The Philosopher's Stone · page 21 2 3101His hearing was too fine.102He not only heard the grass grow, but could hear every man's heart beat, whether in sorrow or in joy.103The whole world was to him like a clockmaker's great workshop, in which all the clocks were going "tick, tick," and all the turret clocks striking "ding, dong."104It was unbearable.105For a long time his ears endured it, but at last all the noise and tumult became too much for one man to bear.106There were rascally boys of sixty years old--for years do not alone make a man--who raised a tumult, which might have made the Hearer laugh, but for the applause which followed, echoing through every street and house, and was even heard in country roads.107Falsehood thrust itself forward and played the hypocrite; the bells on the fool's cap jingled, and declared they were church-bells, and the noise became so bad for the Hearer that he thrust his fingers into his ears.108Still, he could hear false notes and bad singing, gossip and idle words, scandal and slander, groaning and moaning, without and within. "109Heaven help us!"110He thrust his fingers farther and farther into his ears, till at last the drums burst.111And now he could hear nothing more of the true, the beautiful, and the good; for his hearing was to have been the means by which he hoped to acquire his knowledge.112He became silent and suspicious, and at last trusted no one, not even himself, and no longer hoping to find and bring home the costly jewel, he gave it up, and gave himself up too, which was worse than all.113The birds in their flight towards the east, carried the tidings, and the news reached the castle in the Tree of the Sun.114"I will try now," said the third brother; "I have a keen nose."115Now that was not a very elegant expression, but it was his way, and we must take him as he was.116He had a cheerful temper, and was, besides, a real poet; he could make many things appear poetical, by the way in which he spoke of them, and ideas struck him long before they occurred to the minds of others. "117I can smell," he would say; and he attributed to the sense of smelling, which he possessed in a high degree, a great power in the region of the beautiful. "118I can smell," he would say, "and many places are fragrant or beautiful according to the taste of the frequenters.119One man feels at home in the atmosphere of the tavern, among the flaring tallow candles, and when the smell of spirits mingles with the fumes of bad tobacco.120Another prefers sitting amidst the overpowering scent of jasmine, or perfuming himself with scented olive oil.121This man seeks the fresh sea breeze, while that one climbs the lofty mountain-top, to look down upon the busy life in miniature beneath him."122As he spoke in this way, it seemed as if he had already been out in the world, as if he had already known and associated with man.123But this experience was intuitive--it was the poetry within him, a gift from Heaven bestowed on him in his cradle.124He bade farewell to his parental roof in the Tree of the Sun, and departed on foot, from the pleasant scenes that surrounded his home.125Arrived at its confines, he mounted on the back of an ostrich, which runs faster than a horse, and afterwards, when he fell in with the wild swans, he swung himself on the strongest of them, for he loved change, and away he flew over the sea to distant lands, where there were great forests, deep lakes, lofty mountains, and proud cities.126Wherever he came it seemed as if sunshine travelled with him across the fields, for every flower, every bush, exhaled a renewed fragrance, as if conscious that a friend and protector was near; one who understood them, and knew their value.127The stunted rose-bush shot forth twigs, unfolded its leaves, and bore the most beautiful roses; every one could see it, and even the black, slimy wood-snail noticed its beauty. "128I will give my seal to the flower," said the snail, "I have trailed my slime upon it, I can do no more.129"Thus it always fares with the beautiful in this world," said the poet.130And he made a song upon it, and sung it after his own fashion, but nobody listened.131Then he gave a drummer twopence and a peacock's feather, and composed a song for the drum, and the drummer beat it through the streets of the town, and when the people heard it they said, "That is a capital tune."132The poet wrote many songs about the true, the beautiful, and the good.133His songs were listened to in the tavern, where the tallow candles flared, in the fresh clover field, in the forest, and on the high-seas; and it appeared as if this brother was to be more fortunate than the other two.134But the evil spirit was angry at this, so he set to work with soot and incense, which he can mix so artfully as to confuse an angel, and how much more easily a poor poet.135The evil one knew how to manage such people.136He so completely surrounded the poet with incense that the man lost his head, forgot his mission and his home, and at last lost himself and vanished in smoke.137But when the little birds heard of it, they mourned, and for three days they sang not one song.138The black wood-snail became blacker still; not for grief, but for envy. "139They should have offered me incense," he said, "for it was I who gave him the idea of the most famous of his songs--the drum song of 'The Way of the World;' and it was I who spat at the rose; I can bring a witness to that fact."140But no tidings of all this reached the poet's home in India.141The birds had all been silent for three days, and when the time of mourning was over, so deep had been their grief, that they had forgotten for whom they wept.142Such is the way of the world.143"Now I must go out into the world, and disappear like the rest," said the fourth brother.144He was as good-tempered as the third, but no poet, though he could be witty.145The two eldest had filled the castle with joyfulness, and now the last brightness was going away.146Sight and hearing have always been considered two of the chief senses among men, and those which they wish to keep bright; the other senses are looked upon as of less importance.147But the younger son had a different opinion; he had cultivated his taste in every way, and taste is very powerful.148It rules over what goes into the mouth, as well as over all which is presented to the mind; and, consequently, this brother took upon himself to taste everything stored up in bottles or jars; this he called the rough part of his work.149Every man's mind was to him as a vessel in which something was concocting; every land a kind of mental kitchen. "150There are no delicacies here," he said; so he wished to go out into the world to find something delicate to suit his taste. "151Perhaps fortune may be more favorable to me than it was to my brothers.152I shall start on my travels, but what conveyance shall I choose?153Are air balloons invented yet?" he asked of his father, who knew of all inventions that had been made, or would be made.154Air balloons had not then been invented, nor steam-ships, nor railways.155"Good," said he; "then I shall choose an air balloon; my father knows how they are to be made and guided.156Nobody has invented one yet, and the people will believe that it is an aerial phantom.157When I have done with the balloon I shall burn it, and for this purpose, you must give me a few pieces of another invention, which will come next; I mean a few chemical matches."158He obtained what he wanted, and flew away.159The birds accompanied him farther than they had the other brothers.160They were curious to know how this flight would end.161Many more of them came swooping down; they thought it must be some new bird, and he soon had a goodly company of followers.162They came in clouds till the air became darkened with birds as it was with the cloud of locusts over the land of Egypt.163And now he was out in the wide world.164The balloon descended over one of the greatest cities, and the aeronaut took up his station at the highest point, on the church steeple.165The balloon rose again into the air, which it ought not to have done; what became of it is not known, neither is it of any consequence, for balloons had not then been invented.166There he sat on the church steeple.167The birds no longer hovered over him; they had got tired of him, and he was tired of them.168All the chimneys in the town were smoking.169"There are altars erected to my honor," said the wind, who wished to say something agreeable to him as he sat there boldly looking down upon the people in the street.170There was one stepping along, proud of his purse; another, of the key he carried behind him, though he had nothing to lock up; another took a pride in his moth-eaten coat; and another, in his mortified body. "171Vanity, all vanity!" he exclaimed. "172I must go down there by-and-by, and touch and taste; but I shall sit here a little while longer, for the wind blows pleasantly at my back.173I shall remain here as long as the wind blows, and enjoy a little rest.174It is comfortable to sleep late in the morning when one had a great deal to do," said the sluggard; "so I shall stop here as long as the wind blows, for it pleases me."175And there he stayed.176But as he was sitting on the weather-cock of the steeple, which kept turning round and round with him, he was under the false impression that the same wind still blew, and that he could stay where he was without expense.177But in India, in the castle on the Tree of the Sun, all was solitary and still, since the brothers had gone away one after the other.178"Nothing goes well with them," said the father; "they will never bring the glittering jewel home, it is not made for me; they are all dead and gone."179Then he bent down over the Book of Truth, and gazed on the page on which he should have read of the life after death, but for him there was nothing to be read or learned upon it.180His blind daughter was his consolation and joy; she clung to him with sincere affection, and for the sake of his happiness and peace she wished the costly jewel could be found and brought home.181With longing tenderness she thought of her brothers.182Where were they?183Where did they live?184How she wished she might dream of them; but it was strange that not even in dreams could she be brought near to them.185But at last one night she dreamt that she heard the voices of her brothers calling to her from the distant world, and she could not refrain herself, but went out to them, and yet it seemed in her dream that she still remained in her father's house.186She did not see her brothers, but she felt as it were a fire burning in her hand, which, however, did not hurt her, for it was the jewel she was bringing to her father.187When she awoke she thought for a moment that she still held the stone, but she only grasped the knob of her distaff.188During the long evenings she had spun constantly, and round the distaff were woven threads finer than the web of a spider; human eyes could never have distinguished these threads when separated from each other.189But she had wetted them with her tears, and the twist was as strong as a cable.190She rose with the impression that her dream must be a reality, and her resolution was taken.191It was still night, and her father slept; she pressed a kiss upon his hand, and then took her distaff and fastened the end of the thread to her father's house.192But for this, blind as she was, she would never have found her way home again; to this thread she must hold fast, and trust not to others or even to herself.193From the Tree of the Sun she broke four leaves; which she gave up to the wind and the weather, that they might be carried to her brothers as letters and a greeting, in case she did not meet them in the wide world.194Poor blind child, what would become of her in those distant regions?195But she had the invisible thread, to which she could hold fast; and she possessed a gift which all the others lacked.196This was a determination to throw herself entirely into whatever she undertook, and it made her feel as if she had eyes even at the tips of her fingers, and could hear down into her very heart.197Quietly she went forth into the noisy, bustling, wonderful world, and wherever she went the skies grew bright, and she felt the warm sunbeam, and a rainbow above in the blue heavens seemed to span the dark world.198She heard the song of the birds, and smelt the scent of the orange groves and apple orchards so strongly that she seemed to taste it.199Soft tones and charming songs reached her ear, as well as harsh sounds and rough words--thoughts and opinions in strange contradiction to each other.200Into the deepest recesses of her heart penetrated the echoes of human thoughts and feelings.1 2 3← previousThe Pen and the Inkstandnext →The Phoenix Bird↑ back to Fairy Tales of Hans Christian AndersenThis page in Markdown → https://md.mova.elamur.ai/free/en/corpora/tales/pg27200/143/page/2/