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GrinfilledCelt
Jeet Kun Do Kung Fu Master
Joined: 25 Mar 2006
Posts: 2681
Location: I wish I were in Ocqueoc.
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 Posted: Tue Nov 14, 2006 12:24 am Post subject: Tree and Leaf |
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This is a short story written by J. R. R. Tolkien to illustrate a paper he wrote called On Fairy Stories. The paper is very dry and unreadable, but this story has always been one of my favorites.
| Quote: | THERE was once a little man called Niggle, who had a
long journey to make. He did not want to go, indeed
the whole idea was distasteful to him; but he could not
get out of it. He knew he would have to start some time,
but he did not hurry with his preparations.
Niggle was a painter. Not a very successful one,
partly because he had many other things to do. Most of
these things he thought were a nuisance; but he did
them fairly well, when he could not get out of them:
which (in his opinion) was far too often. The laws in
his country were rather strict. There were other hindrances,
too. For one thing, he was sometimes just idle;
and did nothing at all. For another, he was kind-
hearted, in a way. You know the sort of kind heart: it
made him uncomfortable more often than it made him
do anything; and even when he did anything, it did not
prevent him from grumbling, losing his temper, and
swearing (mostly to himself). All the same, it did land
him in a good many odd jobs for his neighbour, Mr.
Parish, a man with a lame leg. Occasionally he even
helped other people from further off; if they came and
asked him to. Also, now and again, he remembered his
journey, and began to pack a few things in an ineffec-
tual way: at such times he did not paint very much.
He had a number of pictures on hand; most of them
were too large and ambitious for his skill. He was the
sort of painter who can paint leaves better than trees.
He used to spend a long time on a single leaf, trying to
catch its shape, and its sheen, and the glistening of dew-
drops on its edges. Yet he wanted to paint a whole tree,
with all of its leaves in the same style, and all of them
different.
There was one picture in particular which bothered
him. It had begun with a leaf caught in the wind, and
it became a tree; and the tree grew, sending out innu-
merable branches, and thrusting out the most fantas-
tic roots. Strange birds came and settled on the twigs
and had to be attended to. Then all round the Tree,
and behind it, through the gaps in the leaves and
boughs, a country began to open out; and there were
glimpses of a forest marching over the land, and of
mountains tipped with snow. Niggle lost interest in his
other pictures; or else he took them and tacked them
on to the edges of his great picture. Soon the canvas
became so large that he had to get a ladder; and he ran
up and down it, putting in a touch here, and rubbing
out a patch there. When people came to call, he
seemed polite enough, though he fiddled a little with
the pencils on his desk. He listened to what they said,
but underneath he was thinking all the time about his
big canvas, in the tall shed that had been built for it out
in his garden (on a plot where once he had grown pota-
toes).
He could not get rid of his kind heart. "I wish I was
more strong-minded!" he sometimes said to himself,
meaning that he wished other people's troubles did not
make him feel uncomfortable. But for a long time he
was not seriously perturbed. "At any rate, I shall get
this one picture done, my real picture, before I have to
go on that wretched journey," he used to say. Yet he
was beginning to see that he could not put off his start
indefinitely. The picture would have to stop just grow-
ing and get finished.
One day, Niggle stood a little way off from his pic-
ture and considered it with unusual attention and de-
tachment. He could not make up his mind what he
thought about it, and wished he had some friend who
would tell him what to think. Actually it seemed to
him wholly unsatisfactory, and yet very lovely, the only
really beautiful picture in the world. What he would
have liked at that moment would have been to see him-
self walk in, and slap him on the back, and say (with
obvious sincerity) : "Absolutely magnificent! I see ex-
actly what you are getting at. Do get on with it, and
don't bother about anything else! We will arrange for a
public pension, so that you need not."
However, there was no public pension. And one
thing he could see: it would need some concentration,
some work, hard uninterrupted work, to finish the pic-
ture, even at its present size. He rolled up his sleeves,
and began to concentrate. He tried for several days not
to bother about other things. But there came a tre-
mendous crop of interruptions. Things went wrong in
his house; he had to go and serve on a jury in the town;
a distant friend fell ill; Mr. Parish was laid up with lum-
bago; and visitors kept on coming. It was springtime,
and they wanted a free tea in the country: Niggle lived
in a pleasant little house, miles away from the town. He
cursed them in his heart, but he could not deny that he
had invited them himself, away back in the winter,
when he had not thought it an "interruption" to visit the
shops and have tea with acquaintances in the town. He
tried to harden his heart; but it was not a success.
There were many things that he had not the face to say
no to, whether he thought them duties or not; and
there were some things he was compelled to do, what-
ever he thought. Some of his visitors hinted that his
garden was rather neglected, and that he might get a
visit from an Inspector. Very few of them knew about
his picture, of course; but if they had known, it would
not have made much difference. I doubt if they would
have thought that it mattered much. I dare say it was
not really a very good picture, though it may have had
some good passages. The Tree, at any rate, was curious.
Quite unique in its way. So was Niggle; though he was
also a very ordinary and rather silly little man.
At length Niggle's time became really precious. His
acquaintances in the distant town began to remember
that the little man had got to make a troublesome jour-
ney, and some began to calculate how long at the latest
he could put off starting. They wondered who would
take his house, and if the garden would be better kept.
The autumn came, very wet and windy. The little painter
was in his shed. He was up on the ladder, trying to catch
the gleam of the weltering sun on the peak of a
snow-mountain, which he had glimpsed just to the
left of the leafy tip of one of the Tree's branches. He
knew that he would have to be leaving soon: perhaps
early next year. He could only just get the picture fin-
ished, and only so so, at that: there were some corners
where he would not have time now to do more than hint
at what he wanted. |
More?
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Songs for the flash frozen. |
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jjjynx
Jeet Kun Do Kung Fu Master
Joined: 25 Mar 2006
Posts: 1462
Location: Singapore
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| Posted: Thu Nov 16, 2006 2:31 am Post subject: |
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| Sure, I've read most of Tolkien's book on Middle Earth, I'm interested in his other works. |
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GrinfilledCelt
Jeet Kun Do Kung Fu Master
Joined: 25 Mar 2006
Posts: 2681
Location: I wish I were in Ocqueoc.
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| Posted: Thu Nov 16, 2006 3:02 am Post subject: |
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If you have read most of his Middle-Earth stuff, there isn't really a lot more and a lot of that isn't worth reading. There are a couple more short stories that are good though, Farmer Giles of Ham and The Smith of Woten Major come to mind.
Continuing:
| Quote: | There was a knock on the door. "Come in!" he said
sharply, and climbed down the ladder. He stood on the
floor twiddling his brush. It was his neighbour, Parish:
his only real neighbour, all other folk lived a long way
off. Still, he did not like the man very much: partly be-
cause he was so often in trouble and in need of help;
and also because he did not care about painting, but
was very critical about gardening. When Parish looked
at Niggle's garden (which was often) he saw mostly
weeds; and when he looked at Niggle's pictures (which
was seldom) he saw only green and grey patches and
black lines, which seemed to him nonsensical. He did
not mind mentioning the weeds (a neighbourly duty),
but he refrained from giving any opinion of the pic-
tures. He thought this was very kind, and he did not
realize that, even if it was kind, it was not kind enough.
Help with the weeds (and perhaps praise for the pic-
tures) would have been better.
"Well, Parish, what is it?" said Niggle.
"I oughtn't to interrupt you, I know," said Parish
(without a glance at the picture). "You are very busy,
I'm sure."
Niggle had meant to say something like that himself,
but he had missed his chance. All he said was: "Yes."
"But I have no one else to turn to," said Parish.
"Quite so," said Niggle with a sigh: one of those sighs
that are a private comment, but which are not made
quite inaudible. "What can I do for you?"
"My wife has been ill for some days, and I am getting
worried," said Parish. "And the wind has blown half
the tiles off my roof, and water is pouring into the bed-
room. I think I ought to get the doctor. And the build-
ers, too, only they take so long to come. I was wonder-
ing if you had any wood and canvas you could spare,
just to patch me up and see me through for a day or
two." Now he did look at the picture.
"Dear, dearl" said Niggle. "You are unlucky. I hope
it is no more than a cold that your wife has got. I'll
come round presently, and help you move the patient
downstairs.
"Thank you very much," said Parish, rather coolly.
"But it is not a cold, it is a fever. I should not have
bothered you for a cold. And my wife is in bed down-
stairs already. I can't get up and down with trays, not
with my leg. But I see you are busy. Sorry to have trou-
bled you. I had rather hoped you might have been able
to spare the time to go for the doctor, seeing how I'm
placed; and the builder too, if you really have no canvas
you can spare."
"Of course," said Niggle; though other words were in
his heart, which at the moment was merely soft without
feeling at all kind. "I could go. I'll go, if you are really
worried."
"I am worried, very worried. I wish I was not lame,"
said Parish.
So Niggle went. You see, it was awkward. Parish
was his neighbour, and everyone else a long way off.
Niggle had a bicycle, and Parish had not, and could not
ride one. Parish had a lame leg, a genuine lame leg
which gave him a good deal of pain: that had to be re-
membered, as well as his sour expression and whining
voice. Of course, Niggle had a picture and barely time
to finish it. But it seemed that this was a thing that
Parish had to reckon with and not Niggle. Parish, how-
ever, did not reckon with pictures; and Niggle could not
alter that. "Curse it!" he said to himself, as he got out
his bicycle.
It was wet and windy, and daylight was waning. "No
more work for me today!" thought Niggle, and all the
time that he was riding, he was either swearing to him-
self, or imagining the strokes of his brush on the moun-
tain, and on the spray of leaves beside it, that he had
first imagined in the spring. His fingers twitched on the
handlebars. Now he was out of the shed, he saw exactly
the way in which to treat that shining spray which
framed the distant vision of the mountain. But he had a
sinking feeling in his heart, a sort of fear that he would
never now get a chance to try it out.
Niggle found the doctor, and he left a note at the
builder's. The office was shut, and the builder had gone
home to his fireside. Niggle got soaked to the skin, and
caught a chill himself. The doctor did not set out as
promptly as Niggle had done. He arrived next day,
which was quite convenient for him, as by that time
there were two patients to deal with, in neighbouring
houses. Niggle was in bed, with a high temperature,
and marvellous patterns of leaves and involved
branches forming in his head and on the ceiling. It did
not comfort him to learn that Mrs. Parish had only had
a cold, and was getting up. He turned his face to the
wall and buried himself in leaves.
He remained in bed some time. The wind went on
blowing. It took away a good many more of Parish's
tiles, and some of Niggle's as well: his own roof began
to leak. The builder did not come. Niggle did not care;
not for a day or two. Then he crawled out to look for
some food (Niggle had no wife). Parish did not come
round: the rain had got into his leg and made it ache;
and his wife was busy mopping up water, and wonder-
ing if "that Mr. Niggle" had forgotten to call at the
builder's. Had she seen any chance of borrowing any-
thing useful, she would have sent Parish round, leg or no
leg; but she did not, so Niggle was left to himself.
At the end of a week or so Niggle tottered out to his
shed again. He tried to climb the ladder, but it made
his head giddy. He sat and looked at the picture, but
there were no patterns of leaves or visions of mountains
in his mind that day. He could have painted a far-off
view of a sandy desert, but he had not the energy.
Next day he felt a good deal better. He climbed the
ladder, and began to paint. He had just begun to get
into it again, when there came a knock on the door.
"Damn!" said Niggle. But he might just as well have
said "Come in!" politely, for the door opened all the
same. This time a very tall man came in, a total stranger.
"This is a private studio," said Niggle. "I am busy.
Go away!"
"I am an Inspector of Houses," said the man, holding
up his appointment-card, so that Niggle on his ladder
could see it.
"Oh!" he said.
"Your neighbour's 'house is not satisfactory at all,"
said the Inspector.
"I know," said Niggle. "I took a note to the builders a
long time ago, but they have never come. Then I have
been ill."
"I see," said the Inspector. "But you are not ill now."
"But I'm not a builder. Parish ought to make a com-
plaint to the Town Council, and get help from the
Emergency Service."
"They are busy with worse damage than any up
here," said the Inspector. "There has been a flood in
the valley, and many families are homeless. You should
have helped your neighbour to make temporary repairs
and prevent the damage from getting more costly to
mend than necessary. That is the law. There is plenty
of material here: canvas, wood, waterproof paint."
"Where?" asked Niggle indignantly.
"There!" said the Inspector, pointing to the picture.
"My picture!" exclaimed Niggle.
"I dare say it is," said the Inspector. "But houses
come first. That is the law."
"But I can't . . ." Niggle said no more, for at that
moment another man came in. Very much like the In-
spector he was, almost his double: tall, dressed all in
black.
"Come along!" he said. "I am the Driver."
Niggle stumbled down from the ladder. His fever
seemed to have come on again, and his head was swim-
ming; he felt cold all over.
"Driver? Driver?" he chattered. "Driver of what?"
"You, and your carriage," said the man. "The car-
riage was ordered long ago. It has come at last. It's
waiting. You start today on your journey, you know."
"There now!" said the Inspector. "You'll have to go;
but it's a bad way to start on your journey, leaving your
jobs undone. Still, we can at least make some use of this
canvas now."
"Oh, dear!" said poor Niggle, beginning to weep.
And it's not, not even finished!"
"Not finished?" said the Driver. "Well, it's finished
with, as far as you're concerned, at any rate. Come
along!"
Niggle went, quite quietly. The Driver gave him no
time to pack, saying that he ought to have done that be-
fore, and they would miss the train; so all Niggle could
do was to grab a little bag in the hall. He found that it
contained only a paint-box and a small book of his own
sketches: neither food nor clothes. They caught the
train all right. Niggle was feeling very tired and sleepy;
he was hardly aware of what was going on when they
bundled him into his compartment. He did not care
much: he had forgotten where he was supposed to be
going, or what he was going for. The train ran almost at
once into a dark tunnel.
Niggle woke up in a very large, dim railway station.
A Porter went along the platform shouting, but he was
not shouting the name of the place; he was shouting
Niggle!
Niggle got out in a hurry, and found that be had left
his little bag behind. He turned back, but the train had
gone away.
"Ah, there you are!" said the Porter. "This way!
What! No luggage? You will have to go to the Work-
house."
Niggle felt very ill, and fainted on the platform.
They put him in an ambulance and took him to the
Workhouse Infirmary.
He did not like the treatment at all. The medicine
they gave him was bitter. The officials and attendants
were unfriendly, silent, and strict; and he never saw
anyone else, except a very severe doctor, who visited
him occasionally. It was more like being in a prison
than in a hospital. He had to work hard, at stated
hours: at digging, carpentry, and painting bare boards
all one plain colour. He was never allowed outside,
and the windows all looked inwards. They kept him in
the dark for hours at a stretch, "to do some thinking,"
they said. He lost count of time. He did not even begin
to feel better, not if that could be judged by whether he
felt any pleasure in doing anything. He did not, not
even in getting into bed.
At first, during the first century or so (I am merely
giving his impressions), he used to worry aimlessly
about the past. One thing he kept on repeating to him-
self, as he lay in the dark: "I wish I had called on Parish
the first morning after the high winds began. I meant
to. The first loose tiles would have been easy to fix.
Then Mrs. Parish might never have caught cold. Then I
should not have caught cold either. Then I should have
had a week longer." But in time he forgot what it was
that he had wanted a week longer for. If he worried
at all after that, it was about his jobs in the hospital. He
planned them out, thinking how quickly he could stop
that board creaking, or rehang that door, or mend that
table-leg. Probably he really became rather useful,
though no one ever told him so. But that, of course,
cannot have been the reason why they kept the poor lit-
tle man so long. They may have been waiting for him to
get better, and judging "better" by some odd medical
standard of their own.
At any rate, poor Niggle got no pleasure out of life,
not what he had been used to call pleasure. He was cer-
tainly not amused. But it could not be denied that he
began to have a feeling of -well, satisfaction: bread
rather than jam. He could take up a task the moment
one bell rang, and lay it aside promptly the moment the
next one went, all tidy and ready to be continued at the
right time. He got through quite a lot in a day, now; he
finished small things off neatly. He had no "time of his
own" (except alone in his bed-cell), and yet he was be-
coming master of his time; he began to know just what
he could do with it. There was no sense of rush. He
was quieter inside now, and at resting-time he could
really rest. |
That's about half way. More? Comments?
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Songs for the flash frozen. |
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jjjynx
Jeet Kun Do Kung Fu Master
Joined: 25 Mar 2006
Posts: 1462
Location: Singapore
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| Posted: Thu Nov 16, 2006 3:10 am Post subject: |
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I'm enjoying it. it's got the feel of a little fairie tale with morale.
Also, it kind of reminds me when Bilbo Baggins was still living in Hobbiton, that little mumbling and all when he got pulled along to meet Smaug...
Do go on please. but I suppose I'll have to read it a little later when I come back, and thank you. |
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GrinfilledCelt
Jeet Kun Do Kung Fu Master
Joined: 25 Mar 2006
Posts: 2681
Location: I wish I were in Ocqueoc.
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| Posted: Thu Nov 16, 2006 5:32 am Post subject: |
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Indeed, this story was written as an example of a fairy tale after all. It is quite allegorical of human nature and relationships.
| Quote: | Then suddenly they changed all his hours; they
hardly let him go to bed at all; they took him off car-
pentry altogether and kept him at plain digging, day
after day. He took it fairly well. It was a long while be-
fore he even began to grope in the back of his mind for
the curses that he had practically forgotten. He went
on digging, till his back seemed broken, his hands were
raw, and he felt that he could not manage another
spadeful. Nobody thanked him. But the doctor came
and looked at him.
"Knock off!" he said. "Complete rest - in the dark."
Niggle was lying in the dark, resting completely; so
that, as he had not been either feeling or thinking at all,
he might have been lying there for hours or for years, as
far as he could tell. But now he heard Voices: not
voices that he had ever heard before. There seemed to
be a Medical Board, or perhaps a Court of Inquiry, go-
ing on close at hand, in an adjoining room with the door
open, possibly, though he could not see any light.
"Now the Niggle case," said a Voice, a severe voice,
more severe than the doctor's.
"What was the matter with him?" said a Second
Voice, a voice that you might have called gentle,
though it was not soft -it was a voice of authority,
and sounded at once hopeful and sad. "What was
the matter with Niggle? His heart was in the right
place."
"Yes, but it did not function properly," said the First
Voice. "And his head was not screwed on tight enough:
he hardly ever thought at all. Look at the time he
wasted, not even amusing himself! He never got ready
for his journey. He was moderately well-off, and yet he
arrived here almost destitute, and had to be put in the
paupers' wing. A bad case, I am afraid. I think he
should stay some time yet."
"It would not do him any harm, perhaps," said the
Second Voice. "But, of course, he is only a little man.
He was never meant to be anything very much; and he
was never very strong. Let us look at the Records. Yes.
There are some favourable points, you know."
"Perhaps," said the First Voice; "but very few that
will really bear examination."
"Well," said the Second Voice, "there are these. He
was a painter by nature. In a minor way, of course; still,
a Leaf by Niggle has a charm of its own. He took a
great deal of pains with leaves, just for their own sake.
But he never thought that that made him important.
There is no note in the Records of his pretending, even
to himself, that it excused his neglect of things ordered
by the law."
"Then he should not have neglected so many," said
the First Voice.
"All the same, he did answer a good many Calls."
"A small percentage, mostly of the easier sort, and he
called those Interruptions. The Records are full of the
word, together with a lot of complaints and silly im-
precations."
"True; but they looked like interruptions to him, of
course, poor little man. And there is this: he never ex-
pected any Return, as so many of his sort call it. There
is the Parish case, the one that came in later. He was
Niggle's neighbour, never did a stroke for him, and sel-
dom showed any gratitude at all. But there is no note
in the Records that Niggle expected Parish's gratitude;
he does not seem to have thought about it."
"Yes, that is a point," said the First Voice; "but rather
small. I think you will find Niggle often merely forgot.
Things he had to do for Parish he put out of his mind
as a nuisance he had done with."
"Still, there is this last report," said the Second Voice,
"that wet bicycle-ride. I rather lay stress on that. It
seems plain that this was a genuine sacrifice: Niggle
guessed that he was throwing away his last chance
with his picture, and he guessed, too, that Parish was
worrying unnecessarily."
"I think you put it too strongly," said the First Voice.
"But you have the last word. It is your task, of course,
to put the best interpretation on the facts. Sometimes
they will bear it. What do you propose?"
"I think it is a case for a little gentle treatment now,"
said the Second Voice.
Niggle thought that he had never heard anything so
generous as that Voice. It made Gentle Treatment
sound like a load of rich gifts, and the summons to a
King's feast. Then suddenly Niggle felt ashamed. To
hear that he was considered a case for Gentle Treat-
ment overwhelmed him, and made him blush in the
dark. It was like being publicly praised, when you and
all the audience knew that the praise was not deserved.
Niggle hid his blushes in the rough blanket.
There was a silence. Then the First Voice spoke to
Niggle, quite close. "You have been listening," it said.
"Yes," said Niggle.
"Well, what have you to say?"
"Could you tell me about Parish?" said Niggle. "I
should like to see him again. I hope he is not very ill?
Can you cure his leg? It used to give him a wretched
time. And please don't worry about him and me. He
was a very good neighbour, and let me have excellent
potatoes very cheap, which saved me a lot of time."
"Did he?" said the First Voice. "I am glad to hear it."
There was another silence. Niggle heard the Voices
receding. "Well, I agree," he heard the First Voice say
in the distance. "Let him go on to the next stage. To-
morrow, if you like."
Niggle woke up to find that his blinds were drawn,
and his little cell was full of sunshine. He got up, and
found that some comfortable clothes had been put out
for him, not hospital uniform. After breakfast the doc-
tor treated his sore hands, putting some salve on them
that healed them at once. He gave Niggle some good
advice, and a bottle of tonic (in case he needed it). In
the middle of the morning they gave Niggle a biscuit
and a glass of wine; and then they gave him a ticket.
"You can go to the railway station now," said the doc-
tor. "The Porter will look after you. Good-bye."
Niggle slipped out of the main door, and blinked a
little. The sun was very bright. Also he had expected
to walk out into a large town, to match the size of the
station; but he did not. He was on the top of a hill,
green, bare, swept by a keen invigorating wind. No-
body else was about. Away down under the hill he
could see the roof of the station shining.
He walked downhill to the station briskly, but with-
out hurry. The Porter spotted him at once.
"This way!" he said, and led Niggle to a bay, in which
there was a very pleasant little local train standing: one
coach, and a small engine, both very bright, clean, and
newly painted. It looked as if this was their first run.
Even the track that lay in front of the engine looked
new: the rails shone, the chairs were painted green, and
the sleepers gave off a delicious smell of fresh tar in the
warm sunshine. The coach was empty.
"Where does this train go, Porter?" asked Niggle.
"I don't think they have fixed its name yet," said the
Porter. "But you'll find it all right." He shut the door.
The train moved off at once. Niggle lay back in his
seat. The little engine puffed along in a deep cutting
with high green banks, roofed with blue sky. It did not
seem very long before the engine gave a whistle, the
brakes were put on, and the train stopped. There was
no station, and no signboard, only a flight of steps up
the green embankment. At the top of the steps there
was a wicket-gate in a trim hedge. By the gate stood
his bicycle; at least, it looked like his, and there was a
yellow label tied to the bars with NIGGLE written on it in
large black letters.
Niggle pushed open the gate, jumped on the bicycle,
and went bowling downhill in the spring sunshine. Be-
fore long he found that the path on which he had
started had disappeared, and the bicycle was rolling
along over a marvellous turf. It was green and close;
and yet he could see every blade distinctly. He seemed
to remember having seen or dreamed of that sweep of
grass somewhere or other. The curves of the land were
familiar somehow. Yes: the ground was becoming level,
as it should, and now, of course, it was beginning to rise
again. A great green shadow came between him and
the sun. Niggle looked up, and fell off his bicycle.
Before him stood the Tree, his Tree, finished. If you
could say that of a Tree that was alive, its leaves open-
ing, its branches growing and bending in the wind that
Niggle had so often felt or guessed, and had so often
failed to catch. He gazed at the Tree, and slowly he
lifted his arms and opened them wide.
"It's a gift!" he said. He was referring to his art, and
also to the result; but he was using the word quite liter-
ally.
He went on looking at the Tree. All the leaves he had
ever laboured at were there, as he had imagined them
rather than as he had made them; and there were others
that had only budded in his mind, and many that
might have budded, if only he had had time. Nothing
was written on them, they were just exquisite leaves, yet
they were dated as clear as a calendar. Some of the
most beautiful - and the most characteristic, the most
perfect examples of the Niggle style-were seen to
have been produced in collaboration with Mr. Parish:
there was no other way of putting it.
The birds were building in the Tree. Astonishing
birds: how they sang! They were mating, hatching,
growing wings, and flying away singing into the Forest,
even while he looked at them. For now he saw that the
Forest was there too, opening out on either side, and
marching away into the distance. The Mountains were
glimmering far away.
After a time Niggle turned towards the Forest. Not
because he was tired of the Tree, but he seemed to have
got it all clear in his mind now, and was aware of it, and
of its growth, even when he was not looking at it. As he
walked away, he discovered an odd thing: the Forest,
of course, was a distant Forest, yet he could approach
it, even enter it, without its losing that particular charm.
He had never before been able to walk into the distance
without turning it into mere surroundings. It really
added a considerable attraction to walking in the coun-
try, because, as you walked, new distances opened out;
so that you now had doubled, treble, and quadruple
distances, doubly, trebly, and quadruply enchanting.
You could go on and on, and have a whole country in a
garden, or in a picture (if you preferred to call it that) .
You could go on and on, but not perhaps for ever.
There were the Mountains in the background. They
did get nearer, very slowly. They did not seem to be-
long to the picture, or only as a link to something else,
a glimpse through the trees of something different, a
further stage: another picture.
Niggle walked about, but he was not merely potter-
ing. He was looking round carefully. The Tree was fin-
ished, though not finished with - "Just the other way
about to what it used to be," he thought -but in the
Forest there were a number of inconclusive regions,
that still needed work and thought. Nothing needed
altering any longer, nothing was wrong, as far as it had
gone, but it needed continuing up to a definite point.
Niggle saw the point precisely, in each case.
He sat down under a very beautiful distant tree - a
variation of the Great Tree, but quite individual, or it
would be with a little more attention - and he consid-
ered where to begin work, and where to end it, and how
much time was required. He could not quite work out
his scheme.
"Of course!" he said. "What I need is Parish. There
are lots of things about earth, plants, and trees that he
knows and I don't. This place cannot be left just as my
private park. I need help and advice: I ought to have
got it sooner." |
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jjjynx
Jeet Kun Do Kung Fu Master
Joined: 25 Mar 2006
Posts: 1462
Location: Singapore
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| Posted: Thu Nov 16, 2006 12:49 pm Post subject: |
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| Ah, that felt good...the mood stays as light hearted, I suppose? Do go on, please, and thank you. |
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jjjynx
Jeet Kun Do Kung Fu Master
Joined: 25 Mar 2006
Posts: 1462
Location: Singapore
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| Posted: Sat Nov 18, 2006 2:08 am Post subject: |
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| hahahahahaha.....I suppose that will do it. |
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MidNightBlue
Fayeless Otaku
Joined: 26 Aug 2007
Posts: 666
Location: Reality
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| Posted: Mon Aug 27, 2007 12:07 am Post subject: |
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As I was reading this an image of one of Van Gogh's paintings came to mind, I'm not sure what it's actually called but I think it was a painting of a single olive tree. The various shades of greens were just so vivid and I loved the curve and swirl of the leaves. I tried to find it online but wasn't able to find the specific one that I had in mind.
It's a lovely ending.
I'm always baffled by why some friendships work and why some don't. Why some people remain in contact and other people lose touch.
I've known some people for many years, even though we don't have very many interests in common. I always thought that having a common interest would have to be a requirement of friendship, but I guess not.
I don't know, what is it that makes two people connect to each other? ... it's a mystery. |
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GrinfilledCelt
Jeet Kun Do Kung Fu Master
Joined: 25 Mar 2006
Posts: 2681
Location: I wish I were in Ocqueoc.
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| Posted: Mon Aug 27, 2007 6:08 am Post subject: |
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But that wasn't the end, MNB. jjjynx was the only one reading it so I just emailed the last section to him instead of posting it.
Now you have me curious about the Van Gogh painting. I like Van Gogh. There is a print of his on my wall right next to my desk.
Friendships are indeed a wonder. Sometimes I think that they are what life is for. It is odd how Niggle and Parish only considered each other a bother and never knew each other when they were neighbors. It wasn't until Parish wasn't there that Niggle realized how much he needed him. A mystery indeed.
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MidNightBlue
Fayeless Otaku
Joined: 26 Aug 2007
Posts: 666
Location: Reality
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| Posted: Tue Aug 28, 2007 2:30 am Post subject: |
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Oh! In that case let's have the rest of it =)
I've got Van Gogh hanging all over my room, well Van Gogh and Monet and Georgia O'Keefe. That painting was in one of my calendars but I recently threw out the calendar because it's become so old and tattered ... now I'm regretting it. If I ever do find it again, somewhere somehow, I'll definitely let you know.
I feel like I'm Nigglish at times in that I tend to see things as a bother when they could be seen in a different light. That's actually one of my new year's resolutions for this year- to not be so negative all time. It's such a simple yet difficult truth that most of the problems we have are self-created and so if only I can just stop creating them to begin with ... |
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GrinfilledCelt
Jeet Kun Do Kung Fu Master
Joined: 25 Mar 2006
Posts: 2681
Location: I wish I were in Ocqueoc.
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| Posted: Tue Aug 28, 2007 3:40 am Post subject: |
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I'm sure that Van Gogh is out there somewhere. If you find it, post it here.
I was afraid that you'd ask for the rest of the story. Turns out, it took only seconds to find it, so I need not have feared.
And now, the thrilling conclusion to Leaf by Niggle:
| Quote: | He got up and walked to the place where he had de-
cided to begin work. He took off his coat. Then, down
in a little sheltered hollow hidden from a further view,
he saw a man looking round rather bewildered. He
was leaning on a spade, but plainly did not know what
to do. Niggle hailed him. "Parish!" he called.
Parish shouldered his spade and came up to him. He
still limped a little. They did not speak, just nodded as
they used to do, passing in the lane; but now they
walked about together, arm in arm. Without talking,
Niggle and Parish agreed exactly where to make the
small house and garden, which seemed to be required.
As they worked together, it became plain that Niggle
was now the better of the two at ordering his time and
getting things done. Oddly enough, it was Niggle who
became most absorbed in building and gardening,
while Parish often wandered about looking at trees, and
especially at the Tree.
One day Niggle was busy planting a quickset hedge,
and Parish was lying on the grass near by, looking at-
tentively at a beautiful and shapely little yellow flower
growing in the green turf. Niggle had put a lot of them
among the roots of his Tree long ago. Suddenly Parish
looked up: his face was glistening in the sun, and he
was smiling.
"This is grand!" he said. "I oughtn't to be here,
really. Thank you for putting in a word for me."
"Nonsense," said Niggle. "I don't remember what I
said, but anyway it was not nearly enough."
"Oh yes, it was," said Parish. "It got me out a lot
sooner. That Second Voice, you know: he had me sent
here; he said you had asked to see me. I owe it to you."
"No. You owe it to the Second Voice," said Niggle.
"We both do."
They went on living and working together: I do not
know how long. It is no use denying that at first they
occasionally disagreed, especially when they got tired.
For at first they did sometimes get tired. They found
that they had both been provided with tonics. Each
bottle had the same label: A few drops to be taken in
water from the Spring, before resting.
They found the Spring in the heart of the Forest; only
once long ago had Niggle imagined it, but he had never
drawn it. Now he perceived that it was the source of
the lake that glimmered, far away and the nourishment
of all that grew in the country. The few drops made the
water astringent, rather bitter, but invigorating; and it
cleared the head. After drinking they rested alone; and
then they got up again and things went on merrily. At
such times Niggle would think of wonderful new flow-
ers and plants, and Parish always knew exactly how to
set them and where they would do best. Long before
the tonics were finished they had ceased to need them.
Parish lost his limp.
As their work drew to an end they allowed them-
selves more and more time for walking about, looking
at the trees, and the flowers, and the lights and shapes,
and the lie of the land. Sometimes they sang together;
but Niggle found that he was now beginning to turn his
eyes, more and more often, towards the Mountains.
The time came when the house in the hollow, the gar-
den, the grass, the forest, the lake, and all the country
was nearly complete, in its own proper fashion. The
Great Tree was in full blossom.
"We shall finish this evening," said Parish one day.
"After that we will go for a really long walk."
They set out next day, and they walked until they
came right through the distances to the Edge. It was
not visible, of course: there was no line, or fence, or
wall; but they knew that they had come to the margin of
that country. They saw a man, he looked like a shep-
herd; he was walking towards them, down the grass-
slopes that led up into the Mountains.
"Do you want a guide?" he asked. "Do you want to
go on?"
For a moment a shadow fell between Niggle and
Parish, for Niggle knew that he did now want to go on,
and (in a sense) ought to go on; but Parish did not
want to go on, and was not yet ready to go.
"I must wait for my wife," said Parish to Niggle.
"She'd be lonely. I rather gathered that they would
send her after me, some time or other, when she was
ready, and when I had got things ready for her. The
house is finished now, as well as we could make it; but I
should like to show it to her. She'll be able to make it
better, I expect: more homely. I hope she'll like this
country, too." He turned to the shepherd. "Are you a
guide?" he asked. "Could you tell me the name of this
country?"
"Don't you know?" said the man. "It is Niggle's
Country. It is Niggle's Picture, or most of it: a little of it
is now Parish's Garden."
"Niggle's Picture!" said Parish in astonishment. "Did
you think of all this, Niggle? I never knew you were so
clever. Why didn't you tell me?"
"He tried to tell you long ago," said the man; "but
you would not look. He had only got canvas and paint
in those days, and you wanted to mend your roof with
them. This is what you and your wife used to call Nig-
gle's Nonsense, or That Daubing."
"But it did not look like this then, not real," said Par-
ish.
"No, it was only a glimpse then," said the man; "but
you might have caught the glimpse, if you had ever
thought it worth while to try."
"I did not give you much chance," said Niggle. "I
never tried to explain. I used to call you Old Earth-
grubber. But what does it matter? We have lived and
worked together now. Things might have been differ-
ent, but they could not have been better. All the same,
I am afraid I shall have to be going on. We shall meet
again, I expect: there must be many more things we can
do together. Good-bye!" He shook Parish's hand
warmly: a good, firm, honest hand it seemed. He
turned and looked back for a moment. The blossom on
the Great Tree was shining like flame. All the birds
were flying in the air and singing. Then he smiled, and
nodded to Parish, and went off with the shepherd.
He was going to learn about sheep, and the high pas-
turages, and look at a wider sky, and walk ever further
and further towards the Mountains, always uphill.
Beyond that I cannot guess what became of him. Even
little Niggle in his old home could glimpse the Moun-
tains far away, and they got into the borders of his pic-
ture; but what they are really like, and what lies be-
yond them, only those can say who have climbed them.
"I think he was a silly little man," said Councillor
Tompkins. "Worthless, in fact; no use to Society at all."
"Oh, I don't know," said Atkins, who was nobody of
importance, just a schoolmaster. "I am not so sure: it
depends on what you mean by use."
"No practical or economic use," said Tompkins. "I
dare say he could have been made into a serviceable cog
of some sort, if you schoolmasters knew your business.
But you don't, and so we get useless people of his sort.
If I ran this country I should put him and his like to
some job that they're fit for, washing dishes in a com-
munal kitchen or something, and I should see that
they did it properly. Or I would put them away. I
should have put him away long ago."
"Put him away? You mean you'd have made him start
on the journey before his time?"
"Yes, if you must use that meaningless old expression.
Push him through the tunnel into the great Rubbish
Heap: that's what I mean."
"Then you don't think painting is worth anything,
not worth preserving, or improving, or even making use
of?"
"Of course, painting has uses," said Tompkins. "But
you couldn't make use of his painting. There is plenty of
scope for bold young men not afraid of new ideas and
new methods. None for this old-fashioned stuff. Pri-
vate day-dreaming. He could not have designed a
telling poster to save his life. Always fiddling with
leaves and flowers. I asked him why, once. He said he
thought they were pretty! Can you believe it? He said
pretty! "What, digestive and genital organs of plants?"
I said to him; and he had nothing to answer. Silly foot-
ler."
"Footler," sighed Atkins. "Yes, poor little man, he
never finished anything. Ah well, his canvases have
been put to `better uses,' since he went. But I am not
sure, Tompkins. You remember that large one, the one
they used to patch the damaged house next door to his,
after the gales and floods? I found a corner of it torn off,
lying in a field. It was damaged, but legible: a
mountain-peak and a spray of leaves. I can't get it out
of my mind."
"Out of your what?" said Tompkins.
"Who are you two talking about?" said Perkins, in-
tervening in the cause of peace: Atkins had flushed
rather red.
"The name's not worth repeating," said Tompkins. "I
don't know why we are talking about him at all. He did
not live in town."
"No," said Atkins; "but you had your eye on his house,
all the same. That is why you used to go and call, and
sneer at him while drinking his tea. Well, you've got
his house now, as well as the one in town, so you need
not grudge him his name. We were talking about Nig-
gle, if you want to know, Perkins."
"Oh, poor little Niggle!" said Perkins. "Never knew he
painted."
That was probably the last time Niggle's name ever
came up in conversation. However, Atkins preserved
the odd corner. Most of it crumbled; but one beautiful
leaf remained intact. Atkins had it framed. Later he
left it to the Town Museum, and for a long while "Leaf:
by Niggle" hung there in a recess, and was noticed by a
few eyes. But eventually the Museum was burnt down,
and the leaf, and Niggle, were entirely forgotten in his
old country.
"It is proving very useful indeed," said the Second
Voice. "As a holiday, and a refreshment. It is splendid
for convalescence; and not only for that, for many it is
the best introduction to the Mountains. It works won-
ders in some cases. I am sending more and more there.
They seldom have to come back."
"No, that is so," said the First Voice. "I think we shall
have to give the region a name. What do you propose?"
"The Porter settled that some time ago," said the
Second Voice. "Train for Niggle's Parish in the bay:
he has shouted that for a long while now. Niggle's Par-
ish. I sent a message to both of them to tell them."
"What did they say?"
"They both laughed. Laughed - the Mountains
rang with it!" |
- FIN - (...as the Frogs say. Don't ask me why they say that, but they do.)
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MidNightBlue
Fayeless Otaku
Joined: 26 Aug 2007
Posts: 666
Location: Reality
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| Posted: Wed Aug 29, 2007 12:16 am Post subject: |
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This part reminded me of a conversation I once had with a girl I used to room with. She thought it was incomprehensible that I would pay good money for posters or books filled with pictures, or pictures of any kind. I thought it made an immense difference to the room when there are posters of paintings hanging on the walls as opposed to bare walls. I love my picture books, there are no words, but sometimes drawings speak louder than words and I would want to pay for them because the artist deserves to be paid. From her perspective it's just a piece of paper, like any other piece of paper, only costlier.
When I see a painting it's not just the surface drawing that I see, in a way every piece of work by anyone can be view as a window into their soul. It's not just a painting, it's a connection, between the painter, the viewer and the painting that bridges the two. It is like being able to see things through another's eyes. Sometimes things cannot be expressed in words. |
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GrinfilledCelt
Jeet Kun Do Kung Fu Master
Joined: 25 Mar 2006
Posts: 2681
Location: I wish I were in Ocqueoc.
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| Posted: Wed Aug 29, 2007 5:17 am Post subject: |
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I'll bet your old roommate was a very dull person.
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MidNightBlue
Fayeless Otaku
Joined: 26 Aug 2007
Posts: 666
Location: Reality
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| Posted: Wed Aug 29, 2007 2:45 pm Post subject: |
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I'm actually rather good friends with her, we still keep in touch. Compared to others, I usually think of myself as conservative, but she's more straight laced and conservative than I am. The year I roomed with her was the only year when I didn't have any roommate problems, so I was very happy to have her around. Although she might not say the same about me 
I practically took over her side of the room with my posters, but like how Amelia Bedelia appeased everyone from getting upset at her mess ups by giving them good food, she saw that my amateur interior decorating skills did make the room look beautiful and didn't say anything after that. |
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