

是的,一点也不错!她看到它就在那边,它在她面前射出光来。它闪耀着,像天上的太白星。

是的,每天黄昏,每天夜里,树精都向那个方向望。她看见一层充满了光的薄雾,浮在地平线上。但是在月明之夜她就看不见它了;她看不见显示着这城的形象和历史的那些浮云。

“我不愿意走下去,”这是一个回答。

“一切都过去了!”树精说,“像那些云块一样过去了,再也不回来!”

她又到外面来了;她是在喷泉旁的耀眼的煤气灯下面。“所有的流水都洗不净在这儿流过的、无辜的鲜血。”

这个庞大的、丰富多彩的展览,不得不复制成为模型,压缩到玩具那么大小,好使人们能够看到和了解它的全貌。

头一道阳光射在树精的身上。她的形体放射出五光十色的光彩,像一个肥皂泡在破裂,消逝、变成一滴水、一滴眼泪——一落到地上就消逝了的眼泪。

这是人的意见和言谈,但不是生在这儿和住在这儿的那些生物——耗子——的意见或言谈。它们从一堵旧墙的裂缝里发出吱吱的叫声,非常清楚,连树精都可以听懂。

⑥古斯达夫·瓦萨(Gustav Vasa)是瑞典瓦萨王朝(1521~1720)的创始人。达拉尔是瑞典西部的一个地区。这里的人民支持古斯达夫·瓦萨建立这个王朝。

没有云块的、酷热的夏日的天空,对她说来,等于是一本没有字的书。现在一连有好几天她只看到这样的天空。

“你带着永恒的生命从土地里流出来!”她说,“请你使我的舌头感到清凉,请你给我一点提神药吧!”

她从那些高房子下边的人群中,向树下可怕的人潮眺望:急驶的马车,单马拉着的篷车、轿车、公共马车、出租马车,骑马的绅士和前进的军队合起来形成一股浪潮。要想走到对面的人行道上简直是等于冒生命的危险。一会儿灯光变蓝,一会儿煤气灯发出强烈的闪亮,一会儿火箭向高空射去:它是从什么地方来的,射到什么地方去了呢?

这是一只很大的公耗子,它的尾巴被咬掉了;它用刺耳的声音把它的情感、痛苦和心里的话都叫出来。它的家族对它所说的每一个字都表示支持。

树精觉得自己不可抗拒地被吸引到这狂舞中去了。她的一双小巧的脚穿着一双绸子做的鞋。鞋的颜色是栗色的,跟飘在她的头发和她的赤裸的肩膀之间的那条缎带的颜色完全是一样。她那绿绸衫有许多大折叠,在空中飘荡,但是遮不住她美丽的腿和纤细的脚。这双脚好像是要在她的舞伴头上绘出神奇的圈子。

树精听着关于牧羊女贞德①的事情和关于夏洛·哥戴②的事情。她听着关于远古时代的事情——从亨利四世和拿破仑一世,一直到我们这个时代的天才和伟大的事迹。她听着许多在人民心里引起共鸣的名字。法兰西是一个具有世界意义的国家,是一块抚育着自由精神的理智的土地。!

这一切都是发生过的事情。

树精坐在这树的脚下。坐在她屋子的门口——她已经把她的门锁了,而且把钥匙也扔掉了。她是这么年轻,这么美丽!星星看见了她,对她眨着眼睛!煤气灯看见了她,对她微笑,对她招手!她是多么苗条,但同时又是多么健康啊!她是一个孩子,但同时又是一个成年的姑娘。她的衣服像绸子一样柔和,像树顶上的新叶一样碧绿。她的棕色头发上插着一朵半开的栗树花。她的外貌像春天的女神。

我们现在就到了!这是一次飞快的旅行,但是并非凭借什么魔力而完成的。我们是凭着蒸汽的力量,乘船或坐火车去的。

天还没有黑,灯就已经亮起来了。煤气灯光从店铺里和树枝间隐隐地射出来。这跟太阳光很有些相像。星星也出来了——和树精在故乡所看到过的一样的星星。她感到一阵清凉的和风从星星上吹来,她有一种崇高和强壮的感觉。她觉得她有一种力量,可以洞察这棵树的每一片叶子,可以感觉到树根的每一个尖端。她觉得她活在人的世界里,人的温和的眼睛在望着她,她的周围是一片闹声和音乐,色彩和光线。

“现代的奇迹!”人们说。树精听到了这话,也懂得它的意思。她的最大的渴望已经达到了目的。伸向巴黎的地底层的人口就在这儿。她从来没有想到过这事情,但是现在她却听到了,看到许多外国人朝下面走。于是她就跟着他们走。

鱼儿们都瞪着眼睛。它们以为这儿拥挤着的人群仍然是它们在强烈的阳光里所看到的那些人。是的,它们相信这仍然是那些第一次触动了它们的所谓感觉神经的人形。

这些乡下孩子中有一个小女孩。她穿着一身破烂的衣服,非常穷苦,但是她的样子却非常可爱。她不是在笑,就是在唱歌;她喜欢用红花编成花环戴在她的黑发上。

鱼儿呆呆地望着,一个字也听不懂。它们向那稀薄的微光望着。树精已经不在那儿了。她已经来到外面。从各国运来的“奇花”在这儿发出新鲜的香气——从黑面包的国度来的,从鳄鱼的海岸来的,从产皮革的俄罗斯来的,从德国出产柯龙香水的河岸来的,从产玫瑰花精的东方国度里来的。

她的思想颤抖起来,她的肢体也颤抖起来。她躺到潺潺流水旁边的草上。

“清凉的微风啊,请你吻我吧!我只要一个生命的吻!”

每一片树叶,每一朵花,好像是昏睡过去了一样,都垂下了;人也是这样。后来云块出现了,而且它出现的地方恰恰是夜间光彩的雾气所笼罩着的地方:这是巴黎。

她听到惊奇、羡慕和欣赏的欢呼声。

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