No More Learning

They
penetrated into the apartments and halls of the palace. A poor
half-grown boy in a ragged blouse fought among the older insurgents.
Mortally wounded with several bayonet thrusts, he sank down. This
happened in the throne-room. They laid the bleeding youth upon the
throne of France, wrapped the velvet around his wounds, and his
blood streamed forth upon the imperial purple. There was a picture!
The splendid hall, the fighting groups! A torn flag upon the ground,
the tricolor was waving above the bayonets, and on the throne lay
the poor lad with the pale glorified countenance, his eyes turned
towards the sky, his limbs writhing in the death agony, his breast
bare, and his poor tattered clothing half hidden by the rich velvet
embroidered with silver lilies. At the boy's cradle a prophecy had
been spoken: 'He will die on the throne of France! ' The mother's heart
dreamt of a second Napoleon.

"My beams have kissed the wreath of immortelles on his grave,
and this night they kissed the forehead of the old grandame, while
in a dream the picture floated before her which thou mayest draw--the
poor boy on the throne of France. "


SIXTH EVENING

"I've been in Upsala," said the Moon: "I looked down upon the
great plain covered with coarse grass, and upon the barren fields. I
mirrored my face in the Tyris river, while the steamboat drove the
fish into the rushes. Beneath me floated the waves, throwing long
shadows on the so-called graves of Odin, Thor, and Friga. In the
scanty turf that covers the hill-side names have been cut. There is no
monument here, no memorial on which the traveller can have his name
carved, no rocky wall on whose surface he can get it painted; so
visitors have the turf cut away for that purpose. The naked earth
peers through in the form of great letters and names; these form a
network over the whole hill. Here is an immortality, which lasts
till the fresh turf grows!

"Up on the hill stood a man, a poet. He emptied the mead horn with
the broad silver rim, and murmured a name. He begged the winds not
to betray him, but I heard the name. I knew it. A count's coronet
sparkles above it, and therefore he did not speak it out. I smiled,
for I knew that a poet's crown adorns his own name. The nobility of
Eleanora d'Este is attached to the name of Tasso. And I also know
where the Rose of Beauty blooms! "

Thus spake the Moon, and a cloud came between us. May no cloud
separate the poet from the rose!


SEVENTH EVENING

"Along the margin of the shore stretches a forest of firs and
beeches, and fresh and fragrant is this wood; hundreds of nightingales
visit it every spring. Close beside it is the sea, the ever-changing
sea, and between the two is placed the broad high-road. One carriage
after another rolls over it; but I did not follow them, for my eye
loves best to rest upon one point. A Hun's Grave lies there, and the
sloe and blackthorn grow luxuriantly among the stones. Here is true
poetry in nature.

"And how do you think men appreciate this poetry? I will tell
you what I heard there last evening and during the night.

"First, two rich landed proprietors came driving by. 'Those are
glorious trees! ' said the first. 'Certainly; there are ten loads of
firewood in each,' observed the other: 'it will be a hard winter,
and last year we got fourteen dollars a load'--and they were gone.
'The road here is wretched,' observed another man who drove past.
'That's the fault of those horrible trees,' replied his neighbour;
'there is no free current of air; the wind can only come from the
sea'--and they were gone. The stage coach went rattling past. All
the passengers were asleep at this beautiful spot. The postillion blew
his horn, but he only thought, 'I can play capitally. It sounds well
here. I wonder if those in there like it? '--and the stage coach
vanished. Then two young fellows came gallopping up on horseback.
There's youth and spirit in the blood here! thought I; and, indeed,
they looked with a smile at the moss-grown hill and thick forest. 'I
should not dislike a walk here with the miller's Christine,' said
one--and they flew past.

"The flowers scented the air; every breath of air was hushed; it
seemed as if the sea were a part of the sky that stretched above the
deep valley. A carriage rolled by. Six people were sitting in it. Four
of them were asleep; the fifth was thinking of his new summer coat,
which would suit him admirably; the sixth turned to the coachman and
asked him if there were anything remarkable connected with yonder heap
of stones. 'No,' replied the coachman, 'it's only a heap of stones;
but the trees are remarkable. ' 'How so? ' 'Why I'll tell you how they
are very remarkable. You see, in winter, when the snow lies very deep,
and has hidden the whole road so that nothing is to be seen, those
trees serve me for a landmark. I steer by them, so as not to drive
into the sea; and you see that is why the trees are remarkable. '

"Now came a painter. He spoke not a word, but his eyes sparkled.
He began to whistle. At this the nightingales sang louder than ever.
'Hold your tongues! ' he cried testily; and he made accurate notes of
all the colours and transitions--blue, and lilac, and dark brown.
'That will make a beautiful picture,' he said. He took it in just as a
mirror takes in a view; and as he worked he whistled a march of
Rossini. And last of all came a poor girl. She laid aside the burden
she carried, and sat down to rest upon the Hun's Grave. Her pale
handsome face was bent in a listening attitude towards the forest. Her
eyes brightened, she gazed earnestly at the sea and the sky, her hands
were folded, and I think she prayed, 'Our Father. ' She herself could
not understand the feeling that swept through her, but I know that
this minute, and the beautiful natural scene, will live within her
memory for years, far more vividly and more truly than the painter
could portray it with his colours on paper. My rays followed her
till the morning dawn kissed her brow. "


EIGHTH EVENING

Heavy clouds obscured the sky, and the Moon did not make his
appearance at all. I stood in my little room, more lonely than ever,
and looked up at the sky where he ought to have shown himself. My
thoughts flew far away, up to my great friend, who every evening
told me such pretty tales, and showed me pictures. Yes, he has had
an experience indeed. He glided over the waters of the Deluge, and
smiled on Noah's ark just as he lately glanced down upon me, and
brought comfort and promise of a new world that was to spring forth
from the old. When the Children of Israel sat weeping by the waters of
Babylon, he glanced mournfully upon the willows where hung the
silent harps. When Romeo climbed the balcony, and the promise of
true love fluttered like a cherub toward heaven, the round Moon
hung, half hidden among the dark cypresses, in the lucid air. He saw
the captive giant at St. Helena, looking from the lonely rock across
the wide ocean, while great thoughts swept through his soul. Ah!
what tales the Moon can tell. Human life is like a story to him.
To-night I shall not see thee again, old friend. Tonight I can draw no
picture of the memories of thy visit. And, as I looked dreamily
towards the clouds, the sky became bright. There was a glancing light,
and a beam from the Moon fell upon me. It vanished again, and dark
clouds flew past: but still it was a greeting, a friendly good-night
offered to me by the Moon.


NINTH EVENING

The air was clear again. Several evenings had passed, and the Moon
was in the first quarter. Again he gave me an outline for a sketch.
Listen to what he told me.

"I have followed the polar bird and the swimming whale to the
eastern coast of Greenland. Gaunt ice-covered rocks and dark clouds
hung over a valley, where dwarf willows and barberry bushes stood
clothed in green. The blooming lychnis exhaled sweet odours. My
light was faint, my face pale as the water lily that, torn from its
stem, has been drifting for weeks with the tide. The crown-shaped
Northern Light burned fiercely in the sky. Its ring was broad, and
from its circumference the rays shot like whirling shafts of fire
across the whole sky, flashing in changing radiance from green to red.
The inhabitants of that icy region were assembling for dance and
festivity; but, accustomed to this glorious spectacle, they scarcely
deigned to glance at it. 'Let us leave the soul of the dead to their
ball-play with the heads of the walruses,' they thought in their
superstition, and they turned their whole attention to the song and
dance. In the midst of the circle, and divested of his furry cloak,
stood a Greenlander, with a small pipe, and he played and sang a
song about catching the seal, and the chorus around chimed in with,
'Eia, Eia, Ah. ' And in their white furs they danced about in the
circle, till you might fancy it was a polar bear's ball.

"And now a Court of Judgment was opened. Those Greenlanders who
had quarrelled stepped forward, and the offended person chanted
forth the faults of his adversary in an extempore song, turning them
sharply into ridicule, to the sound of the pipe and the measure of the
dance. The defendant replied with satire as keen, while the audience
laughed, and gave their verdict. The rocks heaved, the glaciers
melted, and great masses of ice and snow came crashing down, shivering
to fragments as they fall; it was a glorious Greenland summer night. A
hundred paces away, under the open tent of hides, lay a sick man. Life
still flowed through his warm blood, but still he was to die--he
himself felt it, and all who stood round him knew it also; therefore
his wife was already sewing round him the shroud of furs, that she
might not afterwards be obliged to touch the dead body. And she asked,
'Wilt thou be buried on the rock, in the firm snow? I will deck the
spot with thy kayak, and thy arrows, and the angekokk shall dance over
it. Or wouldst thou rather be buried in the sea? ' 'In the sea,' he
whispered, and nodded with a mournful smile. 'Yes, it is a pleasant
summer tent, the sea,' observed the wife. 'Thousands of seals sport
there, the walrus shall lie at thy feet, and the hunt will be safe and
merry! ' And the yelling children tore the outspread hide from the
window-hole, that the dead man might be carried to the ocean, the
billowy ocean, that had given him food in life, and that now, in
death, was to afford him a place of rest. For his monument, he had the
floating, ever-changing icebergs, whereon the seal sleeps, while the
storm bird flies round their gleaming summits! "


TENTH EVENING

"I knew an old maid," said the Moon. "Every winter she wore a
wrapper of yellow satin, and it always remained new, and was the
only fashion she followed. In summer she always wore the same straw
hat, and I verily believe the very same gray-blue dress.

"She never went out, except across the street to an old female
friend; and in later years she did not even take this walk, for the
old friend was dead. In her solitude my old maid was always busy at
the window, which was adorned in summer with pretty flowers, and in
winter with cress, grown upon felt. During the last months I saw her
no more at the window, but she was still alive. I knew that, for I had
not yet seen her begin the 'long journey,' of which she often spoke
with her friend. 'Yes, yes,' she was in the habit of saying, when I
come to die I shall take a longer journey than I have made my whole
life long. Our family vault is six miles from here. I shall be carried
there, and shall sleep there among my family and relatives. ' Last
night a van stopped at the house. A coffin was carried out, and then I
knew that she was dead. They placed straw round the coffin, and the
van drove away. There slept the quiet old lady, who had not gone out
of her house once for the last year. The van rolled out through the
town-gate as briskly as if it were going for a pleasant excursion.
On the high-road the pace was quicker yet. The coachman looked
nervously round every now and then--I fancy he half expected to see
her sitting on the coffin, in her yellow satin wrapper. And because he
was startled, he foolishly lashed his horses, while he held the
reins so tightly that the poor beasts were in a foam: they were
young and fiery. A hare jumped across the road and startled them,
and they fairly ran away. The old sober maiden, who had for years
and years moved quietly round and round in a dull circle, was now,
in death, rattled over stock and stone on the public highway. The
coffin in its covering of straw tumbled out of the van, and was left
on the high-road, while horses, coachman, and carriage flew past in
wild career. The lark rose up carolling from the field, twittering her
morning lay over the coffin, and presently perched upon it, picking
with her beak at the straw covering, as though she would tear it up.
The lark rose up again, singing gaily, and I withdrew behind the red
morning clouds. "


ELEVENTH EVENING

"I will give you a picture of Pompeii," said the Moon. "I was in
the suburb in the Street of Tombs, as they call it, where the fair
monuments stand, in the spot where, ages ago, the merry youths,
their temples bound with rosy wreaths, danced with the fair sisters of
Lais. Now, the stillness of death reigned around. German
mercenaries, in the Neapolitan service, kept guard, played cards,
and diced; and a troop of strangers from beyond the mountains came
into the town, accompanied by a sentry. They wanted to see the city
that had risen from the grave illumined by my beams; and I showed them
the wheel-ruts in the streets paved with broad lava slabs; I showed
them the names on the doors, and the signs that hung there yet: they
saw in the little courtyard the basins of the fountains, ornamented
with shells; but no jet of water gushed upwards, no songs sounded
forth from the richly-painted chambers, where the bronze dog kept
the door.

"It was the City of the Dead; only Vesuvius thundered forth his
everlasting hymn, each separate verse of which is called by men an
eruption. We went to the temple of Venus, built of snow-white
marble, with its high altar in front of the broad steps, and the
weeping willows sprouting freshly forth among the pillars. The air was
transparent and blue, and black Vesuvius formed the background, with
fire ever shooting forth from it, like the stem of the pine tree.
Above it stretched the smoky cloud in the silence of the night, like
the crown of the pine, but in a blood-red illumination. Among the
company was a lady singer, a real and great singer. I have witnessed
the homage paid to her in the greatest cities of Europe. When they
came to the tragic theatre, they all sat down on the amphitheatre
steps, and thus a small part of the house was occupied by an audience,
as it had been many centuries ago. The stage still stood unchanged,
with its walled side-scenes, and the two arches in the background,
through which the beholders saw the same scene that had been exhibited
in the old times--a scene painted by nature herself, namely, the
mountains between Sorento and Amalfi. The singer gaily mounted the
ancient stage, and sang. The place inspired her, and she reminded me
of a wild Arab horse, that rushes headlong on with snorting nostrils
and flying mane--her song was so light and yet so firm. Anon I thought
of the mourning mother beneath the cross at Golgotha, so deep was
the expression of pain. And, just as it had done thousands of years
ago, the sound of applause and delight now filled the theatre. 'Happy,
gifted creature! ' all the hearers exclaimed. Five minutes more, and
the stage was empty, the company had vanished, and not a sound more
was heard--all were gone. But the ruins stood unchanged, as they
will stand when centuries shall have gone by, and when none shall know
of the momentary applause and of the triumph of the fair songstress;
when all will be forgotten and gone, and even for me this hour will be
but a dream of the past. "


TWELFTH EVENING

"I looked through the windows of an editor's house," said the
Moon. "It was somewhere in Germany. I saw handsome furniture, many
books, and a chaos of newspapers. Several young men were present:
the editor himself stood at his desk, and two little books, both by
young authors, were to be noticed. 'This one has been sent to me,'
said he. 'I have not read it yet; what think you of the contents? '
'Oh,' said the person addressed--he was a poet himself--'it is good
enough; a little broad, certainly; but, you see, the author is still
young. The verses might be better, to be sure; the thoughts are sound,
though there is certainly a good deal of common-place among them.
But what will you have? You can't be always getting something new.
That he'll turn out anything great I don't believe, but you may safely
praise him. He is well read, a remarkable Oriental scholar, and has
a good judgment. It was he who wrote that nice review of my
'Reflections on Domestic Life. ' We must be lenient towards the young
man. "

"'But he is a complete hack! ' objected another of the gentlemen.
'Nothing worse in poetry than mediocrity, and he certainly does not go
beyond this. '

"'Poor fellow,' observed a third, 'and his aunt is so happy
about him. It was she, Mr. Editor, who got together so many
subscribers for your last translation. '

"'Ah, the good woman! Well, I have noticed the book briefly.
Undoubted talent--a welcome offering--a flower in the garden of
poetry--prettily brought out--and so on. But this other book--I
suppose the author expects me to purchase it? I hear it is praised. He
has genius, certainly: don't you think so? '

"'Yes, all the world declares as much,' replied the poet, 'but
it has turned out rather wildly. The punctuation of the book, in
particular, is very eccentric. '

"'It will be good for him if we pull him to pieces, and anger
him a little, otherwise he will get too good an opinion of himself. '

"'But that would be unfair,' objected the fourth. 'Let us not carp
at little faults, but rejoice over the real and abundant good that
we find here: he surpasses all the rest. '

"'Not so. If he is a true genius, he can bear the sharp voice of
censure. There are people enough to praise him. Don't let us quite
turn his head. '

"'Decided talent,' wrote the editor, 'with the usual carelessness.
that he can write incorrect verses may be seen in page 25, where there
are two false quantities.
We recommend him to study the ancients,
etc. '

"I went away," continued the Moon, "and looked through the windows
in the aunt's house. There sat the be-praised poet, the tame one;
all the guests paid homage to him, and he was happy.

"I sought the other poet out, the wild one; him also I found in
a great assembly at his patron's, where the tame poet's book was being
discussed.

"'I shall read yours also,' said Maecenas; 'but to speak honestly--you
know I never hide my opinion from you--I don't expect much from
it, for you are much too wild, too fantastic. But it must be allowed
that, as a man, you are highly respectable. '

"A young girl sat in a corner; and she read in a book these words:

"'In the dust lies genius and glory,
But ev'ry-day talent will pay.
It's only the old, old story,
But the piece is repeated each day. '"


THIRTEENTH EVENING

The Moon said, "Beside the woodland path there are two small
farm-houses. The doors are low, and some of the windows are placed
quite high, and others close to the ground; and whitethorn and
barberry bushes grow around them. The roof of each house is
overgrown with moss and with yellow flowers and houseleek. Cabbage and
potatoes are the only plants cultivated in the gardens, but out of the
hedge there grows a willow tree, and under this willow tree sat a
little girl, and she sat with her eyes fixed upon the old oak tree
between the two huts.

"It was an old withered stem. It had been sawn off at the top, and
a stork had built his nest upon it; and he stood in this nest clapping
with his beak. A little boy came and stood by the girl's side: they
were brother and sister.

"'What are you looking at? ' he asked.

"'I'm watching the stork,' she replied: 'our neighbors told me
that he would bring us a little brother or sister to-day; let us watch
to see it come! '

"'The stork brings no such things,' the boy declared, 'you may
be sure of that. Our neighbor told me the same thing, but she
laughed when she said it, and so I asked her if she could say 'On my
honor,' and she could not; and I know by that the story about the
storks is not true, and that they only tell it to us children for
fun. '

"'But where do babies come from, then? ' asked the girl.

"'Why, an angel from heaven brings them under his cloak, but no
man can see him; and that's why we never know when he brings them. '

"At that moment there was a rustling in the branches of the willow
tree, and the children folded their hands and looked at one another:
it was certainly the angel coming with the baby. They took each
other's hand, and at that moment the door of one of the houses opened,
and the neighbour appeared.

"'Come in, you two,' she said. 'See what the stork has brought. It
is a little brother. '

"And the children nodded gravely at one another, for they had felt
quite sure already that the baby was come. "


FOURTEENTH EVENING

"I was gliding over the Luneburg Heath," the Moon said. "A
lonely hut stood by the wayside, a few scanty bushes grew near it, and
a nightingale who had lost his way sang sweetly. He died in the
coldness of the night: it was his farewell song that I heard.

"The morning dawn came glimmering red. I saw a caravan of emigrant
peasant families who were bound to Hamburgh, there to take ship for
America, where fancied prosperity would bloom for them. The mothers
carried their little children at their backs, the elder ones
tottered by their sides, and a poor starved horse tugged at a cart
that bore their scanty effects. The cold wind whistled, and
therefore the little girl nestled closer to the mother, who, looking
up at my decreasing disc, thought of the bitter want at home, and
spoke of the heavy taxes they had not been able to raise. The whole
caravan thought of the same thing; therefore, the rising dawn seemed
to them a message from the sun, of fortune that was to gleam
brightly upon them. They heard the dying nightingale sing; it was no
false prophet, but a harbinger of fortune. The wind whistled,
therefore they did not understand that the nightingale sung, 'Fare
away over the sea! Thou hast paid the long passage with all that was
thine, and poor and helpless shalt thou enter Canaan. Thou must sell
thyself, thy wife, and thy children. But your griefs shall not last
long. Behind the broad fragrant leaves lurks the goddess of Death, and
her welcome kiss shall breathe fever into thy blood. Fare away, fare
away, over the heaving billows. ' And the caravan listened well pleased
to the song of the nightingale, which seemed to promise good
fortune. Day broke through the light clouds; country people went
across the heath to church; the black-gowned women with their white
head-dresses looked like ghosts that had stepped forth from the church
pictures. All around lay a wide dead plain, covered with faded brown
heath, and black charred spaces between the white sand hills. The
women carried hymn books, and walked into the church. Oh, pray, pray
for those who are wandering to find graves beyond the foaming
billows. "


FIFTEENTH EVENING

"I know a Pulcinella," the Moon told me. "The public applaud
vociferously directly they see him. Every one of his movements is
comic, and is sure to throw the house into convulsions of laughter;
and yet there is no art in it all--it is complete nature. When he
was yet a little boy, playing about with other boys, he was already
Punch. Nature had intended him for it, and had provided him with a
hump on his back, and another on his breast; but his inward man, his
mind, on the contrary, was richly furnished. No one could surpass
him in depth of feeling or in readiness of intellect. The theatre
was his ideal world. If he had possessed a slender well-shaped figure,
he might have been the first tragedian on any stage; the heroic, the
great, filled his soul; and yet he had to become a Pulcinella. His
very sorrow and melancholy did but increase the comic dryness of his
sharply-cut features, and increased the laughter of the audience,
who showered plaudits on their favourite. The lovely Columbine was
indeed kind and cordial to him; but she preferred to marry the
Harlequin. It would have been too ridiculous if beauty and ugliness
had in reality paired together.

"When Pulcinella was in very bad spirits, she was the only one who
could force a hearty burst of laughter, or even a smile from him:
first she would be melancholy with him, then quieter, and at last
quite cheerful and happy. 'I know very well what is the matter with
you,' she said; 'yes, you're in love! ' And he could not help laughing.
'I and Love," he cried, "that would have an absurd look. How the
public would shout! ' 'Certainly, you are in love,' she continued;
and added with a comic pathos, 'and I am the person you are in love
with. ' You see, such a thing may be said when it is quite out of the
question--and, indeed, Pulcinella burst out laughing, and gave a
leap into the air, and his melancholy was forgotten.

"And yet she had only spoken the truth. He did love her, love
her adoringly, as he loved what was great and lofty in art. At her
wedding he was the merriest among the guests, but in the stillness
of night he wept: if the public had seen his distorted face then, they
would have applauded rapturously.

"And a few days ago, Columbine died. On the day of the funeral,
Harlequin was not required to show himself on the boards, for he was a
disconsolate widower. The director had to give a very merry piece,
that the public might not too painfully miss the pretty Columbine
and the agile Harlequin. Therefore Pulcinella had to be more
boisterous and extravagant than ever; and he danced and capered,
with despair in his heart; and the audience yelled, and shouted
'bravo, bravissimo! ' Pulcinella was actually called before the
curtain. He was pronounced inimitable.

"But last night the hideous little fellow went out of the town,
quite alone, to the deserted churchyard. The wreath of flowers on
Columbine's grave was already faded, and he sat down there. It was a
study for a painter. As he sat with his chin on his hands, his eyes
turned up towards me, he looked like a grotesque monument--a Punch
on a grave--peculiar and whimsical! If the people could have seen
their favourite, they would have cried as usual, 'Bravo, Pulcinella;
bravo, bravissimo! '"


SIXTEENTH EVENING

Hear what the Moon told me. "I have seen the cadet who had just
been made an officer put on his handsome uniform for the first time; I
have seen the young bride in her wedding dress, and the princess
girl-wife happy in her gorgeous robes; but never have I seen a
felicity equal to that of a little girl of four years old, whom I
watched this evening. She had received a new blue dress, and a new
pink hat, the splendid attire had just been put on, and all were
calling for a candle, for my rays, shining in through the windows of
the room, were not bright enough for the occasion, and further
illumination was required. There stood the little maid, stiff and
upright as a doll, her arms stretched painfully straight out away from
the dress, and her fingers apart; and oh, what happiness beamed from
her eyes, and from her whole countenance! 'To-morrow you shall go
out in your new clothes,' said her mother; and the little one looked
up at her hat, and down at her frock, and smiled brightly. 'Mother,'
she cried, 'what will the little dogs think, when they see me in these
splendid new things? '"


SEVENTEENTH EVENING

"I have spoken to you of Pompeii," said the Moon; "that corpse
of a city, exposed in the view of living towns: I know another sight
still more strange, and this is not the corpse, but the spectre of a
city. Whenever the jetty fountains splash into the marble basins, they
seem to me to be telling the story of the floating city. Yes, the
spouting water may tell of her, the waves of the sea may sing of her
fame! On the surface of the ocean a mist often rests, and that is
her widow's veil. The bridegroom of the sea is dead, his palace and
his city are his mausoleum! Dost thou know this city? She has never
heard the rolling of wheels or the hoof-tread of horses in her
streets, through which the fish swim, while the black gondola glides
spectrally over the green water. I will show you the place," continued
the Moon, "the largest square in it, and you will fancy yourself
transported into the city of a fairy tale. The grass grows rank
among the broad flagstones, and in the morning twilight thousands of
tame pigeons flutter around the solitary lofty tower. On three sides
you find yourself surrounded by cloistered walks. In these the
silent Turk sits smoking his long pipe, the handsome Greek leans
against the pillar and gazes at the upraised trophies and lofty masts,
memorials of power that is gone. The flags hang down like mourning
scarves. A girl rests there: she has put down her heavy pails filled
with water, the yoke with which she has carried them rests on one of
her shoulders, and she leans against the mast of victory. That is
not a fairy palace you see before you yonder, but a church: the gilded
domes and shining orbs flash back my beams; the glorious bronze horses
up yonder have made journeys, like the bronze horse in the fairy tale:
they have come hither, and gone hence, and have returned again. Do you
notice the variegated splendour of the walls and windows? It looks
as if Genius had followed the caprices of a child, in the adornment of
these singular temples. Do you see the winged lion on the pillar?
The gold glitters still, but his wings are tied--the lion is dead, for
the king of the sea is dead; the great halls stand desolate, and where
gorgeous paintings hung of yore, the naked wall now peers through. The
lazzarone sleeps under the arcade, whose pavement in old times was
to be trodden only by the feet of high nobility. From the deep
wells, and perhaps from the prisons by the Bridge of Sighs, rise the
accents of woe, as at the time when the tambourine was heard in the
gay gondolas, and the golden ring was cast from the Bucentaur to
Adria, the queen of the seas. Adria! shroud thyself in mists; let
the veil of thy widowhood shroud thy form, and clothe in the weeds
of woe the mausoleum of thy bridegroom--the marble, spectral Venice. "


EIGHTEENTH EVENING

"I looked down upon a great theatre," said the Moon. "The house
was crowded, for a new actor was to make his first appearance that
night. My rays glided over a little window in the wall, and I saw a
painted face with the forehead pressed against the panes. It was the
hero of the evening. The knighly beard curled crisply about the
chin; but there were tears in the man's eyes, for he had been hissed
off, and indeed with reason. The poor Incapable! But Incapables cannot
be admitted into the empire of Art. He had deep feeling, and loved his
art enthusiastically, but the art loved not him. The prompter's bell
sounded; 'the hero enters with a determined air,' so ran the stage
direction in his part, and he had to appear before an audience who
turned him into ridicule. When the piece was over, I saw a form
wrapped in a mantle, creeping down the steps: it was the vanquished
knight of the evening. The scene-shifters whispered to one another,
and I followed the poor fellow home to his room. To hang one's self is
to die a mean death, and poison is not always at hand, I know; but
he thought of both. I saw how he looked at his pale face in the glass,
with eyes half closed, to see if he should look well as a corpse. A
man may be very unhappy, and yet exceedingly affected. He thought of
death, of suicide; I believe he pitied himself, for he wept
bitterly, and when a man has had his cry out he doesn't kill himself.

"Since that time a year had rolled by. Again a play was to be
acted, but in a little theatre, and by a poor strolling company. Again
I saw the well-remembered face, with the painted cheeks and the
crisp beard. He looked up at me and smiled; and yet he had been hissed
off only a minute before--hissed off from a wretched theatre, by a
miserable audience. And tonight a shabby hearse rolled out of the
town-gate. It was a suicide--our painted, despised hero. The driver of
the hearse was the only person present, for no one followed except
my beams. In a corner of the churchyard the corpse of the suicide
was shovelled into the earth, and nettles will soon be growing
rankly over his grave, and the sexton will throw thorns and weeds from
the other graves upon it. "


NINETEENTH EVENING

"I come from Rome," said the Moon. "In the midst of the city, upon
one of the seven hills, lie the ruins of the imperial palace. The wild
fig tree grows in the clefts of the wall, and covers the nakedness
thereof with its broad grey-green leaves; trampling among heaps of
rubbish, the ass treads upon green laurels, and rejoices over the rank
thistles. From this spot, whence the eagles of Rome once flew
abroad, whence they 'came, saw, and conquered,' our door leads into
a little mean house, built of clay between two pillars; the wild
vine hangs like a mourning garland over the crooked window. An old
woman and her little granddaughter live there: they rule now in the
palace of the Caesars, and show to strangers the remains of its past
glories. Of the splendid throne-hall only a naked wall yet stands, and
a black cypress throws its dark shadow on the spot where the throne
once stood. The dust lies several feet deep on the broken pavement;
and the little maiden, now the daughter of the imperial palace,
often sits there on her stool when the evening bells ring. The keyhole
of the door close by she calls her turret window; through this she can
see half Rome, as far as the mighty cupola of St. Peter's.

"On this evening, as usual, stillness reigned around; and in the
full beam of my light came the little granddaughter. On her head she
carried an earthen pitcher of antique shape filled with water. Her
feet were bare, her short frock and her white sleeves were torn. I
kissed her pretty round shoulders, her dark eyes, and black shining
hair. She mounted the stairs; they were steep, having been made up
of rough blocks of broken marble and the capital of a fallen pillar.
The coloured lizards slipped away, startled, from before her feet, but
she was not frightened at them. Already she lifted her hand to pull
the door-bell--a hare's foot fastened to a string formed the
bell-handle of the imperial palace. She paused for a moment--of what
might she be thinking? Perhaps of the beautiful Christ-child,
dressed in gold and silver, which was down below in the chapel,
where the silver candlesticks gleamed so bright, and where her
little friends sung the hymns in which she also could join? I know
not. Presently she moved again--she stumbled: the earthen vessel
fell from her head, and broke on the marble steps. She burst into
tears. The beautiful daughter of the imperial palace wept over the
worthless broken pitcher; with her bare feet she stood there
weeping; and dared not pull the string, the bell-rope of the
imperial palace! "


TWENTIETH EVENING

It was more than a fortnight since the Moon had shone. Now he
stood once more, round and bright, above the clouds, moving slowly
onward. Hear what the Moon told me.

"From a town in Fezzan I followed a caravan. On the margin of
the sandy desert, in a salt plain, that shone like a frozen lake,
and was only covered in spots with light drifting sand, a halt was
made. The eldest of the company--the water gourd hung at his girdle,
and on his head was a little bag of unleavened bread--drew a square in
the sand with his staff, and wrote in it a few words out of the Koran,
and then the whole caravan passed over the consecrated spot. A young
merchant, a child of the East, as I could tell by his eye and his
figure, rode pensively forward on his white snorting steed. Was he
thinking, perchance, of his fair young wife? It was only two days
ago that the camel, adorned with furs and with costly shawls, had
carried her, the beauteous bride, round the walls of the city, while
drums and cymbals had sounded, the women sang, and festive shots, of
which the bridegroom fired the greatest number, resounded round the
camel; and now he was journeying with the caravan across the desert.

"For many nights I followed the train. I saw them rest by the
wellside among the stunted palms; they thrust the knife into the
breast of the camel that had fallen, and roasted its flesh by the
fire. My beams cooled the glowing sands, and showed them the black
rocks, dead islands in the immense ocean of sand. No hostile tribes
met them in their pathless route, no storms arose, no columns of
sand whirled destruction over the journeying caravan. At home the
beautiful wife prayed for her husband and her father. 'Are they dead? '
she asked of my golden crescent; 'Are they dead? ' she cried to my full
disc. Now the desert lies behind them. This evening they sit beneath
the lofty palm trees, where the crane flutters round them with its
long wings, and the pelican watches them from the branches of the
mimosa. The luxuriant herbage is trampled down, crushed by the feet of
elephants. A troop of negroes are returning from a market in the
interior of the land: the women, with copper buttons in their black
hair, and decked out in clothes dyed with indigo, drive the
heavily-laden oxen, on whose backs slumber the naked black children. A
negro leads a young lion which he has brought, by a string. They
approach the caravan; the young merchant sits pensive and
motionless, thinking of his beautiful wife, dreaming, in the land of
the blacks, of his white lily beyond the desert. He raises his head,
and--" But at this moment a cloud passed before the Moon, and then
another. I heard nothing more from him this evening.


TWENTY-FIRST EVENING

"I saw a little girl weeping," said the Moon; "she was weeping
over the depravity of the world. She had received a most beautiful
doll as a present. Oh, that was a glorious doll, so fair and delicate!
She did not seem created for the sorrows of this world. But the
brothers of the little girl, those great naughty boys, had set the
doll high up in the branches of a tree and had run away.

"The little girl could not reach up to the doll, and could not
help her down, and that is why she was crying. The doll must certainly
have been crying too, for she stretched out her arms among the green
branches, and looked quite mournful. Yes, these are the troubles of
life of which the little girl had often heard tell. Alas, poor doll!
it began to grow dark already; and suppose night were to come on
completely! Was she to be left sitting on the bough all night long?
No, the little maid could not make up her mind to that. 'I'll stay
with you,' she said, although she felt anything but happy in her mind.
She could almost fancy she distinctly saw little gnomes, with their
high-crowned hats, sitting in the bushes; and further back in the long
walk, tall spectres appeared to be dancing. They came nearer and
nearer, and stretched out their hands towards the tree on which the
doll sat; they laughed scornfully, and pointed at her with their
fingers. Oh, how frightened the little maid was! 'But if one has not
done anything wrong,' she thought, 'nothing evil can harm one. I
wonder if I have done anything wrong? ' And she considered. 'Oh, yes! I
laughed at the poor duck with the red rag on her leg; she limped along
so funnily, I could not help laughing; but it's a sin to laugh at
animals. ' And she looked up at the doll.