The Blue Flower [5]
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
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