THE SNOW IMAGE(雪景)

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THE SNOW IMAGE

by Hawthorne

THE SNOW IMAGE

A CHILDISH MIRACLE

One afternoon of a cold winter's day, when the sun shone forth with

chilly brightness, after a long storm, two children asked leave of their

mother to run out and play in the new-fallen snow. The elder child was a

little girl, whom, because she was of a tender and modest disposition, and

was thought to be very beautiful, her parents, and other people who were

familiar with her, used to call Violet. But her brother was known by the

style and title of Peony, on account of the ruddiness of his broad and round

little phiz, which made everybody think of sunshine and great scarlet

flowers. The father of these two children, a certain Mr. Lindsey, it is

important to say, was an excellent but exceedingly matter-of-fact sort of

man, a dealer in hardware, and was sturdily accustomed to take what is

called the common-sense view of all matters that came under his

consideration. With a heart about as tender as other people's, he had a head

as hard and impenetrable, and therefore, perhaps, as empty, as one of the

iron pots which it was a part of his business to sell. The mother's character,

on the other hand, had a strain of poetry in it, a trait of unworldly beauty,--

a delicate and dewy flower, as it were, that had survived out of her

imaginative youth, and still kept itself alive amid the dusty realities of

matrimony and motherhood.

So, Violet and Peony, as I began with saying, besought their mother to

let them run out and play in the new snow; for, though it had looked so

dreary and dismal, drifting downward out of the gray sky, it had a very

cheerful aspect, now that the sun was shining on it. The children dwelt in a

city, and had no wider play-place than a little garden before the house,

divided by a white fence from the street, and with a pear-tree and two or

three plum-trees overshadowing it, and some rose-bushes just in front of

the parlor-windows. The trees and shrubs, however, were now leafless,

and their twigs were enveloped in the light snow, which thus made a kind

of wintry foliage, with here and there a pendent icicle for the fruit.

"Yes, Violet,--yes, my little Peony," said their kind mother, "you may

go out and play in the new snow."

Accordingly, the good lady bundled up her darlings in woollen jackets

THE SNOW IMAGE

and wadded sacks, and put comforters round their necks, and a pair of

striped gaiters on each little pair of legs, and worsted mittens on their

hands, and gave them a kiss apiece, by way of a spell to keep away Jack

Frost. Forth sallied the two children, with a hop-skip-and-jump, that

carried them at once into the very heart of a huge snow-drift, whence

Violet emerged like a snow-bunting, while little Peony floundered out with

his round face in full bloom. Then what a merry time had they! To look at

them, frolicking in the wintry garden, you would have thought that the

dark and pitiless storm had been sent for no other purpose but to provide a

new plaything for Violet and Peony; and that they themselves had beer

created, as the snow-birds were, to take delight only in the tempest, and in

the white mantle which it spread over the earth.

At last, when they had frosted one another all over with handfuls of

snow, Violet, after laughing heartily at little Peony's figure, was struck

with a new idea.

"You look exactly like a snow-image, Peony," said she, "if your cheeks

were not so red. And that puts me in mind! Let us make an image out of

snow,--an image of a little girl,--and it shall be our sister, and shall run

about and play with us all winter long. Won't it be nice?"

"Oh yes!" cried Peony, as plainly as he could speak, for he was but a

little boy. "That will be nice! And mamma shall see it!"

"Yes," answered Violet; "mamma shall see the new little girl. But she

must not make her come into the warm parlor; for, you know, our little

snow-sister will not love the warmth."

And forthwith the children began this great business of making a

snow-image that should run about; while their mother, who was sitting at

the window and overheard some of their talk, could not help smiling at the

gravity with which they set about it. They really seemed to imagine that

there would be no difficulty whatever in creating a live little girl out of the

snow. And, to say the truth, if miracles are ever to be wrought, it will be by

putting our hands to the work in precisely such a simple and undoubting

frame of mind as that in which Violet and Peony now undertook to

perform one, without so much as knowing that it was a miracle. So

thought the mother; and thought, likewise, that the new snow, just fallen

THE SNOW IMAGE

from heaven, would be excellent material to make new beings of, if it

were not so very cold. She gazed at the children a moment longer,

delighting to watch their little figures,--the girl, tall for her age, graceful

and agile, and so delicately colored that she looked like a cheerful thought

more than a physical reality; while Peony expanded in breadth rather than

height, and rolled along on his short and sturdy legs as substantial as an

elephant, though not quite so big. Then the mother resumed her work.

What it was I forget; but she was either trimming a silken bonnet for

Violet, or darning a pair of stockings for little Peony's short legs. Again,

however, and again, and yet other agains, she could not help turning her

head to the window to see how the children got on with their snow-image.

Indeed, it was an exceedingly pleasant sight, those bright little souls at

their task! Moreover, it was really wonderful to observe how knowingly

and skilfully they managed the matter. Violet assumed the chief direction,

and told Peony what to do, while, with her own delicate fingers, she

shaped out all the nicer parts of the snow-figure. It seemed, in fact, not so

much to be made by the children, as to grow up under their hands, while

they were playing and prattling about it. Their mother was quite surprised

at this; and the longer she looked, the more and more surprised she grew.

"What remarkable children mine are!" thought she, smiling with a

mother's pride; and, smiling at herself, too, for being so proud of them.

"What other children could have made anything so like a little girl's figure

out of snow at the first trial? Well; but now I must finish Peony's new

frock, for his grandfather is coming to-morrow, and I want the little fellow

to look handsome."

So she took up the frock, and was soon as busily at work again with

her needle as the two children with their snow-image. But still, as the

needle travelled hither and thither through the seams of the dress, the

mother made her toil light and happy by listening to the airy voices of

Violet and Peony. They kept talking to one another all the time, their

tongues being quite as active as their feet and hands. Except at intervals,

she could not distinctly hear what was said, but had merely a sweet

impression that they were in a most loving mood, and were enjoying

themselves highly, and that the business of making the snow-image went

THE SNOW IMAGE

prosperously on. Now and then, however, when Violet and Peony

happened to raise their voices, the words were as audible as if they had

been spoken in the very parlor where the mother sat. Oh how delightfully

those words echoed in her heart, even though they meant nothing so very

wise or wonderful, after all!

But you must know a mother listens with her heart much more than

with her ears; and thus she is often delighted with the trills of celestial

music, when other people can hear nothing of the kind.

"Peony, Peony!" cried Violet to her brother, who had gone to another

part of the garden, "bring me some of that fresh snow, Peony, from the

very farthest corner, where we have not been trampling. I want it to shape

our little snow-sister's bosom with. You know that part must be quite pure,

just as it came out of the sky!"

"Here it is, Violet!" answered Peony, in his bluff tone,--but a very

sweet tone, too,--as he came floundering through the half-trodden drifts.

"Here is the snow for her little bosom. O Violet, how beau-ti-ful she

begins to look!"

"Yes," said Violet, thoughtfully and quietly; "our snow-sister does look

very lovely. I did not quite know, Peony, that we could make such a sweet

little girl as this."

The mother, as she listened, thought how fit and delightful an incident

it would be, if fairies, or still better, if angel-children were to come from

paradise, and play invisibly with her own darlings, and help them to make

their snow-image, giving it the features of celestial babyhood! Violet and

Peony would not be aware of their immortal playmates,--only they would

see that the image grew very beautiful while they worked at it, and would

think that they themselves had done it all.

"My little girl and boy deserve such playmates, if mortal children ever

did!" said the mother to herself; and then she smiled again at her own

motherly pride.

Nevertheless, the idea seized upon her imagination; and, ever and anon,

she took a glimpse out of the window, half dreaming that she might see the

golden-haired children of paradise sporting with her own golden-haired

Violet and bright-cheeked Peony.

THE SNOW IMAGE

Now, for a few moments, there was a busy and earnest, but indistinct

hum of the two children's voices, as Violet and Peony wrought together

with one happy consent. Violet still seemed to be the guiding spirit, while

Peony acted rather as a laborer, and brought her the snow from far and

near. And yet the little urchin evidently had a proper understanding of the

matter, too!

"Peony, Peony!" cried Violet; for her brother was again at the other

side of the garden. "Bring me those light wreaths of snow that have rested

on the lower branches of the pear-tree. You can clamber on the snowdrift,

Peony, and reach them easily. I must have them to make some ringlets for

our snow-sister's head!"

"Here they are, Violet!" answered the little boy. "Take care you do not

break them. Well done! Well done! How pretty!"

"Does she not look sweetly?" said Violet, with a very satisfied tone;

"and now we must have some little shining bits of ice, to make the

brightness of her eyes. She is not finished yet. Mamma will see how very

beautiful she is; but papa will say, 'Tush! nonsense!--come in out of the

cold!' "

"Let us call mamma to look out," said Peony; and then he shouted

lustily, "Mamma! mamma!! mamma!!! Look out, and see what a nice 'ittle

girl we are making!"

The mother put down her work for an instant, and looked out of the

window. But it so happened that the sun--for this was one of the shortest

days of the whole year--had sunken so nearly to the edge of the world that

his setting shine came obliquely into the lady's eyes. So she was dazzled,

you must understand, and could not very distinctly observe what was in

the garden. Still, however, through all that bright, blinding dazzle of the

sun and the new snow, she beheld a small white figure in the garden, that

seemed to have a wonderful deal of human likeness about it. And she saw

Violet and Peony,--indeed, she looked more at them than at the image,--

she saw the two children still at work; Peony bringing fresh snow, and

Violet applying it to the figure as scientifically as a sculptor adds clay to

his model. Indistinctly as she discerned the snow-child, the mother thought

to herself that never before was there a snow-figure so cunningly made,

THE SNOW IMAGE

nor ever such a dear little girl and boy to make it.

"They do everything better than other children," said she, very

complacently. "No wonder they make better snow-images!"

She sat down again to her work, and made as much haste with it as

possible; because twilight would soon come, and Peony's frock was not

yet finished, and grandfather was expected, by railroad, pretty early in the

morning. Faster and faster, therefore, went her flying fingers. The children,

likewise, kept busily at work in the garden, and still the mother listened,

whenever she could catch a word. She was amused to observe how their

little imaginations had got mixed up with what they were doing, and

carried away by it. They seemed positively to think that the snow-child

would run about and play with them.

"What a nice playmate she will be for us, all winter long!" said Violet.

"I hope papa will not be afraid of her giving us a cold! Sha'n't you love her

dearly, Peony?"

"Oh yes!" cried Peony. "And I will hug her, and she shall sit down

close by me and drink some of my warm milk!"

"Oh no, Peony!" answered Violet, with grave wisdom. "That will not

do at all. Warm milk will not be wholesome for our little snow-sister.

Little snow people, like her, eat nothing but icicles. No, no, Peony; we

must not give her anything warm to drink!"

There was a minute or two of silence; for Peony, whose short legs

were never weary, had gone on a pilgrimage again to the other side of the

garden. All of a sudden, Violet cried out, loudly and joyfully,--"Look here,

Peony! Come quickly! A light has been shining on her cheek out of that

rose-colored cloud! and the color does not go away! Is not that beautiful!"

"Yes; it is beau-ti-ful," answered Peony, pronouncing the three

syllables with deliberate accuracy. "O Violet, only look at her hair! It is all

like gold!"

"Oh certainly," said Violet, with tranquillity, as if it were very much a

matter of course. "That color, you know, comes from the golden clouds,

that we see up there in the sky. She is almost finished now. But her lips

must be made very red,--redder than her cheeks. Perhaps, Peony, it will

make them red if we both kiss them!"

THE SNOW IMAGE

Accordingly, the mother heard two smart little smacks, as if both her

children were kissing the snow-image on its frozen mouth. But, as this did

not seem to make the lips quite red enough, Violet next proposed that the

snow-child should be invited to kiss Peony's scarlet cheek.

"Come, 'ittle snow-sister, kiss me!" cried Peony.

"There! she has kissed you," added Violet, "and now her lips are very

red. And she blushed a little, too!"

"Oh, what a cold kiss!" cried Peony.

Just then, there came a breeze of the pure west-wind, sweeping

through the garden and rattling the parlor-windows. It sounded so wintry

cold, that the mother was about to tap on the window-pane with her

thimbled finger, to summon the two children in, when they both cried out

to her with one voice. The tone was not a tone of surprise, although they

were evidently a good deal excited; it appeared rather as if they were very

much rejoiced at some event that had now happened, but which they had

been looking for, and had reckoned upon all along.

"Mamma! mamma! We have finished our little snow-sister, and she is

running about the garden with us!"

"What imaginative little beings my children are!" thought the mother,

putting the last few stitches into Peony's frock. "And it is strange, too that

they make me almost as much a child as they themselves are! I can hardly

help believing, now, that the snow-image has really come to life!"

"Dear mamma!" cried Violet, "pray look out and see what a sweet

playmate we have!"

The mother, being thus entreated, could no longer delay to look forth

from the window. The sun was now gone out of the sky, leaving, however,

a rich inheritance of his brightness among those purple and golden clouds

which make the sunsets of winter so magnificent. But there was not the

slightest gleam or dazzle, either on the window or on the snow; so that the

good lady could look all over the garden, and see everything and

everybody in it. And what do you think she saw there? Violet and Peony,

of course, her own two darling children. Ah, but whom or what did she see

besides? Why, if you will believe me, there was a small figure of a girl,

dressed all in white, with rose-tinged cheeks and ringlets of golden hue,

THE SNOW IMAGE

playing about the garden with the two children! A stranger though she was,

the child seemed to be on as familiar terms with Violet and Peony, and

they with her, as if all the three had been playmates during the whole of

their little lives. The mother thought to herself that it must certainly be the

daughter of one of the neighbors, and that, seeing Violet and Peony in the

garden, the child had run across the street to play with them. So this kind

lady went to the door, intending to invite the little runaway into her

comfortable parlor; for, now that the sunshine was withdrawn, the

atmosphere, out of doors, was already growing very cold.

But, after opening the house-door, she stood an instant on the

threshold, hesitating whether she ought to ask the child to come in, or

whether she should even speak to her. Indeed, she almost doubted whether

it were a real child after all, or only a light wreath of the new-fallen snow,

blown hither and thither about the garden by the intensely cold west-wind.

There was certainly something very singular in the aspect of the little

stranger. Among all the children of the neighborhood, the lady could

remember no such face, with its pure white, and delicate rose-color, and

the golden ringlets tossing about the forehead and cheeks. And as for her

dress, which was entirely of white, and fluttering in the breeze, it was such

as no reasonable woman would put upon a little girl, when sending her out

to play, in the depth of winter. It made this kind and careful mother shiver

only to look at those small feet, with nothing in the world on them, except

a very thin pair of white slippers. Nevertheless, airily as she was clad, the

child seemed to feel not the slightest inconvenience from the cold, but

danced so lightly over the snow that the tips of her toes left hardly a print

in its surface; while Violet could but just keep pace with her, and Peony's

short legs compelled him to lag behind.

Once, in the course of their play, the strange child placed herself

between Violet and Peony, and taking a hand of each, skipped merrily

forward, and they along with her. Almost immediately, however, Peony

pulled away his little fist, and began to rub it as if the fingers were tingling

with cold; while Violet also released herself, though with less abruptness,

gravely remarking that it was better not to take hold of hands. The white-

robed damsel said not a word, but danced about, just as merrily as before.

THE SNOW IMAGE

If Violet and Peony did not choose to play with her, she could make just as

good a playmate of the brisk and cold west-wind, which kept blowing her

all about the garden, and took such liberties with her, that they seemed to

have been friends for a long time. All this while, the mother stood on the

threshold, wondering how a little girl could look so much like a flying

snow-drift, or how a snow-drift could look so very like a little girl.

She called Violet, and whispered to her.

"Violet my darling, what is this child's name?" asked she. "Does she

live near us?"

"Why, dearest mamma," answered Violet, laughing to think that her

mother did not comprehend so very plain an affair, "this is our little snow-

sister whom we have just been making!"

"Yes, dear mamma," cried Peony, running to his mother, and looking

up simply into her face. "This is our snow-image! Is it not a nice 'ittle

child?"

At this instant a flock of snow-birds came flitting through the air. As

was very natural, they avoided Violet and Peony. But--and this looked

strange--they flew at once to the white-robed child, fluttered eagerly about

her head, alighted on her shoulders, and seemed to claim her as an old

acquaintance. She, on her part, was evidently as glad to see these little

birds, old Winter's grandchildren, as they were to see her, and welcomed

them by holding out both her hands. Hereupon, they each and all tried to

alight on her two palms and ten small fingers and thumbs, crowding one

another off, with an immense fluttering of their tiny wings. One dear little

bird nestled tenderly in her bosom; another put its bill to her lips. They

were as joyous, all the while, and seemed as much in their element, as you

may have seen them when sporting with a snow-storm.

Violet and Peony stood laughing at this pretty sight; for they enjoyed

the merry time which their new playmate was having with these small-

winged visitants, almost as much as if they themselves took part in it.

"Violet," said her mother, greatly perplexed, "tell me the truth, without

any jest. Who is this little girl?"

"My darling mamma," answered Violet, looking seriously into her

mother's face, and apparently surprised that she should need any further

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THESNOWIMAGE1THESNOWIMAGEbyHawthorneTHESNOWIMAGE2ACHILDISHMIRACLEOneafternoonofacoldwinter'sday,whenthesunshoneforthwithchillybrightness,afteralongstorm,twochildrenaskedleaveoftheirmothertorunoutandplayinthenew-fallensnow.Theelderchildwasalittlegirl,whom,becauseshewasofatenderandmodestdisposition,an...

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