 Chapter 18 of the Singing Mouse Stories This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Joseph Eric The Singing Mouse Stories by Emerson Ho Chapter 18 The Bell and the Shadows Melody Unformulate Music Immaterial Such was the voice of the Singing Mouse. Famed, small and clear. A piping of fives so fine. A touching of strings so delicate that it seemed to come from instruments of barrel and of diamond. A phantom music, impossible to fetter with star for bar and past the hope of compassing in words. It was the last night of the year and the bell upon the church nearby had made many strokes the last time it had been heard many heavy strokes which throbbed sullenly, mournfully on the air. The presence of passing time was at hand. The year would soon join the years gone by. Regret, remorse, despair, abandonment, the hopelessness of humanity. Was it the breath of these which arose and burdened heavily the note of the chronicling bell? Where were the chimes of joy? These shadows that you see are not upon the wall said the Singing Mouse. They are very much beyond the windows. If only we will look out from our windows. There are always great pictures waiting for us. Pictures in pearl and opal. In liquid Argent, in crimson and gold. But always there must be the shadows. Without these there can be no picture anywhere. Have you not seen what the shadows do? Have you not seen them trooping through the oak forest in the evening through the pine forest in open day? Across the prairies under the moon at night, legions of them, armies of them. Have you never seen them march across the grasslands in the daytime? cohort after cohort, hurrying to the call of the unseen trumpets? In the woods, have you never heard strange sounds when you put your ear to the ground? Sounds untraceable to any animate life. Have you never heard vague voices in the trees? Have you not heard distant, mysterious noises in the forest? Who scores you could never learn? Seek, no matter how you might. These were the voices of the shadows. The people who live there. Who else should it be to whisper and sing to you and make you happy when you are there? Without these people, what would be the woods, the prairies, the waters, the sky, the world? Without the shadows too, what would be our lives? Thoughts, thoughts and remembrances. What have we that is sweeter than these? Have you never seen the smile upon the lips of those who have died? They say they are looking upon the future. Perhaps they look upon the past and therefore smile in happiness, seeing again youth and hope and faith and trust which are tender and beautiful things. Life has no actuality of its own and in material sense is only a continual change. But the shadows of thought and of remembrance do not change. It is only the shadows that are real. As I pondered upon this, they are passed by many pleasant pictures upon the wall. After the way the singing mouse had, many pictures of days gone by which made me think that perhaps what the singing mouse had said was true. I could see the boy sitting idle and a dream, watching the shadows drifting across the clover fields where the big bees came. I saw the youth wandering in the woods where the squirrels lived, loitering and looking, peering into corners full of the secrets of the wild creatures, unraveling the delicious mysteries which nature never offers to those not yet grown old. It was a comfortable picture, full of the brilliant greens of springtime, the mellow tints of summer, the red and russet of autumn days, the blue and white of winter. I could hear, also, sounds intimately associated with the scenes before me, the bleed of little lambs, the low of cattle, the naing of a distant horse, and then, both sound and scene progressed and once more as the woods and hills grew bolder and more wild. I could hear clearly the rifle's thin report, could note the whisper of the secret loving paddle, the slipping of the snowshoe on the snow, the clatter of the hoofs of horses, the bane of the bell-mouthed hounds. The delights of it all came back again and in this varied phantom chase among the keen joys of the past, I saw as plainly and exultantly as ever in my life the panorama of the brown woods and the grey plains and the purple hills. Saw it distinctly with all the old vibrant joy of youth, line for line, sound for sound, shadow for shadow, joy for joy. And then, the singing mouse without wish of mine caused these scenes to change into others of more quiet sort, which told not of the fields, but of the home. In the shadows of evening, I seemed to see a pleasant place well surrounded by trees and flowers, the leaves of which were stirred softly in the breath of a faint summer breeze, strong enough only to carry a loft in its hands, the odour of the blooming rose. This picture faded slowly. There were shadows in the spaces between the trees. There were shadows in the dark growing wine which draped a column. One could only guess if he got sight of garb or of the outline of a form among the shadows. He could only guess too whether he heard music faint as the breeze, faint as the incense of the flowers. He could only guess if he had seen the image of the house beautiful, that temple known as home. Thoughts set the singing mouse softly, thoughts and remembrances. These are the things that live forever. It is only the shadows that are real. The solemn note of the bell struck in. It counted twelve. The new year had come. The chimes of joy arose. But still the faint music from the past had not died away. And still the shadows waved and beckoned on the wall, strong and beautiful and enduring. And not like the fading of a dream. So then I knew that what the singing mouse had said was true and that it is indeed only the shadows that are real. CHAPTER 19 OF THE GREATEST SORROW A thousand times in the night I reach out, it seems to me, and touch her hair as it lies, red and dark. A thousand times in the night I gaze upon her face, her eyes shielded, her lips gently closed and curved. A thousand times in the night, it seems to me, I bend above her and whisper. And she, though asleep and myriads of miles away among the stars, hears me always and stirs just faintly and still sleeping, whispers through lips that barely part. I know. It is perhaps that thing called love which causes me to do this, because I always whisper, I love you. Though no word quite is wide and deep and soft and kind enough to say what is in the soul at certain times. Now in lives there are ways. Some have few sorrows and many things are fortune taken lightly. The things wished coming easily. Again others gain only by pain and suffering and long effort and hard denies. As it is decreed by chance, the way with most is to gain all things hardly and to know always denial and always to have longing. That is the way with most. Of these things I spoke with the singing-mouse and told of many things that came as sorrows and griefs and denials, saying that, since this was decreed by chance, there was not that a man ought not to receive without murmur. And the singing-mouse said that this was true, that many things were denied and that many knew great sorrows. This was the reason we came to speak of sorrows. I named very many sorrows that I had known and many that friends of mine had known, some of these far greater than my own, as is most often the case when one comes to see deeply into these things. All sorrows, said the singing-mouse, come to us and we must bear them, though some are very hard to bear, as when friends do not know we love them and think us ill-formed and crooked, small and mean, when in truth in soul we are tall and comely, large and strong, or when we are thought to have done a bad action, when in truth we have done a good one, or when hunger and thirst come and we have little comforts, or when sickness and weakness come to us when we wish our strength, or when those die whom we have loved, or all these sorrows and very many others come to us and each sorrow must be borne for that is the way of life. What, I asked of the singing-mouse, is the greatest sorrow? That, said the singing-mouse, is a thing hard to tell, for each man thinks that the sorrow that he has is the greatest sorrow for him or for the world, though perhaps in truth it is not large. What to you, asked the singing-mouse, is the greatest sorrow of those which have not yet come to you. A thousand times in the night singing-mouse, said I, I reach out and touch her hair as it lies spread and dark. I whisper to her, though she be myriads of miles away among the stars, and she hears, and she answers, this is because of that thing called love. Now this sorrow has not yet come to me, that when I reach out my hand in the night I shall not touch her hair, that when I bend to kiss her sleeping she shall not be there any more, that when I whisper to her she may no longer answer me, seeing that this thing called love can be no more between us. That, said I to the singing-mouse, I could not endure. Indeed, at the thought of this so sharp an agony came to me, that I rose and cried out loud, I cannot endure it, I cannot endure it, I cried, although this sorrow had not yet come to me. Ha! said the singing-mouse, how idle and weak is the human mind in the country where you live. Have you not said but now that, though she be myriads of miles away among the stars, she answers you when you whisper? Does she not hear? Do not her lips move in speech as you whisper? That is true, said I, and will she always hear? She will always hear, said the singing-mouse, so this sorrow will not come as you fear. And shall I reach out and touch her hair as it lies spread and dark? This I asked of the singing-mouse. You shall touch it, spread and dark, and fragrant as when you were young, said the singing-mouse, if so you wish. So then it seemed that perhaps all sorrows, even very great ones, are a part of life. Although I know that, if I could no longer know the fragrance of her hair, or hear the whisper of her answer, then that sorrow would be more than I could bear. End of Chapter 19, Recording by Ezwa in Belgium in April 2010 Chapter 20 of the Singing-mouse Stories This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ruth Golding The Singing-mouse Stories by Emerson Hough Chapter 20 The Shoes of the Princess Once I was in a place where there were those who had opened many tombs, and had taken from the tombs that had been in Egypt and were very old, many things that had been placed there for silence and repose, thousands of years ago. There were grave-clothes and grave-caskets, the one embroidered, the other graven, and the colours of both were as they were thousands of years ago. There were signs over which men pondered, not knowing their own writing and their own thoughts and their own fate. There were also, a sad thing to see, the bodies of those that had died long ago, that had lain down for rest and silence, and of these some were called kings and some were called queens and others princesses, and all had once been young and some had once been beautiful. For here, after thousands of years, was praise of their beauty and love and care for it. So I pondered very long and sadly, but most I looked at two little golden shoes. These little shoes had once been the shoes of one who lay here, a princess, dead thousands of years and once very beautiful, as these carven symbols told. They were small and dainty and threaded with fine gold, and laced across with care about the feet of her who was once a woman and a princess and owner of much beauty, and who was in her life beloved and in her death mourned, as these graven symbols said. A thousand years this love reached out its arms to her today, although for a thousand years death had enfolded her in his grasp that does not yield. She who had lain down for rest and silence was still here, with all at rest in her grave-garb and silent in her sleep. But those who had done these things had removed the grave-clothing so that these small shoes could be seen still upon the feet of the princess that had slept a thousand years enfolded in love. For a price these might have sold the shoes of the princess, for there were those cruel enough to strip her of that which she had worn when she laid down to be alone. But this I could not do. I did not carry away the shoes in my hands, but in some way it seemed to me that I took them, for that night as I sat at the little table in my room, with the dim light falling as is its won't at those hours, I saw upon the table before me these same shoes of the princess of thousands of years ago, small and golden, things to make one weep, so sad their story, disturbed thus after they had been placed away for silence. I gazed at them for a time, and presently I saw appear upon the table beside them the form of the singing-mouse, as tall perhaps as the fronts of these golden shoes. See, said the singing-mouse, here are her shoes, those of the princess who had been resting. They crossed the paved floors of palaces, they knew the steps of a throne, they were made by love for love and given in love to rest and silence. She was as one you have known, as many whom others know now. Tell me, is she not beautiful? I saw, standing before me, the figure of the princess, tall and slender and very beautiful. And now the grave garments were not seen for her robe was of silk, new and soft and shapely like to herself, and her arms were round and soft and her eyes were full and dark and her hair was as deep shadows. A band of gold was about her brow and her cheek was red and tender in its bloom. Her neck was white and round and her hands were white and her slender fingers curved slightly as her arms hung down by her sides. Her feet were small and straight and all of her was beautiful and she was a princess. Now, as I gazed, I saw the face and saw that it was one I knew and had known long. So then I knew that the princess who was placed away for rest and silence had never died, for did she not stand here before me and had I not long known her thus. Ah, beautiful! I took up these small golden shoes in my hands and held them out to her. Take these little shoes, I said, wrought as cunning as man may know. Place them upon thy feet for me and may never thorn a sail thee in all thy going. Wear them and tread the steps of thrones, years and years, ages and ages, princess, beloved. See, they are wrought in love. Now I saw upon the lips of the princess who had lain down thousands of years ago, but who lives in a place I know today, a smile very faint and far away. So, as the singing mouse told me, it was to be seen that she did not die. Even as she faded away from the wall against which she stood, I knew, though I wept, that the princess was not dead and would not die. She was beautiful, she was beloved, and these things have not died. Ah, beautiful! I said to the singing mouse, but alas, for a princess there should be a palace and here is none. Look about you, said the singing mouse. See, for the time this is a palace. I looked about me and it was, as the singing mouse said, for the time my room was a palace. I saw standing there again the princess, upon her feet small golden shoes. What is this? I asked. And who am I? But as I turned, I saw that the singing mouse was gone. But this I knew, and so may you know, that love does not die, and here was proof of it. Chapter 21 Of White Moths Once, said the singing mouse, I was at the side of a little stream, grasses grew all about and small plants and flowers. Beyond the shores of the little stream arose a forest, white and dark, into which the eye could reach but a little way. As I stood near the little stream, there arose from the grass and flowers two small moths, soft and dainty, beautiful and very white, covered also with a white dust or powder, which was so light that did they but receive a touch they must lose some of this soft white powder and so be injured, so gentle and tender were they. These two moths, soft and white and silent, arose in the air and circled one about the other, rising for a time then falling, but ever circling one about the other. It seemed that perhaps they spoke one to the other, but if that were true, it was in speech so small that not even I could hear it. They passed over the tops of the grasses and flowers, up and up, until they reached the top of the trees, where they seemed very small. I do not know why these moths no longer cared for the grasses and flowers, but I saw them, circling, cross over the little stream, high in the air, and then pass on directly into the white dark forest. For a moment they appeared, a small spot of white, against the black shadows of the forest across the stream. Then they went on, straight into the shadows, until I could no longer see the small spot of white they made. It is in this way, said the singing-mouse, that human souls passed through life. To me, who can see them, they look small and delicate and white, and they circle one about another, and they pass on into the deep forest. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Diana Moidinger The Singing-Mouse Stories by Emerson Ho Chapter 22 The House of Dreams Upon what couch, I asked the singing-mouse, may one have the most noble dreams? The singing-mouse said for a time and looked at me with its bright eye, and it seemed to me that the walls opened and widened. I saw that I was within a great palace, whose walls were hung in tapestries, and whose doors were of golden panelings, and whose windows were of curious crystals, and whose furnishings were rich and wonderful, and around whose stately limits swam white gardens of strange flowers, full of deep perfumes. I heard soft voices of birds and the music also of gentle human voices singing, and tenderly played instruments of silken and silver strings. It seemed to me that I lay upon a great couch of thrice piled down and touched hands with delights in all manners that one could think, but alas I did not dream as I lay upon this couch. Then I saw these walls fade away in turn, and in their stead arose a west cathedral of the woods. A music was in the trees, and a solemn mountain stood as a raider to the sky for me. My couch was dead of the earth and the leaves, and my jewels were upon the grasses all about. I touched hands with delights, and so I dreamed, and was very happy and content. Again the place changed, and I lay in my own small room with naked walls and little cheer or comfort, as you may see. The couch was hard and narrow, and that which covered it over was worn and threadbare, and by no means cloth of woven silk and golden tracery. But it seemed to me that upon the walls were pictures, and here and there were shadows of things which I had wished, many things, very sweet and precious. Upon this couch, as upon that of the earth, it seemed to me that I dreamed. There were once some leaves and grasses in this couch, said the singing-mouse, and that is why you dreamed. Around this manner of resting place often rises the house of dreams, and not, as many have supposed, about the couch of down and silken tapestries. Always, near a house of dreams, must be a mountain or a sea, and trees and grasses, with the sky also, and the stars, which are the candles of our dream-houses. See, you had not noticed it, but there is a star in your candle. I looked, and it was as the singing-mouse had said. A star was at the candle-top. By its light I could dream nobly, and many things seemed true, which have not yet come true, when the star in the candle does not shine. But they are true in the land of the singing-mouse. In that country it is not palaces alone that are houses of dreams. I know this thing is true. Therefore, all ye who have come hither, let your hope and your joy be strong, and by no means despair. For better than despair are hope and joy. Copyright © 2020 Mooji Media Ltd.