Dreamland

by Julie M. Lippmann

NINA'S CHRISTMAS GIFTS.

Hark! What was that?

Nina stood still in the wintry blast and listened. The wind rushed upon her wildly, and dragged her tattered skirt this way and that, and fleered at her, and whistled at her; and when she paid not the slightest attention to his cruel treatment of her, fled tumultuously down the street.

It was a wretched, shivering little figure that he left behind him,—a small girl, with coal-black hair escaping from the folds of a bright kerchief that was tied about it; with immense dark eyes, that seemed to light up her poor, pinched face and make it beautiful; with tattered dress and torn shoes, and with something clutched tightly beneath her arm,—something that she tried unsuccessfully to shield from the weather beneath her wretched rag of a shawl, that was so insufficient to shield even her. She was listening intently to the sounds of an organ that came pealing forth into the dusk from within the enormous church before whose doors she was standing.

Louder, fuller swelled the majestic cords, and then—Nina strained her ears to listen—and then the sweetest, tenderest voice imaginable seemed to be singing to her of all the most beautiful things of which she had ever dreamed. It drew her toward it by the influence of its plaintiveness; and first one step and then another she took in its direction until she was within the huge doors, and found herself standing upon a white marble floor, with wonderful paintings on the lofty ceiling above her head, and a sense of delicious warmth all about her. But, alas! where was the singer? The thrilling notes were still falling upon her ear with caressing sweetness; but they seemed to come from beyond,—from far beyond.

Before her she saw more doors. Perhaps if she slipped through these she might come in sight of the owner of the voice.

"It is the Santa Maria," murmured Nina to her heart. "And she is singing to the Bambinetto,—to the Santissimo Bambino. Ah, yes, it must be the Santa Maria, for who else could have a voice like that,—so sweet and soft, yet so heavenly clear and pure?"

No one she had ever heard could sing like that. Not Luisa who sang for pennies on the street, nor Guilia, nor Edwiga, nor yet Filomena herself, who was so proud of her voice and who carolled lustily all day long. No, no, it must be the Santa Maria.

Telemacho (Telemacho was a neighbor who played upon the harp and sometimes let Nina go with him on his tramps, to sing and play upon her fiddle, but oftener forced her to go alone,—they earned more so, he said) had often told her about the Santa Maria and the Gesù Bambino. Oh, it was a beautiful story, and—ah! ah! of course it was the Santa Maria. Was not this the Festa del Gesù Bambino? To be sure, it was, and she had forgotten. No wonder the Santa Maria was singing to the Bambinetto. To-morrow would be his birthday, his festa.

She would go to the blessed Madre and say,—

"Ah, Madre mia, I heard thee singing to the Bambino, and it was so sweet, so sweet, I could not help but follow, I love it so."

She stepped softly to the heavy doors, and with her whole weight bracing against one, pushed it softly open and passed through. Ah! but it was beautiful here.

Far, far above her head shone out dimly a hundred sparks of light like twinkling stars. And everywhere hung garlands of green, sweet-smelling garlands of green, that filled the place with their spicy fragrance. And no one need grow weary here for lack of resting-place. Why, it was quite filled with seats, soft-cushioned and comfortable. Nina stole into one of the pews and sat down. She was very tired,—very, very tired.

From her dim corner she peeped forth timidly, scarcely daring to raise her eyes lest the vision of the radiant Madonna should burst upon her view all too suddenly. But when at last she really gazed aloft to the point from which the tremulous voice sprung, no glorified figure met her view. She still heard the melting, thrilling tones, but, alas! the blessed singer—the Santa Maria—was invisible. All she could distinguish in the half-gloom of the place was the form of a man seated in the lofty gallery overhead. He was sitting before some kind of instrument, and his fingers slipping over the keys were bringing forth the most wonderful sounds. Ah, yes! Nina knew what music one could make with one's fingers. Did not Telemacho play upon the harp? Did not she herself accompany her own singing upon her fiddle,—her darling fiddle, which she clasped lovingly beneath her arm and bravely tried to shield from the weather? But surely, surely he could not be playing that voice! Oh, no! it was the Santa Maria, and she was up in heaven out of sight. It was only the sound of her singing that had come to earth. Poor little Nina! She was so often disappointed that it was not very hard to miss another joy. She must comfort herself by finding a reason for it. If there was a reason, it was not so hard. Nina had to think of a great many reasons. But nevertheless she could not control one little sigh of regret. She would so much have liked to see the Santa Maria. If she had seen her, she thought she would have asked her to give her a Christmas gift,—something she could always keep, something that no one could take from her and that would never spoil nor break. One had need of just such an indestructible possession if one lived in the "Italian Quarter." Things got sadly broken there. And—and—there were so few, so very few gifts. But it was warm and dim and sweet in here,—a right good place in which to rest when one was tired. She bent her head and leaned it against the wooden back of the seat, and her eyes wandered first to one interesting object and then to another,—to the tall windows, each of which was a most beautiful picture, and all made of wonderfully colored glass; to the frescoed walls garlanded with green and at last to the organ-loft itself, in which was the solitary figure of the musician, seated before that strange, many-keyed instrument of his, practising his Christmas music.

He had lit the gas-jets at either side of the key-board, and they threw quite a light upon him as he played, and upon the huge organ-pipes above his head. Nina thought she had never seen anything as beautiful as were their illuminated surfaces. She did not know what they were, but that did not matter. She thought they looked very much like exceedingly pointed slippers set upright upon their toes. She fancied they were slippers belonging to the glorious angels who, Telemacho said, always came to earth at Christmas-tide to sing heavenly anthems for the Festa del Gesù Bambino, and to distribute blessings to those who were worthy.

Perhaps they had trod upon the ice outside, and had wet the soles of their slippers, so that they had been forced to set them up on end to dry. She had no doubt they would be gone in the morning.

The tremulous voice had ceased some time ago, and now the organ was sending forth deep, heavy chords that made the air thrill and vibrate. The pew in which Nina sat quite shook with the sounds, and she shrank away from the wooden back, and cuddled down upon the cushion in the seat, feeling very mysterious and awestruck, but withal quite warm and happily expectant.

"Ah, ah!" she thought, "they are coming,—the angels are coming. That is why the seat trembles so. There are so many of them that though they step very lightly it shakes the ground. He, up there, is playing their march music for them. Oh, I know! I know! I have seen the soldiers in the streets; and when they came one could feel the ground tremble, and they had music, too,—they kept step to it. I 'll lie very still and not move, and maybe I can even get a glimpse of the Gesù Bambino himself, and if I should—ah! if I should, then I know I 'd never be tired nor cold nor sad-hearted any more."

Nina started suddenly to her feet. The place was filled with a soft, white radiance. Faintly, as though from a distance, came the sounds of delicious music, and a rare fragrance was in all the air. What was it? Oh, what was it? She felt her heart beat louder and faster, and she thought she must cry out for very pain of its throbbing. But she made no sound, only waited and watched in breathless wonder and anticipation.

The light about her grew clearer and more lustrous; the faint strains of melody more glorious, and the perfumed air sweeter still; and lo! the whole place was thronged with white-winged spirits, clad all in garments so pure and spotless that they glistered at every turn. Each seemed to have in charge some precious treasure which she clasped lovingly to her breast, and all were so beautiful and tender-eyed that Nina could not be afraid. The dazzling forms flitted to and fro like filmy clouds; and as one passed very near her, Nina stretched out her hand to grasp her floating robe. But though she scarcely touched it, it was enough to make the delicate fabric sag and droop as if some strange weight had suddenly been attached to it. Its wearer paused in her flight, and glanced down at her garment anxiously, and then for an instant appeared to be trying to remember something. In her eyes there grew a troubled look, but she shook her head and murmured,—

"Alas! What have I done? What can I have done? I can think of no way in which I have let the world touch me, and yet I must have, for my robe is weighted, and—" But here she suddenly espied Nina.

"Ah!" she cried, her deep eyes clearing, "it was you, then, little mortal. For a moment I was struck with fear. You see if a bit of the world attaches to our garments it makes them heavy and weighs them down, and it is a long time ere they regain their lightness. Such a mishap seldom occurs, for generally we are only too glad to keep our minds on perfect things. But once in a long, long while we may give a thought to earth, and then it always hangs upon us like a clog; and if we did not immediately try to shake it off, we should soon be quite unable to rid ourselves of it, and it would grow and grow, and by and by we should have lost the power to rise above the earth, and should have to be poor worldlings like the rest; and, on the other hand, if the worldlings would only throw off all the earth-thoughts that weigh them down, they would become lighter and more spotless, and at last be one of us. But if it was you who touched my robe and if I can help you, I am not afraid. What do you wish, little one?"

For a moment Nina could find no voice in which to reply; but by and by she gained courage to falter out,—

"I came in here because I heard most beautiful music, and I thought it might be the Santa Maria singing to the Bambinetto, since it is his birthday—or will be to-morrow; and I thought—I did not mean to do wrong, but I thought maybe if I could see the Gesù Santissimo once, only once, I should never be tired nor cold nor sad-hearted any more. They say on the Festa del Gesù Bambino one gets most beautiful gifts. I have never got any gifts; but perhaps he might give me one if I promised to be very good and to take most excellent care of it and never to lose it."

By this time the whole company of spirits, seeing their sister in conversation with a little mortal, had crowded eagerly about; and as Nina finished her sentence they all cried out in the sweetest, most musical chorus imaginable,—

"She wants a gift,—the earth-child wants a gift; and she promises to be very good, and to take excellent care of it and never lose it. The little one shall have a gift."

But most gently they were silenced by a nod from the spirit to whom
Nina had first spoken.

"Dear child," she said, "we are the Christmas spirits,—Peace, Love, Hope, Good-will, and all the rest. We come from above, and we are laden with good gifts for mankind. To whomever is willing to receive we give; but, alas! so few care for what we bring. They misuse it or lose it; and that makes us very sad, for each gift we carry is most good and perfect."

"Oh! how can they?" cried Nina. "I would be so careful of mine, dear spirits. I would lock it away, and—"

But here the spirit interrupted her with a pitying smile and the words,—

"But you should never do that, dear one. If one shuts away one's gifts and does not let others profit by them, that is ill too. One must make the best of them, share them with the world always, and remember whence they come."

"Will you show me some of your gifts?" asked Nina, timidly.

The spirit drew nearer and took from her bosom a glittering gem. It was clear and flawless, and though it was white a thousand sparks of flame broke from its heart, and flashed their different hues to every side. As Nina looked, wrapped in admiration, she felt her heart grow big, and she felt a great longing to do some one a kindness,—to do good to some one, no matter to whom.

The spirits gazed at her kindling eyes.

"There!" they cried in joyous unison, "Love has already given you her gift. The way you must use it is always to put in everything you do. It will never grow less, but will always grow more if you do as we say. And it is the same with Hope and Peace and Good-will and all the rest. If all to whom we give our gifts should use them aright, the world would hold a festival all the year."

And at this all the blessed throng closed about her, and loaded her down with their offerings, until she was quite overcome with gratitude and emotion.

"All we ask is that you use them well," they repeated with one accord. "Let nothing injure them, for some day you will be called to account for them all, you know. And now you are to have a special gift,—one by which you can gain world-praise and world-glory. And oh! be careful of it, dear; it will gain for you great good if you do not abuse it, and you need never be tired nor cold nor sad-hearted any more—"

"But I have no place to keep all these things," cried Nina. "I have no home. I live anywhere. I am only a poor little Italian singing-girl. I—"

"Keep them in your heart," answered the spirits, softly; and then one of them bent over and kissed her upon the lips.

"Ah, gracia, gracia,—thanks, thanks!" she cried; but even as she spoke she sank back in dismay, for everything about her was dark and still, and for a moment she did not know where she was. Then groping blindly about in the shadow, she felt the wooden back of the pew in which she sat, and then she remembered.

But the gifts,—the spirits' Christmas gifts to her. Where were they? For a long time she searched, stretching out her hand and passing it over cushion, bench, and floor; but all in vain. No heavenly object met her grasp, and at last she gave a poor little moan of disappointment and sorrow,—

"It was only a dream after all,—only a dream."

But now through the tall windows stole a faint streak of light. It grew ever stronger, and by its aid Nina made her way to the doors, in order to escape from the church in which she had slept away the night. But alas! they were closed and fastened tight. She could not get out. She wandered to and fro through the silent aisles, growing quite familiar with the dusky place and feeling not at all afraid. She thought over her dream, and recalled the fact that it was Christmas Day,—the Festa del Gesù Bambino.

"It was a dream," she mused; "but it was a beautiful one! Perhaps the spirits gave it to me for my Christmas gift. Perhaps the Gesù bade them give it me for my Christmas gift;" and just as a glorious burst of sunshine struck through the illuminated windows, she took up her little fiddle, raised her bow and her voice at the same time, and sang out in worshipful gratitude,—

"Mira, cuor mio durissimo,
Il bel Bambin Gesù,
Che in quel presepe asprissimo,
Or lo fai nascer tu!"

She did not hear a distant door open, nor did she see through it the man who had unconsciously lured her into the church the evening before by the power of his playing. No; she was conscious of nothing but her singing and the sweet, long notes she was drawing with her bow from the strings of her beloved violin.

But she did hear, after she had finished, a low exclamation, and then she did see that same man hastening toward her with outstretched hands.

"Child, child," he cried, "how came you here! And such a voice! such a voice! Why, it is a gift from Heaven!"

And amid all the excitement that followed,—the excitement of telling who she was and hearing that she was to be taken care of and given a home and trained to sing,—that, in fact, she was never to be tired nor cold nor sad-hearted any more,—she had time to think,—

"Ah! now I know. It was not a dream; it was the truth. I have all my gifts in my heart for safe keeping. And my voice—hear! the player-man says it is a gift from Heaven. And oh, I will always use it with love and good-will, as the spirits bade me. They said it every one did so it would be a festa all the year."