by Mary Howitt.
Originally published in Howitt's Journal (William Lovett) vol.1 #22 (29 May 1847).
Part I.
A great many turtle-doves lived about Mount Carmel. There were orange trees and cypresses there, and among these the doves lived all the winter; they had broods early in the year, and towards the end of March, or beginning of April, they set off like great gentlefolks to spend "the season" near London. All last winter a young English musician, who was very pale and thin, lived with the monks in the monastery on Mount Carmel. He went to Syria because, as a child, he had loved so to hear his mother read in the Bible; she often read to him about Elijah and Elisha on Mount Carmel, and he used to think then, that if ever he were rich, he would go and see all the wonderful places mentioned in the Bible. He never was rich, and yet he came here. He was very pale and thin, and had large beautiful but sorrowful eyes. He took a violin with him to Mount Carmel; it was the greatest treasure he had on earth. He played the most wonderful things on his violin that ever were heard, and every body who heard him said that he was a great musician. In the winters he suffered very much from the cold and the fogs of England; so last summer he saved a little money, and set off with his violin to Syria; and all last winter he lived in the monastery on Mount Carmel, among the grave old monks. There was one little old monk, a very, very old man, who soon grew very fond of him; he too had been a musician, but he was now almost childish, and had forgotten how to play; so the monks took from him his old violin, because they said he made such a noise with it. He cried to part with it like a child, poor old man!
The young musician had a little chamber in the monastery, which overlooked the sea; nobody can think what a beautiful view it had! The sun shone in so warm and pleasant, and a little group of cypresses grew just below the window. The young man often and often stood at the window, and looked out on the sea, and down into the cypress trees, among the thick branches of which he heard the turtle-doves cooing. He loved to hear those turtle-doves—and so did the little old monk. One day early in January he saw that the turtle-doves had built a nest just in sight; he watched the birds taking it by turns to sit on the eggs, and his heart was full of love to them; they turned up their gentle eyes to him, but they never flew away, for they saw in his mild and sorrowful countenance, that he would not hurt them.
Beautiful and melancholy music sounded for half the day down from his window to where the birds sate; it had a strange charm to the doves; they thought it was some grand, new kind of nightingale come down from heaven. The little old monk sate in his long Carmelite frock, with his hands laid together on his knees, and his head down on his breast, and listened with his whole soul; to him too it came as a voice of heaven, which seemed to call him away to a better land; great tears often fell from his eyes, but they were not sorrowful tears; they were tears of love, tears which were called forth by a feeling of some great happiness which was coming for him, but which he could not quite understand; he was, as you know, a very old man; the oldest in all the monastery, and almost childish.
The music from the young man's room sounded finer and finer every day; as early spring came on he grew very poorly; the little old monk used to bring him his meals into his chamber, because it tired him so to go up and down the long stone staircase to the great eating-room. There never was anybody so kind as the little old monk.
A pair of young doves were hatched in the nest, and when the sun shone in: at the window, the young man used to sit in his dressing-gown, with a pillow in his chair, and look out over the sea, and down into the cypress-tree where the turtle-doves' nest was; he would sit for hours and look at them, and many beautiful thoughts passed through his mind as he did so. Never had his heart been so full of love as now: the little old monk used to sit on a low seat before him, waiting for the time when he asked for his violin; that was a great happiness to them both. The musician loved him very much, and often when he played, he meant to pour bright and comfortable thoughts into his innocent, affectionate soul.
It was the end of March; the turtle-doves were all preparing for their flight to England; the pair that had built under the musician's window had a home in some old quiet woods in Surrey, where it was delightfully mild and pleasant even in winter; but they never were there in winter, although their wood had the name of Winterdown. It was a lovely wood: broad-leaved arums, and primroses, and violets blue and white, covered the ground in spring; in summer there were hundreds and hundreds of glow-worms there, and the old tree-trunks were wreathed with ivy and honeysuckle. It was a very pleasant wood, and near to it the poet's children were born; they had wandered in it and gathered its flowers and admired its glow-worms and listened to the turtle-doves when they were very young; now, however, their home was nearer London; they only went to Winterdown about once a year for a great holiday. The old turtle-doves talked about the poet's children in Winterdown, and the young doves fancied that they lived there always.
It was now the time for them to set off on their long journey; the old pairs had exercised their young ones, and they were sure they could perform the journey. Next morning early they were to set off.
All night there was a light burning in the young musician's chamber, and towards morning the most heavenly music sounded from the window, which the old monk had opened a very little for fresh air, because his young friend complained of the room being close and hot. The sound woke the doves; they sate and listened to what they still thought a glorious bird: the old monk sate with his feeble hands together and head raised; it was the first time for years that he had ever sate so; the young man played; a heavenly joy was in his soul; he knew not whether he was in heaven or on earth; all his pain was gone. It was a blissful moment; the next moment and all was still in the chamber—wonderfully still. The lamp still burned; a soft breeze blew in from the half-opened window, and just stirred the old man's Carmelite frock, and lifted the young man's dark locks, but they neither of them moved.
"That glorious bird has done his singing for this morning," said the old doves; "he will now sleep—let us set off; all our friends and neighbours are off already; we have a long journey before us." The parent doves spread their wings; they and their elder one were away; the younger sate as if entranced in the nest; he could think of nothing but the glorious bird that had just been singing; his family wheeled round the cypresses and then returned for him; they bade him come, for it was late; that the sun was rising above the sea, and that all the doves of Carmel were ready for flight. The younger dove spread his wings also for this long journey, bearing with him still the remembrance of that thrilling music which affected him so greatly.
The turtle-doves were forth on their long journey. The young musician and the little old monk had started before them on one much longer.
Part II.
It was the end of March; the poet's garden was beginning to be beautiful; the daffodils were out in great bunches; the polyanthuses stood on their round green cluster of leaves like bright-headed pins on a lady's pincushion; the jonquils had burst their dry delicate spathes and were ready to open their lovely fragrant cups to the sun; the hyacinths were just bursting forth also, whilst upon the old wall shone out like radiant gems the intense scarlet flowers of the pyrus-japonica; the air was fragrant with violets, and the lilacs and westeria were beginning to show their profuse wealth of flowers; the little clustered buds on the tops of the elm-trees looked in the sunshine as if cut out of coral; the roses were full of young shoots, some green and some red; and the peony pierced the mould with its dark crimson leaves folded up, as yet, like so many blunt-headed spears. The old blackbird had a mate, and he was singing to her with all his might; the rooks had forgotten all their winter troubles, and were now busy building and quarrelling. It was a true spring morning, and the poet's children walked hand in hand up and down the garden laying out great plans for the future of this summer.
Just then, the weary turtle-doves of Carmel had reached England; the flock that had set out at first had all come safely; they now, however, were very weary and hungry; the young turtle that loved the music so much was the weakest and most wearied of all the flock. "We have not far to go," said the mother, as it lagged behind and seemed ready to faint; "in an hour we shall be at Winterdown;" the little turtle grew fainter and fainter; just then they passed over the poet's garden, where the poet's children were walking. "There they are," said the mother, ‘the poet's children with their loving eyes and their golden hair; we shall be at Winterdown in less than an hour, follow me!"
The weary camel in the desert when it perceives water afar off, although faint and ready to sink the moment before, bounds forward in hope and joy for the promised relief—so was it with the flock of doves; soaring above the outskirts of London, they saw in the distance the old favourite woods of Surrey, towards which they winged their way with impatient delight.
The weary young turtle sank down among the rose-trees, and heard the voices of the children as they went by. In the evening, they saw what they thought a white pigeon on a young pear-tree; they were so pleased that they even dreamed about it. Next day, the young turtle was still there; so hungry and frightened, and feeling so forlorn and friendiess. The children again saw it; this made them happier still; it must be come to live with them; they stole up softly to the tree where it sat, and the little trembling bird allowed itself to be caught. They rushed into the house; they had caught, they said, the white pigeon that was so beautiful, and yet so unlike their own old ones. "It shall live with us; it shall love us; it shall have a mate and be so happy," said the children.
For the first time since it had left Carmel it had now plenty to eat. It put its head behind its wings and slept calmly for hours.
The poor little turtle-dove, however, was unhappy though no one knew it; it looked out of the bars of its large cage, and longed for the freedom of Mount Carmel and the long talked of breezy heights of Winterdown. It could not understand the nature of the wicker bars which inclosed it. It thought of free fight in the blue heavens, and fluttered from side to side of its cage.
The little turtle-dove was sick at heart: it wanted it knew not what; but a something which was beyond its reach. It understood not the loving eyes of the children; it wanted space, freedom, and companionship, but not in a cage!
The next day was Sunday. The turtle's cage stood in a boudoir; it looked beautiful in the window among the flowering camellias. Before it stood an alabaster vase; the picture of a young lovely girl looked down, as if from the wall, in tenderness upon it; books were there behind gilded wire-work; all was bright and beautiful. This little boudoir opened into the drawing-room, where a youth was playing some grand sacred music: the dove flew from side to side of the cage; somebody heard him, and said the poor bird wants to get out, he sees the daylight through the window; so they put down the Venetian blind, and a soft green gloom, as of a wood in sunshine, filled the room. The youth continued to play, and the poet's children came in to listen also; nobody but them thought more of the dove. "The dove does not like it," said they to each other, for the dove was more to them than the music; "it distresses him; it is no use telling them not to play; but oh! how unhappy he is! Let us take him and hang him in our room; it is so quiet there."
They hung his cage in their pretty room; called him the sweetest names they could think of, and went down to listen to the beautiful music. But they could not forget the dove. In less than an hour they stole up stairs: the room was dusk, and the bird was calm and still; they thought he slept; and they closed the door softly, lest they should wake him. The next time they looked at him he was just in the same place: they mounted on a chair, peeped into the cage, and then they knew the truth. His little life, like that of the young musician and the old monk of Carmel, had passed away on the spiritual wings of harmony.
Life is a strange riddle; and all that I have told you of the little turtle-dove is quite true.