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[Illustration: WALDEMAR DAA AND HIS DAUGHTERS. p. 122.]
WHAT THE MOON SAW:
AND OTHER TALES.
BY
HANS C. ANDERSEN.
TRANSLATED BY
H. W. DULCKEN, PH.D.
WITH EIGHTY ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. W. BAYES,
ENGRAVED BY THE BROTHERS DALZIEL.
LONDON:
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,
BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL.
1866.
* * * * *
_Uniform with_ "WHAT THE MOON SAW, and Other Tales," _price 5s.,
extra cloth, on fine toned paper_,
STORIES AND TALES
BY
HANS C. ANDERSEN.
TRANSLATED BY H. W. DULCKEN, PH.D.
EIGHTY ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. W. BAYES.
ENGRAVED BY THE BROTHERS DALZIEL.
*** _The two volumes,_ "STORIES AND TALES" _and_ "WHAT THE MOON SAW,"
_form the most complete collection of_ HANS C. ANDERSEN'S _Tales
published in this country._
* * * * *
PREFACE.
The present book is put forth as a sequel to the volume of HANS C.
ANDERSEN'S "Stories and Tales," published in a similar form in the
course of 1864. It contains tales and sketches various in character;
and following, as it does, an earlier volume, care has been taken to
intersperse with the children's tales stories which, by their graver
character and deeper meaning, are calculated to interest those
"children of a larger growth" who can find instruction as well as
amusement in the play of fancy and imagination, though the realm be
that of fiction, and the instruction be conveyed in a simple form.
The series of sketches of "What the Moon Saw," with which the present
volume opens, arose from the experiences of ANDERSEN, when as a youth
he went to seek his fortune in the capital of his native land; and the
story entitled "Under the Willow Tree" is said likewise to have its
foundation in fact; indeed, it seems redolent of the truth of that
natural human love and suffering which is so truly said to "make the
whole world kin."
On the preparation and embellishment of the book, the same care and
attention have been lavished as on the preceding volume. The pencil of
Mr. BAYES and the graver of the BROTHERS DALZIEL have again been
employed in the work of illustration; and it is hoped that the favour
bestowed by the public on the former volume may be extended to this
its successor.
H. W. D.
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
PAGE
What the Moon Saw 1
The Story of the Year 40
She was Good for Nothing 48
"There is a Difference" 55
Everything in its Right Place 59
The Goblin and the Huckster 66
In a Thousand Years 70
The Bond of Friendship 72
Jack the Dullard. An Old Story told Anew 81
Something 86
Under the Willow Tree 92
The Beetle 107
What the Old Man does is always Right 114
The Wind tells about Waldemar Daa and his Daughters 120
Ib and Christine 130
Ole the Tower-Keeper 142
The Bottle-Neck 151
Good Humour 161
A Leaf from the Sky 165
The Dumb Book 168
The Jewish Girl 171
The Thorny Road of Honour 176
The Old Gravestone 180
The Old Bachelor's Nightcap 184
The Marsh King's Daughter 196
The Last Dream of the Old Oak Tree. A Christmas Tale 238
The Bell-deep 244
The Puppet Showman 247
The Pigs 251
Anne Lisbeth 254
Charming 265
In the Duck-yard 272
The Girl who Trod on the Loaf 277
A Story from the Sand-dunes 285
The Bishop of Boerglum and his Warriors 316
The Snow Man 323
Two Maidens 328
The Farmyard Cock and the Weathercock 330
The Pen and Inkstand 332
The Child in the Grave 334
Soup on a Sausage-Peg 339
The Stone of the Wise Men 353
The Butterfly 367
In the Uttermost Parts of the Sea 369
The Phoenix Bird 371
* * * * *
WHAT THE MOON SAW.
[Illustration: MY POST OF OBSERVATION.]
INTRODUCTION.
It is a strange thing, that when I feel most fervently and most
deeply, my hands and my tongue seem alike tied, so that I cannot
rightly describe or accurately portray the thoughts that are rising
within me; and yet I am a painter: my eye tells me as much as that,
and all my friends who have seen my sketches and fancies say the same.
I am a poor lad, and live in one of the narrowest of lanes; but I do
not want for light, as my room is high up in the house, with an
extensive prospect over the neighbouring roofs. During the first few
days I went to live in the town, I felt low-spirited and solitary
enough. Instead of the forest and the green hills of former days, I
had here only a forest of chimney-pots to look out upon. And then I
had not a single friend; not one familiar face greeted me.
So one evening I sat at the window, in a desponding mood; and
presently I opened the casement and looked out. Oh, how my heart
leaped up with joy! Here was a well-known face at last--a round,
friendly countenance, the face of a good friend I had known at home.
In, fact it was the MOON that looked in upon me. He was quite
unchanged, the dear old Moon, and had the same face exactly that he
used to show when he peered down upon me through the willow trees on
the moor. I kissed my hand to him over and over again, as he shone far
into my little room; and he, for his part, promised me that every
evening, when he came abroad, he would look in upon me for a few
moments. This promise he has faithfully kept. It is a pity that he can
only stay such a short time when he comes. Whenever he appears, he
tells me of one thing or another that he has seen on the previous
night, or on that same evening. "Just paint the scenes I describe to
you"--this is what he said to me--"and you will have a very pretty
picture-book." I have followed his injunction for many evenings. I
could make up a new "Thousand and One Nights," in my own way, out of
these pictures, but the number might be too great, after all. The
pictures I have here given have not been chosen at random, but follow
in their proper order, just as they were described to me. Some great
gifted painter, or some poet or musician, may make something more of
them if he likes; what I have given here are only hasty sketches,
hurriedly put upon the paper, with some of my own thoughts
interspersed; for the Moon did not come to me every evening--a cloud
sometimes hid his face from me.
[Illustration: THE INDIAN GIRL.]
FIRST EVENING.
"Last night"--I am quoting the Moon's own words--"last night I was
gliding through the cloudless Indian sky. My face was mirrored in the
waters of the Ganges, and my beams strove to pierce through the thick
intertwining boughs of the bananas, arching beneath me like the
tortoise's shell. Forth from the thicket tripped a Hindoo maid, light
as a gazelle, beautiful as Eve. Airy and ethereal as a vision, and yet
sharply defined amid the surrounding shadows, stood this daughter of
Hindostan: I could read on her delicate brow the thought that had
brought her hither. The thorny creeping plants tore her sandals, but
for all that she came rapidly forward. The deer that had come down to
the river to quench their thirst, sprang by with a startled bound, for
in her hand the maiden bore a lighted lamp. I could see the blood in
her delicate finger tips, as she spread them for a screen before the
dancing flame. She came down to the stream, and set the lamp upon the
water, and let it float away. The flame flickered to and fro, and
seemed ready to expire; but still the lamp burned on, and the girl's
black sparkling eyes, half veiled behind their long silken lashes,
followed it with a gaze of earnest intensity. She knew that if the
lamp continued to burn so long as she could keep it in sight, her
betrothed was still alive; but if the lamp was suddenly extinguished,
he was dead. And the lamp burned bravely on, and she fell on her
knees, and prayed. Near her in the grass lay a speckled snake, but she
heeded it not--she thought only of Bramah and of her betrothed. 'He
lives!' she shouted joyfully, 'he lives!' And from the mountains the
echo came back upon her, 'he lives!'"
[Illustration: THE LITTLE GIRL AND THE CHICKENS.]
SECOND EVENING.
"Yesterday," said the Moon to me, "I looked down upon a small
courtyard surrounded on all sides by houses. In the courtyard sat a
clucking hen with eleven chickens; and a pretty little girl was
running and jumping around them. The hen was frightened, and screamed,
and spread out her wings over the little brood. Then the girl's father
came out and scolded her; and I glided away and thought no more of
the matter.
"But this evening, only a few minutes ago, I looked down into the same
courtyard. Everything was quiet. But presently the little girl came
forth again, crept quietly to the hen-house, pushed back the bolt, and
slipped into the apartment of the hen and chickens. They cried out
loudly, and came fluttering down from their perches, and ran about in
dismay, and the little girl ran after them. I saw it quite plainly,
for I looked through a hole in the hen-house wall. I was angry with
the wilful child, and felt glad when her father came out and scolded
her more violently than yesterday, holding her roughly by the arm: she
held down her head, and her blue eyes were full of large tears. 'What
are you about here?' he asked. She wept and said, 'I wanted to kiss
the hen and beg her pardon for frightening her yesterday; but I was
afraid to tell you.'
"And the father kissed the innocent child's forehead, and I kissed her
on the mouth and eyes."
THIRD EVENING.
"In the narrow street round the corner yonder--it is so narrow that my
beams can only glide for a minute along the walls of the house, but in
that minute I see enough to learn what the world is made of--in that
narrow street I saw a woman. Sixteen years ago that woman was a child,
playing in the garden of the old parsonage, in the country. The hedges
of rose-bush were old, and the flowers were faded. They straggled wild
over the paths, and the ragged branches grew up among the boughs of
the apple trees; here and there were a few roses still in bloom--not
so fair as the queen of flowers generally appears, but still they had
colour and scent too. The clergyman's little daughter appeared to me a
far lovelier rose, as she sat on her stool under the straggling hedge,
hugging and caressing her doll with the battered pasteboard cheeks.
"Ten years afterwards I saw her again. I beheld her in a splendid
ball-room: she was the beautiful bride of a rich merchant. I rejoiced
at her happiness, and sought her on calm quiet evenings--ah, nobody
thinks of my clear eye and my silent glance! Alas! my rose ran wild,
like the rose bushes in the garden of the parsonage. There are
tragedies in every-day life, and to-night I saw the last act of one.
"She was lying in bed in a house in that narrow street: she was sick
unto death, and the cruel landlord came up, and tore away the thin
coverlet, her only protection against the cold. 'Get up!' said he;
'your face is enough to frighten one. Get up and dress yourself, give
me money, or I'll turn you out into the street! Quick--get up!' She
answered, 'Alas! death is gnawing at my heart. Let me rest.' But he
forced her to get up and bathe her face, and put a wreath of roses in
her hair; and he placed her in a chair at the window, with a candle
burning beside her, and went away.
"I looked at her, and she was sitting motionless, with her hands in
her lap. The wind caught the open window and shut it with a crash, so
that a pane came clattering down in fragments; but still she never
moved. The curtain caught fire, and the flames played about her face;
and I saw that she was dead. There at the open window sat the dead
woman, preaching a sermon against _sin_--my poor faded rose out of the
parsonage garden!"
FOURTH EVENING.
"This evening I saw a German play acted," said the Moon. "It was in a
little town. A stable had been turned into a theatre; that is to say,
the stable had been left standing, and had been turned into private
boxes, and all the timber work had been covered with coloured paper. A
little iron chandelier hung beneath the ceiling, and that it might be
made to disappear into the ceiling, as it does in great theatres, when
the _ting-ting_ of the prompter's bell is heard, a great inverted tub
had been placed just above it.
"'_Ting-ting!_' and the little iron chandelier suddenly rose at least
half a yard and disappeared in the tub; and that was the sign that the
play was going to begin. A young nobleman and his lady, who happened
to be passing through the little town, were present at the
performance, and consequently the house was crowded. But under the
chandelier was a vacant space like a little crater: not a single soul
sat there, for the tallow was dropping, drip, drip! I saw everything,
for it was so warm in there that every loophole had been opened. The
male and female servants stood outside, peeping through the chinks,
although a real policeman was inside, threatening them with a stick.
Close by the orchestra could be seen the noble young couple in two old
arm-chairs, which were usually occupied by his worship the mayor and
his lady; but these latter were to-day obliged to content themselves
with wooden forms, just as if they had been ordinary citizens; and the
lady observed quietly to herself, 'One sees, now, that there is rank
above rank;' and this incident gave an air of extra festivity to the
whole proceedings. The chandelier gave little leaps, the crowd got
their knuckles rapped, and I, the Moon, was present at the performance
from beginning to end."
[Illustration: THE PLAY IN A STABLE.]
FIFTH EVENING.
"Yesterday," began the Moon, "I looked down upon the turmoil of Paris.
My eye penetrated into an apartment of the Louvre. An old grandmother,
poorly clad--she belonged to the working class--was following one of
the under-servants into the great empty throne-room, for this was the
apartment she wanted to see--that she was resolved to see; it had cost
her many a little sacrifice, and many a coaxing word, to penetrate
thus far. She folded her thin hands, and looked round with an air of
reverence, as if she had been in a church.
"'Here it was!' she said, 'here!' And she approached the throne, from
which hung the rich velvet fringed with gold lace. 'There,' she
exclaimed, 'there!' and she knelt and kissed the purple carpet. I
think she was actually weeping.
"'But it was not _this very_ velvet!' observed the footman, and a
smile played about his mouth. 'True, but it was this very place,'
replied the woman, 'and it must have looked just like this.' 'It
looked so, and yet it did not,' observed the man: 'the windows were
beaten in, and the doors were off their hinges, and there was blood
upon the floor.' 'But for all that you can say, my grandson died upon
the throne of France. Died!' mournfully repeated the old woman. I do
not think another word was spoken, and they soon quitted the hall. The
evening twilight faded, and my light shone doubly vivid upon the rich
velvet that covered the throne of France.
"Now, who do you think this poor woman was? Listen, I will tell you a
story.
"It happened, in the Revolution of July, on the evening of the most
brilliantly victorious day, when every house was a fortress, every
window a breastwork. The people stormed the Tuileries. Even women and
children were to be found among the combatants. 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 lay 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.[1] 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!
[Footnote 1: Travellers on the Continent have frequent opportunities
of seeing how universally this custom prevails among travellers. In
some places on the Rhine, pots of paint and brushes are offered by the
natives to the traveller desirous of "immortalising" himself.]
"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[2] lies there, and the sloe
and blackthorn grow luxuriantly among the stones. Here is true poetry
in nature.
[Footnote 2: Large mounds similar to the "barrows" found in Britain,
are thus designated in Germany and the North.]
"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."
[Illustration: THE POOR GIRL RESTS ON THE HUN'S GRAVE.]
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. To-night 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 souls 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 fell: 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 sowing 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.
[Illustration: THE OLD MAID.]
"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 grey-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 commonplace 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 is 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
farmhouses. 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 neighbours 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 neighbour told me the same thing, but she laughed when
she said it, and so I asked her if she could say 'On my honour,' and
she could not; and I know by that that the story about the storks is
not true, and that they only tell it to us children for fun.'
"'But where do the 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.
[Illustration: WATCHING THE STORK.]
"'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 Lueneburg 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."
[Illustration: PULCINELLA ON COLUMBINE'S GRAVE.]
FIFTEENTH EVENING.
"I know a Pulcinella,"[3] 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.
[Footnote 3: The comic or grotesque character of the Italian ballet,
from which the English "Punch" takes his origin.]
"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 knightly 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 to-night 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.