Told to me in Boston, at dinner near the sea, by an elusive woman I had known for about a month. The storyteller, as it turned out, if she was willing to go with you to some solitary place at night, played the flute and spoke so clearly that it was as if one could see starlight through her phrases. I had found out just how much she loved candlelight, but until she told me this story, I did not fully understand why.
Once upon a time a woman in her study lit a tall candle and found to her surprise that it did not, as she expected, spread a uniform light around the room. The candle, in fact, would sometimes cast all its light in a particular direction, at other times flash rhythmically, as though to some unheard music; and occasionally it would illuminate itself only. All this contrary behavior, needless to say, gave our friend the willies; but her curiosity prevented her from throwing away the truculent column of wax.
One night after the little candle had done all sorts of eerie tricks—shooting light playfully about, putting itself out and bursting back again into flame, and twirling on its stand (our friend half-expected it to sit down and read the newspaper), it seemed like the time had come to address a question to this strange light-maker.
“Well,” she said, clearing her throat (for she had never before conversed with a candle), “tell me, why don’t you behave yourself?”
“Well,” said the candle mockingly, “why don’t you? You took me into your study days ago and finally you say a word to me! Never mind that it is only to ask a rude question, at least you are showing some signs of being a human. It’s about time. I was afraid I had been purchased by a bread fungus or something.”
“I beg your pardon,” said our friend, incensed at being reprimanded by a candle. “It’s you who are rude. How can I read by a light like yours, running all over the room like a dog? And what thanks do I get for giving you a home here with me—none at all, none at all—you do whatever you please, even though you are only wax. I support you and you take advantage of me; next thing, you’ll want piano lessons or something.”
“If you will permit a comment from someone who is merely wax,” said the candle with dignity, “there is more to candlelight than you know, and the more you know, the better we will get along. You should consider yourself on notice that I associate only with the knowledgeable among you.”
And so, far into the night, and confronting by the way a number of the most humdrum matters of beauty and work, of mind and body, of light and the strategies of light, our friend and her candle debated, insulted, entreated, cajoled, taunted one another, and generally had a high time; until they felt enfolded in the bright sympathies of an otherworldly friendship.
She learned, as the candle burned down, that she could preserve its volubility and intelligence by using its flame to light another candle. By such care, she kept her little companion alive.
So it was that, by such bemused partnership, our friend continued her life with a rare sense of participation. Sometimes the candle flame would lead her to shape her ideas differently—she could, for instance, test the quality of her ideas by adjudging how exactly they fit in stencils of light the candle provided. Sometimes the candle would fall across volumes in her library whose contents bore importantly on her preoccupations. When it was more proper to greet the stars than remain indoors, the candle would dim to a mere brushstroke of light, until our friend had gone out and made the necessary salutations. Best of all, the candle sometimes spread a curtain of flame across the room, and when she drew aside that curtain, she was able to see visions of great practical value, which taught her many eccentric skills. For example, she learned how to walk the earth at night and turn the slow voltage of messages she received from the soil into prophecies useful and electric in the morning. She learned also how to discover and use her knowledge of the future, yet keep herself anonymous; so that, when terrible perils were turned aside by means of her foresight, she never was disrupted by people coming around to be grateful.
It amused our friend that some folks she knew took pride in thinking the course of their lives resulted from their own decisions, their personal strategies, the rightful imposition of their will on the world. Especially funny to her now was an idea held dear by many of them—the idea that just humankind, and not each thing in this world, is alive.