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
