University of Virginia Library

12. UTOUCH AND TOUCHU.

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. Its 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 Madeiravine
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:

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 prismatie
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 somersets 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 perfecttion.”

“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.”