a24-第4章

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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；　tra