The Blue Flower
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Henry van Dyke >> The Blue Flower
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THE BLUE FLOWER
by HENRY VAN DYKE
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion for something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow.
--SHELLEY.
To
THE DEAR MEMORY OF
BERNARD VAN DYKE
1887-1897
AND THE LOVE THAT LIVES
BEYOND THE YEARS
PREFACE
Sometimes short stories are brought together like parcels in
a basket. Sometimes they grow together like blossoms on a
bush. Then, of course, they really belong to one another,
because they have the same life in them.
The stories in this book have been growing together for a
long time. It is at least ten years since the first of them,
the story of The Other Wise Man, came to me; and all the
others I knew quite well by heart a good while before I could
find the time, in a hard-worked life, to write them down and
try to make them clear and true to others. It has been a slow
task, because the right word has not always been easy to find,
and I wanted to keep free from conventionality in the thought
and close to nature in the picture. It is enough to cause a
man no little shame to see how small is the fruit of so long
labour.
And yet, after all, when one wishes to write
about life, especially about that part of it which is inward,
the inwrought experience of living may be of value. And that
is a thing which one cannot get in haste, neither can it be
made to order. Patient waiting belongs to it; and rainy days
belong to it; and the best of it sometimes comes in the doing
of tasks that seem not to amount to much. So in the long run,
I suppose, while delay and failure and interruption may keep
a piece of work very small, yet in the end they enter into the
quality of it and bring it a little nearer to the real thing,
which is always more or less of a secret.
But the strangest part of it all is the way in which a
single thought, an idea, will live with a man while he works,
and take new forms from year to year, and light up the things
that he sees and hears, and lead his imagination by the hand
into many wonderful and diverse regions. It seems to me that
there am two ways in which you may give unity to a book of
stories. You may stay in one place and write about different
themes, preserving always the colour of the same locality. Or
you may go into different places and use as many of the colours
and shapes of life as you can really see in the light of the same
thought.
There is such a thought in this book. It is the idea of
the search for inward happiness, which all men who are really
alive are following, along what various paths, and with what
different fortunes! Glimpses of this idea, traces of this
search, I thought that I could see in certain tales that were
in my mind,--tales of times old and new, of lands near and far
away. So I tried to tell them, as best as I could, hoping
that other men, being also seekers, might find some meaning in
them.
There are only little, broken chapters from the long story
of life. None of them is taken from other books. Only one of
them--the story of Winifried and the Thunder-Oak--has the
slightest wisp of a foundation in fact or legend. Yet I think
they are all true.
But how to find a name for such a book,--a name that will tell
enough to show the thought and yet not too much to leave it free?
I have borrowed a symbol from the old
German poet and philosopher, Novalis, to stand instead of a
name. The Blue Flower which he used in his romance of
Heinrich von Ofterdingen to symbolise Poetry, the object of
his young hero's quest, I have used here to signify happiness,
the satisfaction of the heart.
Reader, will you take the book and see if it belongs to
you? Whether it does or not, my wish is that the Blue Flower
may grow in the garden where you work.
AVALON,
December 1, 1902.
CONTENTS
I. The Blue Flower
II. The Source
III. The Mill
IV. Spy Rock
V. Wood-Magic
VI. The Other Wise Man
VII. I Handful of Clay
VIII. The Lost Word
IX. The First Christmas-Tree
THE BLUE FLOWER
The parents were abed and sleeping. The clock on the wall
ticked loudly and lazily, as if it had time to spare. Outside
the rattling windows there was a restless, whispering wind.
The room grew light, and dark, and wondrous light again, as
the moon played hide-and-seek through the clouds. The boy,
wide-awake and quiet in his bed, was thinking of the Stranger
and his stories.
"It was not what he told me about the treasures," he said
to himself, "that was not the thing which filled me with so
strange a longing. I am not greedy for riches. But the Blue
Flower is what I long for. I can think of nothing else.
Never have I felt so before. It seems as if I had been
dreaming until now--or as if I had just slept over into a new
world.
"Who cared for flowers in the old world where I used to
live? I never heard of anyone whose whole heart was set upon
finding a flower. But now I cannot even tell all that I
feel--sometimes as happy as if I were enchanted. But when the
flower fades from me, when I cannot see it in my mind, then it is
like being very thirsty and all alone. That is what the other
people could not understand.
"Once upon a time, they say, the animals and the trees and
the flowers used to talk to people. It seems to me, every
minute, as if they were just going to begin again. When I
look at them I can see what they want to say. There must be
a great many words that I do not know; if I knew more of them
perhaps I could understand things better. I used to love to
dance, but now I like better to think after the music."
Gradually the boy lost himself in sweet fancies, and
suddenly he found himself again, in the charmed land of sleep.
He wandered in far countries, rich and strange; he traversed
wild waters with incredible swiftness; marvellous creatures
appeared and vanished; he lived with all sorts of men, in
battles, in whirling crowds, in lonely huts. He was cast into
prison. He fell into dire distress and want. All experiences
seemed to be sharpened to an edge. He felt them keenly, yet
they did not harm him. He died and came alive again; he loved to
the height of passion, and then was parted forever from his
beloved. At last, toward morning, as the dawn was stealing
near, his soul grew calm, and the pictures showed more clear
and firm.
It seemed as if he were walking alone through the deep
woods. Seldom the daylight shimmered through the green veil.
Soon he came to a rocky gorge in the mountains. Under the
mossy stones in the bed of the stream, he heard the water
secretly tinkling downward, ever downward, as he climbed
upward.
The forest grew thinner and lighter. He came to a fair
meadow on the slope of the mountain. Beyond the meadow was a
high cliff, and in the face of the cliff an opening like the
entrance to a path. Dark was the way, but smooth, and he
followed easily on till he came near to a vast cavern from
which a flood of radiance streamed to meet him.
As he entered he beheld a mighty beam of light which
sprang from the ground, shattering itself against the roof in
countless sparks, falling and flowing all together into a
great pool in the rock. Brighter was the light-beam than molten
gold, but silent in its rise, and silent in its fall. The sacred
stillness of a shrine, a never-broken hush of joy and wonder,
filled the cavern. Cool was the dripping radiance that softly
trickled down the walls, and the light that rippled from them was
pale blue.
But the pool, as the boy drew near and watched it,
quivered and glanced with the ever-changing colours of a
liquid opal. He dipped his hands in it and wet his lips. It
seemed as if a lively breeze passed through his heart.
He felt an irresistible desire to bathe in the pool.
Slipping off his clothes he plunged in. It was as if he
bathed in a cloud of sunset. A celestial rapture flowed
through him. The waves of the stream were like a bevy of
nymphs taking shape around him, clinging to him with tender
breasts, as he floated onward, lost in delight, yet keenly
sensitive to every impression. Swiftly the current bore him
out of the pool, into a hollow in the cliff. Here a dimness
of slumber shadowed his eyes, while he felt the pressure of
the loveliest dreams.
When he awoke again, he was aware of a new fulness of light,
purer and steadier than the first radiance. He found himself
lying on the green turf, in the open air, beside a little
fountain, which sparkled up and melted away in silver spray.
Dark-blue were the rocks that rose at a little distance, veined
with white as if strange words were written upon them. Dark-blue
was the sky, and cloudless.
All passion had dissolved away from him; every sound was
music; every breath was peace; the rocks were like sentinels
protecting him; the sky was like a cup of blessing full of
tranquil light.
But what charmed him most, and drew him with resistless
power, was a tall, clear-blue flower, growing beside the
spring, and almost touching him with its broad, glistening
leaves. Round about were many other flowers, of all hues.
Their odours mingled in a perfect chord of fragrance. He saw
nothing but the Blue Flower.
Long and tenderly he gazed at it, with unspeakable love.
At last he felt that he must go a little nearer to it, when
suddenly it began to move and change. The leaves glistened
more brightly, and drew themselves up closely around the
swiftly growing stalk. The flower bent itself toward him, and
the petals showed a blue, spreading necklace of sapphires, out of
which the lovely face of a girl smiled softly into his eyes.
His sweet astonishment grew with the wondrous transformation.
All at once he heard his mother's voice calling him, and
awoke in his parents' room, already flooded with the gold of
the morning sun.
From the German of Novalis.
THE SOURCE
I
In the middle of the land that is called by its inhabitants
Koorma, and by strangers the Land of the Half-forgotten, I was
toiling all day long through heavy sand and grass as hard as
wire. Suddenly, toward evening, I came upon a place where a
gate opened in the wall of mountains, and the plain ran in
through the gate, making a little bay of level country among
the hills.
Now this bay was not brown and hard and dry, like the
mountains above me, neither was it covered with tawny billows
of sand like the desert along the edge of which I had wearily
coasted. But the surface of it was smooth and green; and as
the winds of twilight breathed across it they were followed by
soft waves of verdure, with silvery turnings of the under
sides of many leaves, like ripples on a quiet harbour. There
were fields of corn, filled with silken rustling, and
vineyards with long rows of trimmed maple-trees standing
each one like an emerald goblet wreathed with vines, and
flower-gardens as bright as if the earth had been embroidered
with threads of blue and scarlet and gold, and olive-orchards
frosted over with delicate and fragrant blossoms. Red-roofed
cottages were scattered everywhere through the sea of
greenery, and in the centre, like a white ship surrounded by
a flock of little boats, rested a small, fair, shining city.
I wondered greatly how this beauty had come into being on
the border of the desert. Passing through the fields and
gardens and orchards, I found that they were all encircled and
lined with channels full of running water. I followed up one
of the smaller channels until it came to a larger stream, and
as I walked on beside it, still going upward, it guided me
into the midst of the city, where I saw a sweet, merry river
flowing through the main street, with abundance of water and
a very pleasant sound.
There were houses and shops and lofty palaces and all that
makes a city, but the life and joy of all, and the one thing
that I remember best, was the river. For in the open square at
the edge of the city there were marble pools where the children
might bathe and play; at the corners of the streets and on the
sides of the houses there were fountains for the drawing of
water; at every crossing a stream was turned aside to run out to
the vineyards; and the river was the mother of them all.
There were but few people in the streets, and none of the
older folk from whom I might ask counsel or a lodging; so I
stood and knocked at the door of a house. It was opened by an
old man, who greeted me with kindness and bade me enter as his
guest. After much courteous entertainment, and when supper
was ended, his friendly manner and something of singular
attractiveness in his countenance led me to tell him of my
strange journeyings in the land of Koorma and in other lands
where I had been seeking the Blue Flower, and to inquire of
him the name and the story of his city and the cause of the
river which made it glad.
"My son," he answered, "this is the city which was called
Ablis, that is to say, Forsaken. For long ago men lived here,
and the river made their fields fertile, and their dwellings were
full of plenty and peace. But because of many evil things which
have been half-forgotten, the river was turned aside, or else it
was dried up at its source in the high place among the mountains,
so that the water flowed down no more. The channels and the
trenches and the marble pools and the basins beside the houses
remained, but they were empty. So the gardens withered; the
fields were barren; the city was desolate; and in the broken
cisterns there was scanty water.
"Then there came one from a distant country who was very
sorrowful to see the desolation. He told the people that it
was vain to dig new cisterns and to keep the channels and
trenches clean; for the water had come only from above. The
Source must be found again and reopened. The river would not
flow unless they traced it back to the spring, and visited it
continually, and offered prayers and praises beside it without
ceasing. Then the spring would rise to an outpouring, and the
water would run down plentifully to make the gardens blossom
and the city rejoice.
"So he went forth to open the fountain; but there were few
that went with him, for he was a poor man of lowly aspect, and
the path upward was steep and rough. But his companions saw
that as he climbed among the rocks, little streams of water
gushed from the places where he trod, and pools began to
gather in the dry river-bed. He went more swiftly than they
could follow him, and at length he passed out of their sight.
A little farther on they came to the rising of the river and
there, beside the overflowing Source, they found their leader
lying dead."
"That was a strange thing," I cried, "and very pitiful.
Tell me how it came to pass, and what was the meaning of it."
"I cannot tell the whole of the meaning," replied the old
man, after a little pause, "for it was many years ago. But
this poor man had many enemies in the city, chiefly among the
makers of cisterns, who hated him for his words. I believe
that they went out after him secretly and slew him. But his
followers came back to the city; and as they came the river
began to run down very gently after them. They returned to the
Source day by day, bringing others with them; for they said that
their leader was really alive, though the form of his life had
changed, and that he met them in that high place while they
remembered him and prayed and sang songs of praise. More and
more the people learned to go with them, and the path grew
plainer and easier to find. The more the Source was revisited,
the more abundant it became, and the more it filled the river.
All the channels and the basins were supplied with water, and men
made new channels which were also filled. Some of those who were
diggers of trenches and hewers of cisterns said that it was
their work which had wrought the change. But the wisest and
best among the people knew that it all came from the Source,
and they taught that if it should ever again be forgotten and
left unvisited the river would fail again and desolation
return. So every day, from the gardens and orchards and the
streets of the city, men and women and children have gone up
the mountain-path with singing, to rejoice beside the spring
from which the river flows and to remember the one who opened it.
We call it the River Carita. And the name of the city is no more
Ablis, but Saloma, which is Peace. And the name of him who died
to find the Source for us is so dear that we speak it only when
we pray.
"But there are many things yet to learn about our city,
and some that seem dark and cast a shadow on my thoughts.
Therefore, my son, I bid you to be my guest, for there is a
room in my house for the stranger; and to-morrow and on the
following days you shall see how life goes with us, and read,
if you can, the secret of the city."
That night I slept well, as one who has heard a pleasant
tale, with the murmur of running water woven through my
dreams; and the next day I went out early into the streets,
for I was curious to see the manner of the visitation of the
Source.
Already the people were coming forth and turning their
steps upward in the mountain-path beside the river. Some of
them went alone, swiftly and in silence; others were in groups
of two or three, talking as they went; others were in larger
companies, and they sang together very gladly and sweetly.
But there were many people who remained working
in their fields or in their houses, or stayed talking on the
corners of the streets. Therefore I joined myself to one of
the men who walked alone and asked him why all the people did
not go to the spring, since the life of the city depended upon
it, and whether, perhaps, the way was so long and so hard that
none but the strongest could undertake it.
"Sir," said he, "I perceive that you are a stranger, for
the way is both short and easy, so that the children are those
who most delight in it; and if a man were in great haste he
could go there and return in a little while. But of those who
remain behind, some are the busy ones who must visit the
fountain at another hour; and some are the careless ones who
take life as it comes and never think where it comes from; and
some are those who do not believe in the Source and will hear
nothing about it."
"How can that be?" I said; "do they not drink of the
water, and does it not make their fields green?"
"It is true," he said; "but these men have made wells
close by the river, and they say that these wells fill
themselves; and they have digged channels through their
gardens, and they say that these channels would always have
water in them even though the spring should cease to flow.
Some of them say also that it is an unworthy thing to drink
from a source that another has opened, and that every man
ought to find a new spring for himself; so they spend the hour
of the visitation, and many more, in searching among the
mountains where there is no path."
While I wondered over this, we kept on in the way. There
was already quite a throng of people all going in the same
direction. And when we came to the Source, which flowed from
an opening in a cliff, almost like a chamber hewn in the rock,
and made a little garden of wild-flowers around it as it fell,
I heard the music of many voices and the beautiful name of him
who had given his life to find the forgotten spring.
Then we came down again, singly and in groups, following
the river. It seemed already more bright
and full and joyous. As we passed through the gardens I saw
men turning aside to make new channels through fields which
were not yet cultivated. And as we entered the city I saw the
wheels of the mills that ground the corn whirling more
swiftly, and the maidens coming with their pitchers to draw
from the brimming basins at the street corners, and the
children laughing because the marble pools were so full that
they could swim in them. There was plenty of water
everywhere.
For many weeks I stayed in the city of Saloma, going up
the mountain-path in the morning, and returning to the day of
work and the evening of play. I found friends among the
people of the city, not only among those who walked together
in the visitation of the Source, but also among those who
remained behind, for many of them were kind and generous,
faithful in their work, and very pleasant in their
conversation.
Yet there was something lacking between me and them. I
came not onto firm ground with them, for all their warmth of
welcome and their pleasant ways. They were by nature of the
race of those who dwell ever in one place; even in their thoughts
they went not far abroad. But I have been ever a seeker, and the
world seems to me made to wander in, rather than to abide in one
corner of it and never see what the rest has in store. Now
this was what the people of Saloma could not understand, and
for this reason I seemed to them always a stranger, an alien,
a guest. The fixed circle of their life was like an invisible
wall, and with the best will in the world they knew not how to
draw me within it. And I, for my part, while I understood
well their wish to rest and be at peace, could not quite
understand the way in which it found fulfilment, nor share the
repose which seemed to them all-sufficient and lasting. In
their gardens I saw ever the same flowers, and none perfect.
At their feasts I tasted ever the same food, and none that
made an end of hunger. In their talk I heard ever the same
words, and none that went to the depth of thought. The very
quietude and fixity of their being perplexed and estranged me.
What to them was permanent, to me was transient. They were
inhabitants: I was a visitor.
The one in all the city of Saloma with whom was most at home
was Ruamie, the little granddaughter of the old man with whom
I lodged. To her, a girl of thirteen, fair-eyed and full of
joy, the wonted round of life had not yet grown to be a matter of
course. She was quick to feel and answer the newness of every
day that dawned. When a strange bird flew down from the
mountains into the gardens, it was she that saw it and wondered
at it. It was she that walked with me most often in the path to
the Source. She went out with me to the fields in the morning
and almost every day found wild-flowers that were new to me.
At sunset she drew me to happy games of youths and children,
where her fancy was never tired of weaving new turns to the
familiar pastimes. In the dusk she would sit beside me in an
arbour of honeysuckle and question me about the flower that I
was seeking,--for to her I had often spoken of my quest.
"Is it blue," she asked, "as blue as the speedwell that
grows beside the brook?"
"Yes, it is as much bluer than the speedwell, as the river
is deeper than the brook."
"And is it she asked, "as bright as the drops of dew in
the moonlight?"
"Yes, it is brighter than the drops of dew as the sun is
clearer than the moon."
"And is it sweet," she asked, "as sweet as the honeysuckle
when the day is warm and still?"
"Yes, it is as much sweeter than the honeysuckle as the
night is stiller and more sweet than the day."
"Tell me again," she asked, "when you saw it, and why do
you seek it?"
"Once I saw it when I was a boy, no older than you. Our
house looked out toward the hills, far away and at sunset
softly blue against the eastern sky. It was the day that we
laid my father to rest in the little burying-ground among the
cedar-trees. There was his father's grave, and his father's
father's grave, and there were the places for my mother and
for my two brothers and for my sister and for me. I counted
them all, when the others had gone back to the house. I paced
up and down alone, measuring the ground; there was
room enough for us all; and in the western corner where a
young elm-tree was growing,--that would be my place, for I was
the youngest. How tall would the elm-tree be then? I had
never thought of it before. It seemed to make me sad and
restless,--wishing for something, I knew not what,--longing to
see the world and to taste happiness before I must sleep
beneath the elm-tree. Then I looked off to the blue hills,
shadowy and dream-like, the boundary of the little world that
I knew. And there, in a cleft between the highest peaks I saw
a wondrous thing: for the place at which I was looking seemed
to come nearer and nearer to me; I saw the trees, the rocks,
the ferns, the white road winding before me; the enfolding
hills unclosed like leaves, and in the heart of them I saw a
Blue Flower, so bright, so beautiful that my eyes filled with
tears as I looked. It was like a face that smiled at me and
promised something. Then I heard a call, like the note of a
trumpet very far away, calling me to come. And as I listened
the flower faded into the dimness of the hills."
"Did you follow it," asked Ruamie, "and did you go away from
your home? How could you do that?"
"Yes, Ruamie, when the time came, as soon as I was free,
I set out on my journey, and my home is at the end of the
journey, wherever that may be."
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