Utouch and Touchu
“Nothing left
But what you touch, and not what touches you.”
Leigh Hunt.
“Thou hast the fairy coin, which, in wrong hands
Is merely stones and leaves;—in thine, true gold.”
J. R. Lowell.
It was a bright autumnal day, when two boys went forth to gather nuts. One was keen-eyed and self-important in his gait. The other had mild, deep eyes, and his motions were like flowers swaying to a gentle breeze. Alfred, the keen-eyed, mounted the tree and shook it. “I should like to own a dozen such trees,” said he, “and have all the nuts to myself.”
“Oh, see how beautifully the setting sun shines slanting through the boughs, on the trunk, and branches! It glows like gold!” exclaimed Ernest.
“If the sun were like old Midas, that we read about at school, there would be some fun in it,” replied Alfred; “for if it turned all it touched into gold, I could peel off the bark and buy a horse with it.”
Ernest gazed silently at the golden sea of clouds in the west, and then at the warm gleams it cast on the old walnut tree. He stood thus but a moment; for his companion aimed a nut at his head, and shouted, “Make haste to fill the basket, you lazy fellow!”
The nuts were soon gathered, and the boys stretched themselves on the grass, talking over school affairs. A flock of birds flew over their heads towards the south. “They are flying away from winter,” said Ernest. “How I should like to go with them where the palms and cocoas grow! See how beautifully they skim along the air!”
“I wish I had a gun,” rejoined Alfred; “I would have some of them for supper.”
It was a mild autumnal twilight. The cows had gone from the pastures, and all was still, save the monotonous noise of the crickets. The fitful whistling of the boys gradually subsided into dreamy silence. As they lay thus, winking drowsily, Ernest saw a queer little dwarf peep from under an arching root of the walnut tree. His little dots of blue eyes looked cold and opaque, as if they were made of turquoise. His hands were like the claws of a bird. But he was surely a gentleman of property and standing, for his brown velvet vest was embroidered with gold, and a diamond fastened his hat-band. While Ernest wondered who he could be, his attention was attracted by a bright little vision hovering in the air before him. At first, he thought it was a large insect, or a small bird; but as it floated ever nearer and nearer, he perceived a lovely little face, with tender, luminous eyes. Her robe seemed like soap-bubbles glancing in the sun, and in her bonnet, made of an inverted White Petunia blossom, the little ringlets shone like finest threads of gold. The stamen of a White Lily served her for a wand, and she held it towards him, saying, in tones of soft beseechment, “Let me touch your eyes!”
“You had better touch my wand. You will find it much more to the purpose,” croaked the dwarf under the walnut root. “Look here! wouldn’t you like to have this?” and he shook a purse full of coins, as he spoke.
“I don’t like your cold eyes and your skinny fingers,” replied Ernest. “Pray, who are you?”
“My name is Utouch,” answered the gnome: “and I bring great luck wherever I go.”
“And what is your name, dear little spirit of the air?” asked Ernest.
She looked lovingly into his eyes, and answered, “My name is Touchu. Shall I be your friend for life?”
He smiled, and eagerly replied, “Oh yes! oh yes! your face is so full of love!”
She descended gracefully, and touched his eyes with her Lily-stamen. The air became redolent with delicate perfume, like fragrant Violets kissed by the soft south wind. A rainbow arched the heavens, and reflected its beautiful image on a mirror of mist. The old tree reached forth friendly arms, and cradled the sunbeams on its bosom. Flowers seemed to nod and smile at Ernest, as if they knew him very well, and the little birds sang into his inmost soul. Presently, he felt that he was rising slowly, and undulating on the air, like a winged seed when it is breathed upon; and away he sailed, on fleecy clouds, under the arch of the rainbow. A mocking laugh roused him from his trance, and he heard Utouch, the gnome, exclaim jeeringly, “There he goes on a voyage to one of his air-castles in the moon!” Then he felt himself falling through the air, and all at once he was on the ground. Birds, flowers, rainbows, all were gone. Twilight had deepened into dreary evening; winds sighed through the trees, and the crickets kept up their mournful creaking tones. Ernest was afraid to be all alone. He felt round for his companion, and shook him by the arm, exclaiming, “Alfred! Alfred, wake up! I have had a wonderful fine dream here on the grass.”
“So have I,” replied Alfred, rubbing his eyes. “Why need you wake me just as the old fellow was dropping a purse full of money into my hand?”
“What old fellow?” inquired Ernest.
“He called himself Utouch,” answered Alfred, “and he promised to be my constant companion. I hope he will keep his word; for I like an old chap that drops a purse of gold into my hand when I ask for it.”
“Why, I dreamed of that same old fellow,” said Ernest, “but I didn’t like his looks.”
“Perhaps he didn’t show you the full purse?” said Alfred.
“Yes, he did,” replied Ernest; “but I felt such a love for the little fairy with tender eyes and heart-melting voice, that I choose her for my life-friend. And oh, she made the earth so beautiful!”
His companion laughed and said, “I dreamed of her, too. So you have preferred that floating soap-bubble, did you? I should have guessed as much. But come, help me carry the nuts home, for I am hungry for my supper.”
Years passed, and the boys were men. Ernest sat writing in a small chamber, that looked toward the setting sun. His little child had hung a prismatic chandelier-drop on the window, and he wrote amid the rainbows that it cast over his paper. In a simple vase on his desk stood a stalk of blossoms from the brilliant wild flower, called the Cardinal. Unseen by him, the fairy Touchu circled round his head and waved her Lily-stamen, from which the fine gold-coloured dust fell on his hair in a fragrant shower. In the greensward below, two beautiful yellow birds sat among the catnip-blossoms, picking the seed, while they rocked gracefully on the wind-stirred plant. Ernest smiled as he said to himself, “Gone are the dandelion blossoms, which strewed my grass-carpet with golden stars; and now come these winged flowers to refresh the eye. When they are gone to warmer climes, then will the yellow butterflies come in pairs; and when even they are gone, here in my oboë sleep the soft yellow tones, ever ready to wake and cheer me with their child-like gladness.”
He took up the instrument as he spoke, and played a slight flourish. A little bird that nestled among the leaves of a cherry tree near by, caught the tones of the oboë and mocked it with a joyous trill, a little sunny shower of sound. Then sprang the poet to his feet, and his countenance lighted up like a transfigured one. But a slight cloud soon floated over that radiant expression. “Ah, if thou only wert not afraid of me!” he said. “If thou wouldst come, dear little warbler, and perch on my oboë, and sing a duet with me, how happy I should be! Why are man and nature thus sundered?”
Another little bird in the Althea bush, answered him in low sweet notes, ending ever with the plaintive cadence of the minor-third. The deep, tender eyes of the child-man filled with tears. “We are not sundered,” thought he. “Surely my heart is in harmony with Nature; for she responds to my inmost thought, as one instrument vibrates the tones of another to which it is perfectly attuned. Blessed, blessed is nature in her soothing power.” As he spoke, Touchu came floating on a zephyr, and poured over him the fragrance of mignonette she had gathered from the garden below.
At the same hour, Alfred walked in his conservatory among groves of fragrant Geraniums and richly-flowering Cactuses. He smoked a cigar, and glanced listlessly from his embroidered slippers to the marble pavement without taking notice of the costly flowers. The gardener, who was watering a group of Japonicas, remarked, “This is a fine specimen that has opened to-day. Will you have the goodness to look at it, sir?” He paused in his walk a moment, and looked at a pure white blossom, with the faintest roseate blush in the centre. “It ought to be handsome,” said he. “The price was high enough. But after all the money I have expended, horticulturists declare that Mr. Duncan’s Japonicas excel mine. It’s provoking to be outdone.” The old gnome stood behind one of the plants, and shrugged his shoulders and grinned. Without perceiving his presence, Alfred muttered to himself, “Utouch promised my flowers should be unequalled in rarity and beauty.”
“That was last year,” croaked a small voice, which he at once recognized.
“Last year!” retorted Alfred, mocking his tone. “Am I then to be always toiling after what I never keep? That’s precious comfort, you provoking imp!”
A retreating laugh was heard under the pavement, as the rich man threw his cigar away, exclaiming impatiently, “The devil take the Japonicas! what do I care? they’re not worth fretting about.”
Weeks passed and brought the returning seventh day of rest. The little child, who caused homemade rainbows to flicker over the father’s poem, lay very ill, and the anxious parents feared that this beautiful vision of innocence might soon pass away from the earth. The shadows of a Madeira-vine now and then waved across the window, and the chamber was filled with the delicate perfume of its blossoms. No sound broke the Sabbath stillness, except the little bird in the Althea bush, whose tones were sad as the voice of memory. The child heard it, and sighed unconsciously, as he put his little feverish hand within his mother’s, and said, “Please sing me a hymn, dear mother.” With a soft, clear voice, subdued by her depth of feeling, she sang Schubert’s Ave Maria. Manifold and wonderful are the intertwining influences in the world of spirits! What was it that touched the little bird’s heart, and uttered itself in such plaintive cadences? They made the child sigh for a hymn; and bird and child together woke Schubert’s prayerful echoes in the mother’s bosom. And now from the soul of the composer in that far-off German land, the spirit of devotion comes to the father, wafted on the wings of that beautiful music. Ernest bowed his head reverently, and sank kneeling by the bed-side. While he listened thus, Touchu glided softly into his bosom and laid her wand upon his heart. When the sweet beseeching melody had ceased, Ernest pressed the hand of the singer to his lip, and remained awhile in silence. Then the strong necessity of supplication came over him, and he poured forth an ardent prayer. With fervid eloquence, he implored for themselves an humble and resigned spirit, and for their little one, that, living or dying, good angels might ever carry him in their protecting arms. As they rose up, his wife leaned her head upon his shoulder, and with tearful eyes whispered:
“God help us, this and every day,
To live more nearly as we pray.”
That same morning, Alfred rode to church in his carriage, and a servant waited with the horses, till he had performed his periodical routine of worship. Many-coloured hues from the richly-stained windows of the church glanced on wall and pillar, and imparted to silk and broadcloth the metallic lustre of a peacock’s plumage. Gorgeous in crimson mantle, with a topaz glory round his head, shone the meek son of Joseph the carpenter; and his humble fishermen of Galilee were refulgent in robes of purple and gold. The fine haze of dust, on which the sunbeams fell, gleamed with a quivering prismatic reflection of their splendour. From the choir descended the heavenly tones of Schubert’s Ave Maria. They flowed into Alfred’s ear, but no Touchu was with him to lay her wand upon his heart. To a visitor, who sat in his cushioned pew, he whispered that they paid the highest price for their music, and had the best that money could command. The sermon urged the necessity of providing some religious instruction for the poor; for otherwise there could be no security to property against robbery and fire. Alfred resolved within himself to get up a subscription immediately for that purpose, and to give twice as much as Mr. Duncan, whatever the sum might be. Utouch, who had secretly suggested the thing to him, turned somersaults on the gilded prayer-book, and twisted diabolical grimaces. But Alfred did not see him; nor did he hear a laugh under the carriage, when, as they rolled home, he said to his wife, “My dear, why didn’t you wear your embroidered shawl? I told you we were to have strangers in the pew. In so handsome a church, people expect to see the congregation elegantly dressed, you know.”
But though Utouch was a mocking spirit, Alfred could not complain that he had been untrue to his bargain. He had promised to bestow any thing he craved from his kingdom of the outward. He had asked for honour in the church, influence at the exchange, a rich handsome wife, and superb horses. He had them all. Whose fault was it, that he was continually looking round anxiously to observe whether others had more of the goods he coveted? He had wished for a luxurious table, and it stood covered with the rarest dainties of the world. But with a constrained smile he said to his guests, “Is it not provoking to be surrounded with luxuries I cannot eat? That pie-crust would torment my sleep with a legion of nightmares. It is true, I do not crave it much; for I sit at a loaded table ‘half-famished for an appetite,’ as the witty Madame de Sevigné used to say. Again and again, he asked himself, why all the fruit that seemed so ripe and tempting on the outside was always dry and dusty within. And if he was puzzled to understand why he seemed to have all things, and yet really had nothing, still more was he puzzled to explain how Ernest seemed to have so little, and yet in reality possessed all things. One evening, at a concert, he happened to sit near Ernest and his wife, while they listened to the beautiful Symphony by Spohr, called the Consecration of the Tones. Delighted as children were they, when they began to hear the winds murmur through the music, the insects pipe, and one little bird after another chirp his notes of gladness. How expressively they looked at each other, during the tender lulling Cradle-Song! and how the expression of their faces brightened and softened, as the enchanting tones passed through the lively allegro of the Dance, into the exquisite melody of the Serenade! But when Cradle-Song, Dance, and Serenade all moved forward together in delightful harmony, a three-fold chord of lovely melodies, the transparent countenance of Ernest became luminous with his inward joy. It was evident that Touchu had again laid her thrilling wand upon his heart.
“How the deuce does he contrive always to delight himself?” thought Alfred. “I wonder whether the music really is any thing uncommon.”
In order to ascertain, he turned from Ernest to watch the countenance of a musical critic near by; one of those unfortunate men, who enjoy music as the proof-reader enjoys the poetry he corrects in a printing-office. How can a beautiful metaphor please him, while he sees a comma topsy-turvy, or a period out of place? How can he be charmed by the melodious flow of the verse, while he is dotting an i, or looking out for an inverted s? The critic seemed less attentive to his business than the proof-reader; for he was looking round and whispering, apparently unconscious that sweet sounds filled the air. Nevertheless, Utouch whispered to Alfred that the critic was the man to inform him whether he ought to be delighted with the music, or not. So, at the close of the Symphony, he spoke to him, and took occasion to say, “I invited a French amateur to come here this evening, in hopes he would receive a favourable impression of the state of music in America. You are an excellent judge of such matters. Do you think he will be satisfied with the performance?”
“He may be pleased, sir, but not satisfied,” replied the critic. “The composition is a very fine one, but he has doubtless heard it in Paris; and until you have heard a French orchestra, sir, you can have no conception of music. Their accuracy in rhythmical time, amounts to absolute perfection.”
“And do you think the orchestra have played well to-night?”
“Tolerably well, sir. But in the Cradle-Song the clarionet lagged a little, once or twice; and the effect of the Serenade was injured, because the violoncello was tuned one-sixteenth of a note too low.”
Alfred bowed, and went away congratulating himself that he had not been more delighted than was proper.
The alleged impossibility of having any conception of music unless he went to Europe, renewed a wish he had long indulged. He closed his magnificent house, and went forth to make the fashionable tour. Ernest was a painter, as well as a poet; and it chanced that they met in Italy. Alfred seemed glad to see the friend of his childhood; but he soon turned from cheerful things, to tell how vexed he was about a statue he had purchased. “I gave a great price for it,” said he, “thinking it was a real antique; but good judges now assure me that it is a modern work. It is so annoying to waste one’s money!”
“But if it be really beautiful, and pleases you, the money is not wasted,” replied Ernest; “though it certainly is not agreeable to be cheated. Look at this ivory head to my cane! It is a bust of Hebe, which I bought for a trifle, yesterday. But small as is the market value, its beauty is a perpetual delight to me. If it be not an antique, it deserves to be. It troubles me that I cannot find the artist, and pay him more than I gave for it. Perhaps he is poor, and has not yet made a name for himself; but whoever he may be, a spark of the divine fire is certainly in him. Observe the beautiful swell of the breast, and the graceful turn of the head!”
“Yes, it is a pretty thing,” rejoined Alfred, half contemptously. “But I am too much vexed with that knave who sold me the statue, to go into raptures about the head of a cane just now. What makes it more provoking is, that Mr. Duncan purchased a real antique last year, for less money than I threw away on this modern thing.”
Having in vain tried to impart his own sunny humour, Ernest bade him adieu, and returned to his humble lodgings, out of the city. As he lingered in the orange-groves, listening to the nightingales, he thought to himself, “I wish that charming little fairy, who came to me in my boyish dream, would touch Alfred with her wand; for the purse the old gnome gave him seems to bring him little joy.” He happened to look up at the moment, and there, close by his hand, was Touchu balancing herself tip-toe on an orange-bud. She had the same luminous, loving eyes, the same prismatic robe, and the same sunny gleam on her hair. She smiled as she said, “Then you do not repent your early choice, though I could not give you a purse full of money?”
“Oh, no indeed,” replied he. “Thou hast been the brightest blessing of my life.”
She kissed his eyes, and, waving her wand over him, said affectionately, “Take then the best gift I have to offer. When thou art an old man, thou shalt still remain, to the last, a simple, happy child.”