The Blue Flower. Henry Van Dyke

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Then he fell furiously to digging again, and I passed on into the city.

      There was no sound of murmuring streams in the streets, and down the main bed of the river I saw only a few shallow puddles, joined together by a slowly trickling thread. Even these were fenced and guarded so that no one might come near to them, and there were men going among to the houses with water-skins on their shoulders, crying “Water! Water to sell!”

      The marble pools in the open square were empty; and at one of them there was a crowd looking at a man who was being beaten with rods. A bystander told me that the officers of the city had ordered him to be punished because he had said that the pools and the basins and the channels were not all of pure marble, without a flaw. “For this,” said he, “is the evil doctrine that has come in to take away the glory of our city, and because of this the water has failed.”

      “It is a sad change,” I answered, “and doubtless they who have caused it should suffer more than others. But can you tell me at what hour and in what manner the people now observe the visitation of the Source?”

      He looked curiously at me and replied: “I do not understand you. There is no visitation save the inspection of the cisterns and the wells which the syndics of the city, whom we call the Princes of Water, carry on daily at every hour. What source is this of which you speak?”

      So I went on through the street, where all the passers-by seemed in haste and wore weary countenances, until I came to the house where I had lodged. There was a little basin here against the wall, with a slender stream of water still flowing into it, and a group of children standing near with their pitchers, waiting to fill them.

      The door of the house was closed; but when I knocked, it opened and a maiden came forth. She was pale and sad in aspect, but a light of joy dawned over the snow of her face, and I knew by the youth in her eyes that it was Ruamie, who had walked with me through the vineyards long ago.

      With both hands she welcomed me, saying: “You are expected. Have you found the Blue Flower?”

      “Not yet,” I answered, “but something drew me back to you. I would know how it fares with you, and I would go again with you to visit the Source.”

      At this her face grew bright, but with a tender, half-sad brightness.

      “The Source!” she said. “Ah, yes, I was sure that you would remember it. And this is the hour of the visitation. Come, let us go up together.”

      Then we went alone through the busy and weary multitudes of the city toward the mountain-path. So forsaken was it and so covered with stones and overgrown with wire-grass that I could not have found it but for her guidance. But as we climbed upward the air grew clearer, and more sweet, and I questioned her of the things that had come to pass in my absence. I asked her of the kind old man who had taken me into his house when I came as a stranger. She said, softly, “He is dead.”

      “And where are the men and women, his friends, who once thronged this pathway? Are they also dead?”

      “They also are dead.”

      “But where are the younger ones who sang here so gladly as they marched upward? Surely they, are living?”

      “They have forgotten.”

      “Where then are the young children whose fathers taught them this way and bade them remember it. Have they forgotten?”

      “They have forgotten.”

      “But why have you alone kept the hour of visitation? Why have you not turned back with your companions? How have you walked here solitary day after day?”

      She turned to me with a divine regard, and laying her hand gently over mine, she said, “I remember always.”

      Then I saw a few wild-flowers blossoming beside the path.

      We drew near to the Source, and entered into the chamber hewn in the rock. She kneeled and bent over the sleeping spring. She murmured again and again the beautiful name of him who had died to find it. Her voice repeated the song that had once been sung by many voices. Her tears fell softly on the spring, and as they fell it seemed as if the water stirred and rose to meet her bending face, and when she looked up it was as if the dew had fallen on a flower.

      We came very slowly down the path along the river Carita, and rested often beside it, for surely, I thought, the rising of the spring had sent a little more water down its dry bed, and some of it must flow on to the city. So it was almost evening when we came back to the streets. The people were hurrying to and fro, for it was the day before the choosing of new Princes of Water; and there was much dispute about them, and strife over the building of new cisterns to hold the stores of rain which might fall in the next year. But none cared for us, as we passed by like strangers, and we came unnoticed to the door of the house.

      Then a great desire of love and sorrow moved within my breast, and I said to Ruamie, “You are the life of the city, for you alone remember. Its secret is in your heart, and your faithful keeping of the hours of visitation is the only cause why the river has not failed altogether and the curse of desolation returned. Let me stay with you, sweet soul of all the flowers that are dead, and I will cherish you forever. Together we will visit the Source every day; and we shall turn the people, by our lives and by our words, back to that which they have forgotten.”

      There was a smile in her eyes so deep that its meaning cannot be spoken, as she lifted my hand to her lips, and answered,

      “Not so, dear friend, for who can tell whether life or death will come to the city, whether its people will remember at last, or whether they will forget forever. Its lot is mine, for I was born here, and here my life is rooted. But you are of the Children of the Unquiet Heart, whose feet can never rest until their task of errors is completed and their lesson of wandering is learned to the end. Until then go forth, and do not forget that I shall remember always.”

      Behind her quiet voice I heard the silent call that compels us, and passed down the street as one walking in a dream. At the place where the path turned aside to the ruined vineyards I looked back. The low sunset made a circle of golden rays about her head and a strange twin blossom of celestial blue seemed to shine in her tranquil eyes.

      Since then I know not what has befallen the city, nor whether it is still called Saloma, or once more Ablis, which is Forsaken. But if it lives at all, I know that it is because there is one there who remembers, and keeps the hour of visitation, and treads the steep way, and breathes the beautiful name over the spring, and sometimes I think that long before my seeking and journeying brings me to the Blue Flower, it will bloom for Ruamie beside the still waters of the Source.

THE MILL

       Table of Contents

I

       Table of Contents

      How the Young Martimor would Become a Knight and Assay Great Adventure

      When Sir Lancelot was come out of the Red Launds where he did many deeds of arms, he rested him long with play and game in a land that is, called Beausejour. For in that land there are neither castles nor enchantments, СКАЧАТЬ