VI—IN SWEDEN

It was his garden that began it all, A magical garden for a changeling child. “The garden has bewitched him! Carl! Carl! O, Carl! Now where is that elfkin hiding?” It was the voice of Christina, wife of the Pastor, Nils Linnæus, the Man of the Linden-tree. Youthful and comely, she stood at her door in the twilight, Calling her truant son. Her flaxen hair Kerchiefed with crisp white wings; her rose-coloured apron And blue-grey gown, like a harebell, yielding a glimpse Of the shapeliest ankle and snowiest stocking in Sweden; She stood at her door, a picture breathed upon air. She called yet again, and tilted her head to listen As a faint, flushed, wild anemone turning aside From a breeze out of elf-land, teasing her delicate petals, The breeze of the warm, white, green-veined wings of her wooer; And again, a little more troubled at heart, she called, “Supper-time, Carl!” But out of the fragrant pinewoods Darkening round her, only the wood-pigeon cooed. Down by the lake, from the alders, only the red-cap Whistled three notes. Then all grew quiet again. Yet, he was there, she knew, though he did not answer. The lad was at hand, she knew, though she could not see him. Her elf-child, nine years old, was about and around her, A queer little presence, invisible, everywhere, nowhere, Hiding, intensely still.... She listened; the leaves All whispered, “Hush!” It was just as though Carl had whispered, “Hush! I am watching. “Hush! I am thinking. “Hush! I am listening, too.” She tiptoed through the garden, her fair head Turning to left and right, with birdlike glances, Peeping round lichened boulders and clumps of fern. She passed by the little garden his father gave him, Elfdom within an elfdom, where he had sown Not only flowers that rightly grow in gardens, The delicate aristocracies of bloom, But hedgerow waifs and ragamuffin strays That sprawled across his borders everywhere And troubled even the queendom of the rose With swarming insurrections. At last she saw him, His tousled head a little golden cloud Among the dark green reeds at the edge of the lake, Bending over the breathless water to watch— What? She tiptoed nearer, until she saw The spell that bound him. Floating upon the lake, A yard away, a water-lily closed Its petals, as an elfin cygnet smooths Its ruffled plumes, composing them for sleep. He watched it, rapt, intent. She watched her son, Intent and rapt, with a stirring at her heart, And beautiful shining wonder in her eyes, Feeling a mystery near her. Shadow-of-a-Leaf Whispered. The garden died into the dark. Mother and child had gone—I knew not whither. It seemed as though the dark stream of the years Flowed round me. Then, as one that walks all night Lifts up his head in the early light of dawn, I found myself in a long deserted street Of little wooden houses, with thatched roofs. It was Uppsala. Over the silent town I heard a skylark quivering, up and up, As though the very dew from its wild wings Were shaken to silvery trills of elfin song. Tirile, tirile, tirile, it arose, Praising the Giver of one more shining day. Then, with a clatter of doors and a yodelling call Of young men’s voices, the Svartbäcken woke; And down the ringing street the students came In loose blue linen suits, knapsack on back And sturdy stick in hand, to rouse old Carl For their long ramble through the blossoming fields. I saw them clustering round the Master’s door. I heard their jolly song—Papa Linnæus: Linnæus, Papa Linnæus, He gave his pipe a rap. He donned his gown of crimson. He donned his green fur-cap. He walked in a meadow at daybreak To see what he might see; And the linnet cried, “Linnæus! O hide! Here comes Linnæus. Beware of old Linnæus, The Man of the Linden-tree.” So beautiful, bright and early He brushed away the dews, He found the wicked wild-flowers All courting there in twos; And buzzing loud for pardon, Sir Pandarus, the bee: “Vincit Amor, Linnæus, Linnæus, Papa Linnæus!” O, ho, quoth old Linnæus, The Man of the Linden-tree. Quoth he, ’Tis my conviction These innocents must be wed! So he murmured a benediction, And blessed their fragrant bed; And the butterflies fanned their blushes And the red-cap whistled in glee, They are married by old Linnæus, Linnæus, Papa Linnæus! Vivat, vivat Linnæus, The Man of the Linden-tree. Vivat Linnæus! And out the old Master came, Jauntily as a throstle-cock in Spring, His big bright eyes aglow; the fine curved beak, The kindly lips, the broad well-sculptured brow, All looked as though the wisdom that had shaped them Desired that they should always wear a smile To teach the world that kindness makes men happy. He shook his head at his uproarious troop, And chose his officers for the day’s campaign: One, for a marksman, with a fowling-piece, To bring down bird or beast, if need arose; One for a bugler, to recall their lines From echoing valley and hill, when something rare Lay in the Master’s hand; one to make notes Of new discoveries; one for discipline; all For seeking out the truth, in youth and joy. To-day they made for Jumkil, miles away Along the singing river, where that prize The Sceptrum Carolinum used to grow. And, ever as they went, Linnæus touched All that they saw with gleams of new delight. As when the sun first rises over the sea Myriads of ripples wear a crest of fire; And over all the hills a myriad flowers Lift each a cup of dew that burns like wine; And all these gleams reflect one heavenly light; He changed the world around him; filled the woods With rapture; made each footpath wind away Into new depths of elfin-land. The ferns Became its whispering fringe; and every stile A faerie bridge into a lovelier world. His magic sunlight touched the adventurous plants That grew on the thatch of wayside cottages, Crepis and Bromus, with the straggling brood Of flowers he called tectorum, dancing there Above the heads of mortals, like swart gnomes In rusty red and gold. “My Svartbäck Latin,” Linnæus laughed, “may make the pedants writhe; But I would sooner take three slaps from Priscian Than one from Mother Nature.” Ancient books Had made their pretty pattern of the world. They had named and labelled all their flowers by rote, Grouping them in a little man-made scheme Empty of true significance as the wheel Of stars that Egypt turned for her dead kings. His was the very life-stream of the flowers; And everywhere in Nature he revealed Their subtle kinships; wedded bloom and bloom; Traced the proud beauty, flaunting in her garden, To gipsy grandsires, camping in a ditch; Linked the forgotten wanderers to their clan; Grouped many-coloured clans in one great tribe; And gathered scores of scattered tribes again Into one radiant nation. He revealed Mysterious clues to changes wild as those That Ovid sang—the dust that rose to a stem, The stem that changed to a leaf, the crowning leaf That changed to a fruitful flower; and, under all, Sustaining, moving, binding all in one, One Power that like a Master-Dramatist, Through every act and atom of the world Advanced the triumph that must crown the whole. Unseen by man—that drama—here on earth It must be; but could man survey the whole, As even now, in flashes, he discerns Its gleaming moments, vanishing sharp-etched scenes Loaded with strange significance, he would know, Like Shadow-of-a-Leaf, that not a cloud can sail Across a summer sky, but plays its part. There’s not a shadow drifting on the hills, Or stain of colour where the sun goes down, Or least bright flake upon the hawk-moth’s wing But that great drama needs them. The wild thrush, The falling petal, the bubble upon the brook, Each has its cue, to sing, to fall, to shine, And exquisitely responds. The drunken bee Blundering and stumbling through a world of flowers Has his own tingling entrances, unknown To man or to himself; and, though he lives In his own bee-world, following his own law, He is yet the unweeting shuttle in a loom That marries rose to rose in other worlds, And shapes the wonder of Springs he cannot see. O, little bee-like man, thou shalt not raise Thy hand, or close thine eyes, or sigh in sleep; But, over all thy freedom, there abides The law of this world-drama. Under the stars, Between sweet-breathing gardens in the dusk, I heard the song of the students marching home. I saw their eyes, mad nightingales of joy, Shining with youth’s eternal ecstasy. I saw them tossing vines entwined with flowers Over girls’ necks, and drawing them all along; Flags flying, French horns blowing, kettle-drums throbbing, And Carl Linnæus marching at their head. Up to the great old barn they marched for supper,— Four rounds of beef and a cask of ripened ale; And, afterwards, each with his own flower-fettered girl, They’d dance the rest of the summer night away. Greybeards had frowned upon this frolic feast; But Carl Linnæus told them “Youth’s a flower, And we’re botanic students.” Many a time, In green fur-cap and crimson dressing-gown, He sat and smoked his pipe and watched them there On winter nights; and when the fiddles played His Polish dance, Linné would shuffle it too. But now, to-night—they had tramped too many miles. The old man was tired. He left them at the door, And turned to his own house, as one who leaves Much that he loved behind him. As he went They cheered their chief—“Vivat, vivat, Linnæus!” And broke into their frolic song again. I saw him in the shadowy house alone Entering the room, above whose happy door The watchword of his youth and his old age Was written in gold—Innocue vivito. Numen adest. I saw him writing there His last great joyous testament, to be read Only by his own children, as he thought, After he’d gone; an ecstasy of praise, As though a bird were singing in his mind, Praise, praise, to the Giver of life and love and death! God led him with His own Almighty Hand, And made him grow up like a goodly tree. God filled his heart with such a loving fire For truth, that truth returned him love for love. God aided him, with all that his own age Had yet brought forth, to speed him on his way. God set him in a garden, as of old, And gave him, for his duty and delight, The task that he loved best in all the world. God gave him for his help-mate, from his youth Into old age, the wife he most desired. And blessed him with her goodness. God revealed His secrets to him; touched his eyes with light And let him gaze into His Council Hall. God so determined even his defeats That they became his greatest victories. God made his enemies as a wind to fill His homeward-rushing sails. Wherever he went The Lord was with him, and the Lord upheld him. And yet, O yet, one glory was to come; One strangest gate into infinitude Was yet to be swung back and take him home. I know not how the fields that gave us birth Draw us with sweetness, never to be forgotten Back through the dark. I saw him groping out, As through a mist, into a shadowy garden; And this was not Uppsala any more, But the lost garden where his boyhood reigned. The little dwindling path at Journey’s End Ran through the dark, into a path he knew. Carl! Carl! Carl! Now where is that elfkin hiding! Down by the lake, from the alders, only the red-cap Whistled three notes. Then all grew quiet again. Carl! O Carl! Her voice, though he could not answer, Called him. He knew she was there, though he could not see her. He stood and listened. The leaves were listening, too. He tiptoed through the garden. His grey head Turning to left and right with birdlike glances. He passed by the little garden his father gave him. He knew its breath in the night. His heart stood still. She was there. He saw her at last. Her back was towards him. He saw her fair young head, through the deepening shadows, Bending, breathlessly, forward to watch a child At the edge of the lake, who watched a floating flower. He watched her, rapt, intent. She watched her son, Intent and rapt. Tears in his heart, he waited, dark and still, Feeling a mystery near him.