Once upon a time there was a king whose name was John Lackland, and it is not difficult to imagine the reason why.
But another time there lived a great singer who was called “Jubal, who had no I,” and I am now going to tell you the reason.
The name which he had inherited from his father, a soldier, was Peal, and undeniably there was music in the name. But nature had also given him a strong will, which stiffened his back like an iron bar, and that is a splendid gift, quite invaluable in the struggle for an existence. When he was still a baby, only just able to stammer a few words, he would never refer to his own little person as “he,” as other babies do, but from the very first he spoke of himself as “I.” You have no “I,” said his parents. When he grew older, he expressed every little want or desire by “I will.” But then his father said to him, “You have no will,” and “Your will grows in the wood.”
It was very foolish of the soldier, but he knew no better; he had learned to will only what he was ordered to do.
Young Peal thought it strange that he should be supposed to have no will when he had such a very strong one, but he let it pass.
When he had grown into a fine, strong youth, his father said to him one day, “What trade will you learn?”
The boy did not know; he had ceased to will anything, because he was forbidden to do so. It is true, he had a leaning towards music, but he did not dare to say so, for he was convinced that his parents would not allow him to become a musician. Therefore, being an obedient son, he replied, “I don’t will anything.”
“Then you shall be a tapster,” said the father.
Whether it was because the father knew a tapster, or because wine had a peculiar attraction for him, is a matter of indifference. It is quite enough to know that young Peal was sent to the wine vaults, and he might have fared a good deal worse.
There was a lovely smell of sealing-wax and French wine in the cellars, and they were large and had vaulted roofs, like churches. When he sat at the casks and tapped the red wine, his heart was filled with gladness, and he sang, in an undertone at first, all sorts of tunes which he had picked up.
His master, to whom wine spelt life, loved song and gaiety, and never dreamed of stopping his singing; it sounded so well in the vaults, and, moreover, it attracted customers, which was a splendid thing from the master’s point of view.
One day a commercial traveller dropped in; he had started life as an opera-singer, and when he heard Peal, he was so delighted with him that he invited him to dinner.
They played nine-pins, ate crabs with dill, drank punch, and, above everything, sang songs. Between two songs, and after they had sworn eternal friendship, the commercial traveller said:
“Why don’t you go on the stage?”
“I?” answered Peal, “how could I do that?”
“All you have to do is to say ‘I will.’”
This was a new doctrine, for since his third year young Peal had not used the words “I” and “will.” He had trained himself to neither wish nor will, and he begged his friend not to lead him into temptation.
But the commercial traveller came again; he came many times, and once he was accompanied by a famous singer; and one evening Peal, after much applause from a professor of singing, took his fate into his own hands.
He said good-bye to his master, and over a glass of wine heartily thanked his friend, the commercial traveller, for having given him self-confidence and will,—“will, that iron bar, which keeps a man’s back erect and prevents him from grovelling on all fours.” And he swore a solemn oath never to forget his friend, who had taught him to have faith in himself.
Then he went to say good-bye to his parents.
“I will be a singer,” he said in a loud voice, which echoed through the room.
The father glanced at the horse-whip, and the mother cried; but it was no use.
“Don’t lose yourself, my darling boy,” were the mother’s last words.
***
Young Peal managed to raise enough money to enable him to go abroad. There he learned singing according to all the rules of the art, and in a few years’ time he was a very great singer indeed. He earned much money and travelled with his own impresario.
Peal was prospering now and found no difficulty in saying “I will,” or even “I command.” His “I” grew to gigantic proportions, and he suffered no other “I’s” near him. He denied himself nothing, and did not put his light under a bushel. But now, as he was about to return to his own country, his impresario told him that no man could be a great singer and at the same time be called Peal; he advised him to adopt a more elegant name, a foreign name by preference, for that was the fashion.
The great man fought an inward struggle, for it is not a very nice thing to change one’s name; it looks as if one were ashamed of one’s father and mother, and is apt to create a bad impression.
But hearing that it was the fashion, he let it pass.
He opened his Bible to look for a name, for the Bible is the very best book for the purpose.
And when he came to Jubal, “who was the son of Lamech, and the father of all such as handle the harp and organ,” he considered that he could not do better. The impresario, who was an Englishman, suggested that he should call himself Mr. Jubal, and Peal agreed. Henceforth he was Mr. Jubal.
It was all quite harmless, of course, since it was the fashion, but it was nevertheless a strange thing with the new name Peal had changed his nature. His past was blotted out. Mr. Jubal looked upon himself as an Englishman born and bred, spoke with a foreign accent, grew side-whiskers and wore very high collars; a checked suit grew round him as the bark grows round a tree, apparently without any effort on his part. He carried himself stiffly, and when he met a friend in the street he acknowledged his friendly bow with the flicker of an eyelid. He never turned round if anybody called after him, and he always stood right in the middle of a street car.
He hardly knew himself.
He was now at home again, in his own country, and engaged to sing at the Opera-house. He played kings and prophets, heroes and demons, and he was so good an actor that whenever he rehearsed a part, he instantly became the part he impersonated.
One day he was strolling along the street. He was playing some sort of a demon, but he was also Mr. Jubal. Suddenly he heard a voice calling after him, “Peal!” He did not turn round, for no Englishman would do such a thing, and, moreover, his name was no longer Peal.
But the voice called again, “Peal!” and his friend, the commercial traveller, stood before him, looking at him searchingly, and yet with an expression of shy kindliness.
“Dear old Peal, it is you!” he said.
Mr. Jubal felt that a demon was taking possession of him; he opened his mouth so wide that he showed all his teeth, and bellowed a curt “No!”
Then his friend felt quite convinced that it was he and went away. He was an enlightened man, who knew men, the world and himself inside out, and therefore he was neither sorry nor astonished.
But Mr. Jubal thought he was; he heard a voice within him saying, “Before the cock crow thou shalt deny me thrice,” and he did what St. Peter had done, he went away and wept bitterly. That is to say, he wept in imagination, but the demon in his heart laughed.
Henceforth he was always laughing; he laughed at good and evil, sorrow and disgrace, at everything and everybody.
His father and mother knew, from the papers, who Mr. Jubal really was, but they never went to the Opera-house, for they fancied it had something to do with hoops and horses, and they objected to seeing their son in such surroundings.
Mr. Jubal was now the greatest living singer; he had lost a lot of his “I,” but he still had his will.
Then his day came. There was a little ballet-dancer who could bewitch men, and she bewitched Jubal. She bewitched him to such an extent that he asked her whether he might be hers. (He meant, of course, whether she would be his, but the other is a more polite way of expressing it.)
“You shall be mine,” said the sorceress, “if I may take you.”
“You may do anything you like,” replied Jubal.
The girl took him at his word and they married. First of all he taught her to sing and play, and then he gave her everything she asked for. But since was a sorceress, she always wanted the things which he most objected to giving to her, and so, gradually, she wrested his will from him and made him her slave.
One fine day Mrs. Jubal had become a great singer, so great that when the audience called “Jubal!” it was not Mr. but Mrs. Jubal who took the call.
Jubal, of course, longed to regain his former position, but he scorned to do it at his wife’s expense.
The world began to forget him.
The brilliant circle of friends who had surrounded Mr. Jubal in his bachelor chambers now surrounded his wife, for it was she who was “Jubal.”
Nobody wanted to talk to him or drink with him, and when he attempted to join in the conversation, nobody listened to his remarks; it was just as if he were not present, and his wife was treated as if she were an unmarried woman.
Then Mr. Jubal grew very lonely, and in his loneliness he began to frequent the cafes.
One evening he was at a restaurant, trying to find somebody to talk to, and ready to talk to anybody willing to listen to him. All at once he caught sight of his old friend the commercial traveller, sitting at a table by himself, evidently very bored. “Thank goodness,” he thought, “here’s somebody to spend an hour with—it’s old Lundberg.”
He went to Mr. Lundberg’s table and said “good evening.” But no sooner had he done so than his friend’s face changed in so extraordinary a manner that Jubal wondered whether he had made a mistake.
“Aren’t you Lundberg?” he asked.
“Yes!”
“Don’t you know me? I’m Jubal!”
“No!”
“Don’t you know your old friend Peal?”
“Peal died a long time ago.”
Then Jubal understood that he was, from a certain point of view, dead, and he went away.
On the following day he left the stage for ever and opened a school for singing, with the title of a professor.
Then he went to foreign countries, and remained abroad for many years.
Sadness, for he mourned for himself as for a dead friend, and sorrow were fast making an old man of him. But he was glad that it should be so, for, he thought, if I’m old, it won’t last much longer. But as he did not age quite as fast as he would have liked, he bought himself a wig with long white curls. He felt better after that, for it disguised him completely, so completely that he did not know himself.
With long strides, his hands crossed on his back, he walked up and down the pavements, lost in a brown study; he seemed to be looking for some one, or expecting some one. If his eyes met the glance of other eyes, he did not respond to the question in them; if anybody tried to make his acquaintance, he would never talk of anything but things and objects. And he never said “I” or “I find,” but always “it seems.” He had lost himself, as he did one day just as he was going to shave. He was sitting before his looking-glass, his chin covered with a lather of soap; he raised the hand which held the razor and looked into the glass; then he beheld the room behind his back, but he could not see his face, and all at once he realised how matters stood. Now he was filled with a passionate yearning to find himself again. He had given the best part of himself to his wife, for she had his will, and so he decided to go and see her.
When he was back in his native country and walked through the streets in his white wig, not a soul recognised him. But a musician who had been in Italy, meeting him in town one day, said in a loud voice, “There goes a maestro!”
Immediately Jubal imagined that he was a great composer. He bought some music paper and started to write a score; that is to say, he wrote a number of long and short notes on the lines, some for the violins, of course, others for the wood-wind, and the remainder for the brass instruments. He sent his work to the Conservatoire. But nobody could play the music, because it was not music, but only notes.
A little later on he was met by an artist who had been in Paris. “There goes a model!” said the artist. Jubal heard it, and at once believed that he was a model, for he believed everything that was said of him, because he did not know who or what he was.
Presently he remembered his wife, and he resolved to go and see her. He did go, but she had married again, and she and her second husband, who was a baron, had gone abroad.
At last he grew tired of his quest, and, like all tired men, he felt a great yearning for his mother. He knew that she was a widow and lived in a cottage in the mountains, so one day he went to see her.
“Don’t you know me?” he asked.
“What is your name?” asked the mother.
“My name is your son’s name. Don’t you know it?”
“My son’s name was Peal, but yours is Jubal, and I don’t know Jubal.”
“You disown me?”
“As you disowned yourself and your mother.”
“Why did you rob me of my will when I was a little child?”
“You gave your will to a woman.”
“I had to, because it was the only way of winning her. But why did you tell me I had no will?”
“Well, your father told you that, my boy, and he knew no better; you must forgive him, for he is dead now. Children, you see, are not supposed to have a will of their own, but grown-up people are.”
“How well you explain it all, mother! Children are not supposed to have a will, but grown-up people are.”
“Now, listen to me, Gustav,” said his mother, “Gustav Peal....”
These were his two real names, and when he heard them from her lips, he became himself again. All the parts he had played—kings and demons, the maestro and the model—cut and ran, and he was but the son of his mother.
He put his head on her knees and said, “Now, let me die here, for at last I am at home.”
Anders was the son of poor people, and in his youth he had wandered through many kingdoms, with a bale of cloth and a yard-measure on his back. But as he grew older he came to the conclusion that it would be better to wear the king’s uniform and carry a rifle on his shoulder, and therefore he went and enlisted in the Västgotadal regiment. And one day it happened that he was sent to Stockholm on sentry duty.
Friend Cask, as he was now called, was on leave one day, and he made up his mind to spend it at the “Fort.” But when he came to the gate he found that he had not a sixpence, and consequently he had to remain outside.
For a long time he stood staring at the railings, and then he thought, “I’ll just walk round; perhaps I’ll come across a stile; if the worst comes to the worst, I’ll climb over.”
The sun was setting; he walked along the shore, at the foot of the mountain, and the railings were high above him; he could hear the sound of music and singing. Cask went round and round, but found no stile, and at last the railings disappeared in a forest of nut trees. When he was tired he sat down on a hillock and began to crack nuts.
Suddenly a squirrel appeared before him and put up its tail.
“Leave my nuts alone!” it said.
“I will, if you’ll take me to a stile,” said Cask.
“Part of the way, then,” said the squirrel. It hopped along and the soldier followed, until all at once it had vanished.
Then a hedgehog came rustling along.
“Come with me and I’ll show you the stile,” it said.
“Go with you? not if I know it.”
But in spite of his remark the hedgehog followed him.
Next an adder joined them. It was very genteel; it lisped and could twist itself into a knot.
“Follow me,” it said, “I will show you the stile.”
“I follow,” said Cask.
“But you mutht be genteel; you muthtn’t t stread as me. I like nithe people.”
“Well, a soldier isn’t exactly genteel,” said Cask, “but I’m not so terribly uncouth.”
“Tread on it,” said the hedgehog, “else it will bite you, ever so genteely.”
The adder reared its neck and rustled away.
“Stop!” shouted the hedgehog, attacking the snake. “I am not as genteel as you are, but I show my bristles openly, I do!”
And then it killed the snake and disappeared.
Now the soldier was alone in the wood and very sorry he felt that he had rejected the society of the prickly hedgehog.
It had grown dark, but the crescent of the moon shone between the birch leaves, and it was quite still.
The soldier fancied that he could see a big yellow hand moving backwards and forwards. He went close up to it, and then he saw that it was a yellow leaf, which seemed to gesticulate with its fingers, although nobody could possibly understand what it wanted to say.
As he stood there, watching it, he heard an asp trembling:
“Huh! I’m so cold,” said the asp, “for my feet are wet, and I am so frightened.”
“What are you frightened of?” asked the soldier.
“Well, of the dwarf who is sitting in the mountain.”
Now the soldier realised what the maple leaf meant, and there was no doubt about it, he saw a dwarf sitting in the mountain, cooking porridge.
“Who are you?” asked the dwarf.
“I belong to the Västgotadal regiment; where do you come from?”
“I,” said the dwarf, “I am in the Alleberg.”
“The Alleberg is in the Västgota country,” answered the soldier.
“We have removed it to this place,” replied the dwarf.
“You lie!” exclaimed the soldier, seized the pot by its handle and threw the porridge into the fire.
“Now we’ll have a look at the mouse-hole,” he said, and went right into the mountain.
There he found a giant sitting by a huge fire, making an iron bar red-hot.
“Good day, good day,” said the soldier, stretching out his hand.
“Good day to you,” said the giant, giving him the red-hot iron bar.
Cask took the iron and pressed it so hard that it hissed.
“You have got very warm hands, I must say,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“I’m the giant Swede,” said the troll.
“That was a Swedish hand-shake of yours, anyhow, and now I realise that I am in the Alleberg. Are the golden helmets still asleep?”
“Will you be quiet!” exclaimed the giant, threatening him with the red-hot bar.
“You shall see them, because you belong to the Västgotadal regiment, but first of all you must solve my riddle,” he continued.
“If you want to fight one of your own countrymen, well and good. But first of all, put that fiery thing away!”
“Very well, Cask, you shall recite the history of Sweden while I smoke my pipe. Then I will show you the golden helmets. The whole history of Sweden, please.”
“I can easily do that, although I was not one of the top dogs at the military school. Let me try and recall it to memory.”
“There is one condition: you must not mention the name of a single king; for if you do, those inside will get angry; and when they get angry, then, you know....”
“It will be awfully difficult. But light your pipe and I’ll begin. Here’s a match!”
The soldier scratched his head and began:
“One—two—three! In the year 1161, or thereabouts, Sweden first came into existence; a kingdom, a king, and an archbishop—is that enough?”
“No,” said Swede, “not at all. Begin again.”
“Very well, then! In the year 1359 the Swedish people became a nation, for then the Parliament of the four estates first met, and it continued to meet, with interruptions, until 1866.”
“Well, but you’re a soldier,” said Swede, “surely you’ll have a few words to say about wars.”
“There are only two wars of any importance, and they ended, the first with the peace of Brömsebro in 1645, when we got Herjedalen, Jämtland, and Gottland, and the second with the peace of Röskilde in 1658, when we got Schonen, Halland, Blekinge, and Bohuslän. And that is all there is of the history of Sweden.”
“But you forget the constitutions?”
“Well, we had an autocracy from 1680 to 1718 then there followed a period of freedom until 1789, and this was followed again by an autocracy. Then came Adlersparre’s revolution in 1809, and he got Hans Järke to draw up the constitution which is still surviving. That is all you need know. Haven’t you finished your pipe yet?”
“There!” said the giant. “It wasn’t so bad on the whole! And now you shall see the golden helmets.”
The troll arose with difficulty and went into the inferior of the mountain; the soldier followed at his heels.
“Tread softly!” said the giant, pointing to a light with a golden helmet who was leaning against a door, made of rock, apparently fast asleep. But before the words had been out of his mouth, Cask stumbled and the iron on the heel of his shoe struck a stone so forcibly that it emitted sparks. The golden helmet awoke at once, just as if he had been a sleeping sentry, and called:
“Is it time?”
“Not yet!” answered the giant.
The knight with the golden helmet sat down again and instantly fell asleep.
The giant opened a mountain wall and the soldier looked into a huge hall. A table, that seemed to have no end, ran through the centre of the hall, and in the twilight the soldier could see a brilliant gathering of knights with golden helmets sitting in arm-chairs, the backs of which were decorated with golden crowns. At the head of the table sat a man who seemed head and shoulders taller than the rest; his beard reached to his waist, like the beard of Moses or Joshua, and he held a hammer all his hand.
All of them seemed fast asleep, although it was neither the sleep which restores strength, nor the sleep which is called eternal sleep.
“Now, pay attention,” said the giant, “to-day is the great commemoration day.”
He pressed a finger on a lark garnet in the mountain rock, and a thousand flames shot up.
The golden helmets awoke.
“Who goes there?” asked the man with the prophet’s beard.
“Swede,” answered the giant.
“A good name!” replied Gustav Eriksson Wasa, for it was he. “How much time has passed away?”
“In years, after the birth of Christ, one thousand nine hundred and three.”
“Time flies. But have you made arty progress? Are you still a country and a nation?”
“We are. But since Gustavus I, the country has grown. Jämtland, Herjedalen, and Gottland have been added.”
“Who conquered them?”
“Well, it was in the time of Queen Christina; but her guardians really conquered them.”
“And then?”
“Then we got Schonen, Halland, Blekinge, and Bohuslän.”
“The deuce you did! Who won them?”
“Charles X.”
“Well, and then?”
“Nothing else.”
“Is that all?”
Somebody knocked on the table.
“Erich the saint wishes to speak,” said Gustav Wasa.
“My name is Erich Jedvardson, and I never was a saint. May I be allowed to ask Swede what became of my Finland?”
“Finland belongs to Russia, by its own wish, after the peace of Fredrikshamn in 1809, when the Finnish nation sore allegiance to the Czar.”
Gustavus II., Adolfus, asked permission to speak.
“Where are the Baltic provinces?” he asked.
“Reclaimed by their rightful owner,” answered Swede.
“And the emperor? Is there still an emperor?”
“There are two; one in Berlin. and one in Vienna.”
“Two of the House of Habsburg?”
“No, one of the House of Habsburg and the other of the House of Hohenzollern.”
“Incredible! And the Catholics in North Germany—are they converted?”
“No, the Catholics form the majority in the German Parliament, and the emperor at Berlin is trying to put pressure on the College of Cardinals, with a view to influencing the choice of the next Pope.”
“There is still a Pope, then?”
“Oh! yes, although one of them has just died.”
“And what does the Hohenzollern want in Rome?”
“No one knows; some say that it is his ambition to become Roman-German emperor of the Evangelical Confession.”
“A syncretistic emperor dreamt of by John George of Saxony! I don’t want to hear anymore. The ways of Providence are strange, and we mortals, what are we? Dust and ashes!”
Charles XII. asked permission to speak.
“Can Swede tell me what has become of Poland?”
“Poland is no more. It has been split up.”
“Split up? And Russia?”
“Russia recently celebrated the foundation of Petersburg, and the Lord Mavor of Stockholm walked in the procession.”
“As a prisoner?”
“No, as a guest. All nations are on friendly terms now, and not very long ago a French army, commanded by a German field-marshall, invaded China.”
“Delicious! Are people now the friends of their enemies?”
“Yes, they are all penetrated by a Christian spirit, and there is a permanent Committee for the Preservation of Peace established at the Hague.”
“A what?”
“A permanent Committee for the Preservation of Peace.”
“Then my time is over! God’s will be done!”
The king closed his visor and remained silent.
Charles, XI. claimed attention.
“Well, Swede, what about the finances of the old country?”
“It’s difficult to answer your question, for I’m afraid they know nothing of keeping accounts. But one or two things are certain: that quite half kingdom has been pledged to the foreigner for about three hundred millions.”
“Oh! Lord!”
“And the municipal debts amount to about two hundred millions.”
“Two hundred!”
“And in the years 1881 to 1885 one hundred and forty-six thousand Swedes emigrated.”
“Enough! I don’t want to hear any more!”
Gustav Wasa knocked on the table with his hammer.
“As far as I can understand the matter, the country is in a bad way. Sluggards you are, lazy, envious, irresponsible sluggards; too idle to bestir yourselves, but quick enough to prevent anybody else from doing anything. But tell me, Swede, what about my church and my priests?”
“The priests of the church are farmers and dairy-keepers. The bishops have an income of thirty thousand crowns, and collect money, exactly as they did before the Recess of Vesteraes; moreover, nearly all of them are heretics, or free-thinkers, as they call themselves. Men are beginning to expect some sort of a Reformation.”
“Indeed?... And what is the meaning of this music and singing up here?”
“This is the ‘Fort.’ That is, a mountain, where they have a collection of all the national keepsakes, just as if the nation were anticipating its end and making its last will and testament, gathering together all the mementoes of the past. It shows reverence for the ancestors, but nothing else.”
“What we have heard on this commemoration day seems to prove that the deeds of our forefathers have been engulfed in the ocean of time. One thing swims on the surface, another sinks to the bottom. Here we are sitting like the shadows of our former selves, and to you, who are alive, we must remain shadows.... Put out the lights!”
The giant Swede extinguished the lights and went out; the soldier followed close behind him and climbed into something which looked like a cage.
“If you say a word to anybody of what you have seen and heard,” said the giant, “you will be sorry for it.”
“I can quite believe that,” answered Cask, “but shall always remember it. That they should have squandered the old country in drink and pledge to the foreigner! It’s too bad—if it’s true.”
“Click” went the turbine; and the lift with soldier shot upwards to the “Fort.” And there stood, in the sunset, and the country looked just as it had looked when the chimes in the belfry Häsjoer chimed, and Gustav Wasa entered Stockholm, surrounded by his generals.
The rich man had visited the poor island and fallen in love with it. He could not have said why, but he was charmed; probably the island resembled some memory of his childhood, or, perhaps, a beautiful dream.
He bought the island, built a villa, and planted all sorts of lovely trees, shrubs, and flowers. And all around was the sea; he had his own landing-stage, with a flag-staff and white boats; oak trees, as tall as a church, shaded his house, and cool breezes gently swept the green meadows. He had a wife, children, servants, cattle; he had everything, except one thing: it was but a trifle, but it was more important than anything else in the world, and yet he had forgotten it until the very last: he had no spring water. Wells were sunk and rocks were blasted, but all he got was brown, brackish water; it was filtered until it looked as clear as crystal, but it remained brackish. And that was where the shoe pinched.
Then there came to the island a man endowed with great gifts; he had been lucky in all his enterprises, and was one of the most famous men in the world. Everybody remembered how he struck the mountain with his diamond staff and produced water from the rock, like Moses. Now he was to bore or the island and see whether the mountain would yield water, as other mountains had done. They spent a hundred, a thousand, several thousand crowns, but found none but brackish water. There was no blessing on their undertaking. And it was brought home to the rich man that money will not buy everything, not even, when the worst comes to the worst, a drink of fresh water. Thereupon he grew despondent and life seemed to hold no more happiness in store for him.
The schoolmaster searched the old books, and then sent for a venerable old man, who came and brought his divining rod; but it was no use.
But the clergyman was a great deal wiser. He assembled all the school children one day, and offered a prize to the one who could bring him a plant called “goldpowder,” in Latin Chrysosplenium, which will only grow near a spring.
“It has a flower,” he said, “like the bird’s-eye and leaves like the saxifrage, and it looks as if it had gold dust on its top leaves. Remember that!”
“A flower like the bird’s-eye and leaves like the saxifrage,” repeated the children; and they ran into the wood and the fields to look for the goldpowder.
Not one of the children found it; a little boy, it is true, came home with some milk-weed, which have a tiny bit of gold dust on the points of its leaves; but the milk-weed is poisonous, and it was not at all what was wanted. And finally the children grew tired of looking for it and gave it up.
But there lived on the island a little girl, too small yet to go to school. Her father had served in the dragoons, and owned a little farm, but he was rather poor than rich. His only treasure was his little daughter, whom everybody in the village called “Little Bluewing,” because she always wore a ski blue dress with wide sleeves, which fluttered like wings when she moved. There is, by the bye, a little blue butterfly whom the people call bluewing; you can see it in the summer sitting on the tall blades of the grass, and its wings resemble a flax blossom; a fluttering flax blossom with antenna instead of filaments.
Little Bluewing, the dragoon’s little bluewing, that is, was not like other children; she always talked very sensibly, but she often said queer things, and everybody was puzzled to know where she got them from. All living things loved her, even the animals; fowls and calves ran up to her when they saw her, and she even dared to stroke the bull. She frequently went out by herself and stayed away a long time, but when anybody asked her where she had been, she could not tell. But she had had the most wonderful adventures; she had seen strange things; she had met venerable old men and women, who ha told her no end of wonderful stories. The dragoon let her do as she liked, for he knew that a guardian spirit was watching over her.
***
One morning Little Bluewing went out for a walk. She ran through fields and meadows, singing songs which nobody had ever heard, and which came into her heart from nowhere. The morning sun shone brightly and seemed so young, as if it had only just been born; the air was fresh and sweet, and the evaporating dew cooled her little face.
When she came to the wood, she met an old man in a green dress.
“Good morning, Little Bluewing,” said the old man, “I am the gardener at Sunnyglade; come and look at my flowers.”
“Too much honour for me,” answered Little Bluewing.
“Not at all, for you have never ill-used flowers.”
They walked together to the strand and crossed a little bridge, which led to an islet.
On the islet was a wonderful garden. Every flower, large and small, grew there, and everything was in order, just as if the garden had been a book.
The old man lived in a house which was built of growing ever-green trees-pines, fir trees, and junipers; the floor consisted of growing ever-green shrubs. Moss and lichen grew in the crevices and held them together. The roof was made entirely of creepers, Virginia creeper, Caprifolium, and ivy, and it was so thick that not a drop of rain could come through. A number of bee-hives stood before the door, but butterflies lived in them instead of bees; just think of the lovely sight when they swarmed!
“I don’t like torturing bees,” explained the old man. “And, moreover, I consider them not at all pretty; they look like hairy coffee-beans and sting like adders.”
And then they went into the garden.
“Now, you may read in the book of nature and learn the secrets and sensibilities of the plants. But you must not ask questions, only listen to what I say and answer me.... Now, look here, little one, on this grey stone something is growing which looks like grey paper. This is the first thing which grows when the rock becomes damp. It grows mouldy, you see, and the mould is called lichen. Here are two kinds: one looks like the horns of a reindeer, it is called reindeer-moss, and the reindeer feeds on it; and the other is called Iceland-moss, and looks like... now, what does it look like?”
“It looks like lungs, anyhow it says so in the natural history book.”
“Quite right; looked at through a magnifying glass, it has exactly that appearance, and that is how people came to think of using it as a remedy for all sorts of diseases of the chest. Later, when the lichen has gathered enough vegetable soil, the mosses appear; they have quite simple flowers and grow seed. They are not unlike ice-flowers, but they are also like heather and fir trees and all sorts of other things, for all plants are related. The wall-moss here looks like a fir tree, but it has seed cases, like a poppy, only rather more simple. Once moss has begun to grow an a spot, heather is not very long in coming. And if you examine heather through a strong magnifying-glass, it is like milk-wort, Epilobium in Latin or a rhododendron, or like an elm tree, which is nothing more nor less than a huge nettle.
“Now, we have a perfect covering for the rocks, and in this mould everything will grow. Man has domesticated a number of plants, but nature herself has directed him which to take and how to use their is so extraordinary as the colour and ornaments which the flowers have acquired to tell the bees where the honey is. You have often seen an ear of rye, which shows a baker’s implements like a signboard. And if you look at the flax, the most useful of all the plants, you will have to admit that it is the plant itself which has taught man to spin. Look right into the heart of the flower and you will find the filaments wound round the style like flax round a spindle. And to make her meaning even more plain, nature has planted a parasite, the bind-weed by its side, which winds itself round and round the plant up and down, to and fro, like a weaver’s shuttle. And isn’t it wonderful that not a man, but a butterfly, first thought of spinning the flax? People call it ‘flax-spinner,’ for with its own silk and the leaves of the plant it weaves little sheets and blankets for its young ones. And so cunning it is that when flax began to be cultivated, it completely adapted itself to the new conditions, so that the young ones should be hatched before the flax was harvested. And now, look at the medicinal herbs! Look at the large poppy, for instance, fiery red it is, like fever and insanity! But in the heart of the blossom is a black cross, just like the cross on the chemist’s label which he puts on his poisons. In the middle of the cross is a Roman vase with little grooves. When these grooves are pricked the drug runs out, the powerful drug, which will call either death, or death’s gentle brother, sleep. Yes, now you can form an idea of the generosity and wisdom of nature.
“And now, let’s see about the goldpowder.”
He paused to see whether Little Bluewing was at all curious. But she was not.
“And now, let’s see about the goldpowder,” he repeated.
Another pause! No, Little Bluewing could hold her tongue, although she was as not much more than a baby.
“And now, let’s see about the goldpowder,” he said for the third time, “which has flowers like the bird’s-eye and leaves like the saxifrage. That’s its distinctive mark, and tells you where water can be found. The bird’s-eye collects dew and water in its leaves, and is in itself a tiny, clear rivulet; but the saxifrage can break mountain rocks. There is no spring without a mountain, be the mountain never so distant. This is what the goldpowder tells all those who can understand its message. It grows here, on this island, and you shall know the spot, because your heart is pure. The rich man shall receive water for his parched soul from your tiny hand, and through you all the island shall be blessed. Go in peace, my child, and when you come to the wood where the nuts grow, you will find a silver-linden on your right; at its foot lies a copper coloured slow-worm, which is not dangerous. It show you the way to the goldpowder. But before you go, you must give the old man a kiss, that is to say, if you want to.”
Little Bluewing held up her lips and kissed the old man, and immediately his face changed and he looked fifty years younger.
“I have kissed a child, I have grown young again,” said the gardener. “You owe me no thanks. Farewell!”
Little Bluewing went to the wood where the nuts grew. The silver-linden was rustling in the breeze, and the humble-bees hummed and buzzed round its blossoms. The slow-worm was really there, although its copper looked a bit rusty.
“Hallo! There is Little Bluewing, who is to have the goldpowder,” said the copper snake. “Well, you shall have it on three conditions: no to talk, not to be led astray, not to be inquisitive. Now go straight ahead and you will find the goldpowder.”
Little Bluewing went straight ahead. On her way she met a woman.
“Good morning, child,” said the woman. “Have you been to see the gardener at Sunnyglade?”
“Good morning, woman,” said Little Bluewing without stopping.
“Well, you aren’t a gossip,” said the woman.
Next she met a gipsy.
“Where are you going to?” asked the gipsy.
“Straight ahead,” answered Little Bluewing.
“Then you won’t be led astray,” said the gipsy.
Then she met a milkman. But she could not understand why the horse was inside the cart and the milkman harnessed to the shafts.
“Now I shall shy and run away,” said the milkman, and gave such a start that the horse fell out of the cart into the ditch.... “Now I shall water the rye,” he went on, and took the lid off one of his milk cans.
Little Bluewing thought it strange, but continued her way without giving him as much as a look.
“And you aren’t curious, either,” said the milkman.
And now Little Bluewing was standing at the foot of the mountain; the sunbeams fell through the hazel bushes on the green leaves of a luxurious plant which shone like gold.
It was the goldpowder. Little Bluewing noticed how it followed the vein of the spring down the mountain side into the rich man’s meadow.
She belt down and gathered three flowers, put them carefully into her pinafore and took them home to her father.
The dragoon put on sword, helmet, and uniform, and went with his little daughter to the clergyman. And all three went to the rich man.
“Little Bluewzng has found the goldpowder!” said the clergyman, as soon as he entered the drawing-room. “And now the whole village will be rich before long, because it is sure to become a summer resort.”
And it became a summer resort before long; steamers and shop people arrived; an inn and a post-office were built; a doctor settled on the island, and a chemist. Gold poured into the village all during the summer, and that is the story of the goldpowder, which can transform poverty into wealth.