The Vision By The Fountain By Nathaniel Hawthorne

Hi,

This is Aurora helping you go to sleep tonight.

I am going to be reading The Vision by the Fountain by Nathaniel Hawthorne.

At fifteen,

I became a resident in a country village,

More than a hundred miles from home.

The morning after my arrival,

A September morning,

But warm and bright as any in July,

I rambled into a wood of oaks,

With a few walnut trees intermixed,

Forming the closest shade above my head.

The ground was rocky,

Uneven,

Overgrown with bushes and clumps of young saplings,

And traversed only by cattle paths.

The track,

Which I chanced to follow,

Led me to a crystal spring,

With a border of grass as freshly green as on May morning,

And overshadowed by the limb of a great oak.

One solitary sunbeam found its way down and played like a goldfish in the water.

From my childhood,

I have loved to gaze into a spring.

The water filled a circular basin,

Small but deep,

And set round with stones,

Some of which were covered with slimy moss,

The others naked and a variegated hue,

Reddish,

White,

And brown.

The bottom was covered with coarse sand,

Which sparkled in the lonely sunbeam,

And seemed to illuminate the spring with an unborrowed light.

In one spot,

The gush of water violently agitated the sand,

But without obscuring the fountain or breaking the glassiness of its surface.

It appeared as if some living creature were about to emerge,

The Nihid of the spring perhaps,

In the shape of a beautiful young woman with a gown of flimsy water moss,

A belt of rainbow drops,

And a cold,

Pure,

Passionless countenance.

How would the beholder shiver pleasantly,

Yet fearfully,

To see her sitting on one of the stones,

Paddling her white feet in the ripples,

And throwing up water to sparkle in the sun?

Wherever she laid her hands on grass and flowers,

They would immediately be moist,

As with morning dew.

Then would she set about her labors,

Like a careful housewife,

To clear the fountain of withered leaves and bits of slimy wood,

And old acorns from the oaks above,

And grains of corn left by cattle in drinking,

Till the bright sand in the bright water were like a treasury of diamonds.

But should the intruder approach too near,

He would find only the drops of a summer shower glistening about the spot where he had seen her.

Reclining on the border of grass,

Where the dewy goddess should have been,

I bent forward,

And a pair of eyes met mine within the watery mirror.

They were the reflection of my own.

I looked again,

And lo!

Another face,

Deeper in the fountain than my own image,

More distinct in all the features,

Yet faint as thought.

The vision had the aspect of a fair young girl,

With locks of paly gold.

A mirthful expression laughed in the eyes and dimpled over the whole shadowy countenance,

Till it seemed just what a fountain would be,

If,

While dancing merrily into the sunshine,

It should assume the shape of a woman.

Through the dim rosiness of the cheeks,

I could see the brown leaves,

The slimy twigs,

The acorns,

And the sparkling sand.

The solitary sunbeam was diffused among the golden hair,

Which melted into its faint brightness,

And became a glory round that head so beautiful.

My description can give no idea how suddenly the fountain was thus tenanted,

And how soon it was left desolate.

I breathed,

And there was the face.

I held my breath,

And it was gone.

Had it passed away,

Or faded into nothing?

I doubted whether it had ever been.

What a dreamy and delicious hour did I spend where that vision found and left me.

For a long time,

I sat perfectly still,

Waiting till it should reappear,

And fearful that the slightest motion or even the flutter of my breath might frighten it away.

Thus have I often started from a pleasant dream and then kept quiet in hopes to while it back.

Deep were my musings as to the race and attributes of that ethereal being.

Had I created her?

Was she the daughter of my fancy,

Akin to those strange shapes which peep under the lids of children's eyes?

And did her beauty gladden me for that one moment and then die?

Or was she a water nymph within the fountain,

Or fairy,

Or woodland goddess peeping over my shoulder,

Or the ghost of some forsaken maid who had drowned herself for love?

Or,

In good truth,

Had a lovely girl,

With a warm heart and lips that would bear pressure,

Stolen softly behind me and thrown her image into the spring?

I watched and waited,

But no vision came again.

I departed,

But with a spell upon me which drew me back that same afternoon to the haunted spring.

There was the water gushing,

The sand sparkling,

And the sunbeam glimmering.

There the vision was not but only a great frog,

The hermit of that solitude who immediately withdrew his speckled snout and made himself invisible,

All except a pair of long legs beneath a stone.

Thus did the vision leave me,

And many a doleful day succeeded to parting moment,

By the spring and in the wood and on the hill and through the village,

At dewy sunrise,

Burning noon,

And at that magic hour of sunset when she had vanished from my sight,

I sought her,

But in vain.

Weeks came and went,

Months rolled away,

And she appeared not in them.

I imparted my mystery to none,

But wandered to and fro or sat in solitude like one that had caught a glimpse of heaven and could take no more joy on earth.

I withdrew into an inner world where my thoughts lived and breathed and the vision in the midst of them.

Without intending it,

I became at once the author and hero of a romance,

Conjuring up rivals,

Imagining events,

The actions of others and my own,

And experiencing every change of passion till jealousy and despair had their end in bliss.

Oh,

Had I the burning fancy of my early youth,

With manhood's colder gift,

The power of expression.

In the middle of January,

I was summoned home.

The day before my departure,

Visiting the spots which had been hallowed by the vision,

I found that the spring had a frozen bosom and nothing but the snow and a glare of winter sunshine on the hill of the rainbow.

Let me hope,

Thought I,

Or my heart will be as icy as the fountain and the whole world as desolate as the snowy hill.

Most of the day was spent in preparing for the journey,

Which was to commence at four o'clock the next morning.

About an hour after supper,

When all was in readiness,

I descended from my chamber to the sitting room to take leave of the old clergyman and his family,

With whom I had been an inmate.

A gust of wind blew out my lamp as I passed through the entry.

According to their invariable custom,

So pleasant a one when the fire blazes cheerfully,

The family were sitting in the parlor with no other light than what came from the hearth.

As the good clergyman's scanty stipend compelled him to use all sorts of economy,

The foundation of his fires was always a large heap of tan or ground bark which would smolder away from morning till night with a dull warmth and no flame.

This evening the heap of tan was newly put on and surmounted with three sticks of red oak full of moisture and a few pieces of dry pine that had not yet kindled.

There was no light except the little that came sullenly from two half-burned brands without even glimmering on the andirons.

But I knew the position of the old minister's armchair and also where his wife sat with her knitting work and how to avoid his two daughters,

One a stout country lass and the other a consumptive girl.

Groping through the gloom I found my own place next to that of the son,

A learned collegian who had come home to keep school in the village during the winter vacation.

I noticed that there was less room than usual tonight between the collegian's chair and mine.

As people are always taciturn in the dark,

Not a word was said for some time after my entrance.

Nothing broke the stillness but the regular click of the matron's knitting at times the fire threw out a brief and dusky gleam which twinkled on the old man's glasses and hovered doubtfully around our circle but was far too faint to portray the individuals who composed it.

Were we not like ghosts?

Dreamy as the scene was,

Might it not be a type of the mode in which departed people who had known and loved each other here would hold communion in eternity?

We were aware of each other's presence,

Not by sight nor sound nor touch but by an inward consciousness.

Would it not be so among the dead?

The silence was interrupted by the consumptive daughter addressing a remark to someone in the circle whom she called Rachel.

Her tremulous and decayed accents were answered by a single word,

But in a voice that made me start and bend towards the spot once it had proceeded.

Had I ever heard that sweet low tone?

If not,

Why did it rouse up so many old recollections or mockeries of such,

The shadows of things familiar yet unknown,

And fill my mind with confused images of her features,

Who had spoken though buried in the gloom of the parlor,

Whom had my heart recognized that it throbbed so?

I listened to catch her gentle breathing and strove by the intensity of my gaze to picture forth a shape where none was visible.

Suddenly,

The dry pine caught,

The fire blazed up with a ruddy glow,

And where the darkness had been,

There was she,

The vision of the fountain.

A spirit of radiance only,

She had vanished with the rainbow and appeared again in the firelight,

Perhaps to flicker with the blaze,

And be gone.

Yet her cheek was rosy and lifelike,

And her features in the bright warmth of the room were even sweeter and tenderer than my recollection of them.

She knew me,

The mirthful expression that had laughed in her eyes and dimpled over her countenance when I beheld her faint beauty in the fountain was laughing and dimpling there now.

One moment our glance mingled,

The next down rolled the heap of tan upon the kindled wood,

And darkness snatched away that daughter of the light and gave her back to me no more.