WHAT THE MOON SAW

                                  1872

                 FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

                           WHAT THE MOON SAW

                       by Hans Christian Andersen

INTRODUCTION

                      INTRODUCTION



IT is a strange thing, 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.

                     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 etherial 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 her 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!"

                     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 willful 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 ballroom: 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 tonight 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 has 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."

                     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 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. 'Did you laugh at the duck

too?' she asked; and it seemed as if the doll shook her head."

                     TWENTY-SECOND EVENING



"I looked down upon Tyrol," said the Moon, "and my beams caused

the dark pines to throw long shadows upon the rocks. I looked at the

pictures of St. Christopher carrying the Infant Jesus that are painted

there upon the walls of the houses, colossal figures reaching from the

ground to the roof. St. Florian was represented pouring water on the

burning house, and the Lord hung bleeding on the great cross by the

wayside. To the present generation these are old pictures, but I saw

when they were put up, and marked how one followed the other. On the

brow of the mountain yonder is perched, like a swallow's nest, a

lonely convent of nuns. Two of the sisters stood up in the tower

tolling the bell; they were both young, and therefore their glances

flew over the mountain out into the world. A travelling coach passed

by below, the postillion wound his horn, and the poor nuns looked

after the carriage for a moment with a mournful glance, and a tear

gleamed in the eyes of the younger one. And the horn sounded faint and

more faintly, and the convent bell drowned its expiring echoes."

                     TWENTY-THIRD EVENING



Hear what the Moon told me. "Some years ago, here in Copenhagen, I

looked through the window of a mean little room. The father and mother

slept, but the little son was not asleep. I saw the flowered cotton

curtains of the bed move, and the child peep forth. At first I thought

he was looking at the great clock, which was gaily painted in red

and green. At the top sat a cuckoo, below hung the heavy leaden

weights, and the pendulum with the polished disc of metal went to

and fro, and said 'tick, tick.' But no, he was not looking at the

clock, but at his mother's spinning wheel, that stood just

underneath it. That was the boy's favourite piece of furniture, but he

dared not touch it, for if he meddled with it he got a rap on the

knuckles. For hours together, when his mother was spinning, he would

sit quietly by her side, watching the murmuring spindle and the

revolving wheel, and as he sat he thought of many things. Oh, if he

might only turn the wheel himself! Father and mother were asleep; he

looked at them, and looked at the spinning wheel, and presently a

little naked foot peered out of the bed, and then a second foot, and

then two little white legs. There he stood. He looked round once more,

to see if father and mother were still asleep- yes, they slept; and

now he crept softly, softly, in his short little nightgown, to the

spinning wheel, and began to spin. The thread flew from the wheel, and

the wheel whirled faster and faster. I kissed his fair hair and his

blue eyes, it was such a pretty picture.

"At that moment the mother awoke. The curtain shook, she looked

forth, and fancied she saw a gnome or some other kind of little

spectre. 'In Heaven's name!' she cried, and aroused her husband in a

frightened way. He opened his eyes, rubbed them with his hands, and

looked at the brisk little lad. 'Why, that is Bertel,' said he. And my

eye quitted the poor room, for I have so much to see. At the same

moment I looked at the halls of the Vatican, where the marble gods are

enthroned. I shone upon the group of the Laocoon; the stone seemed

to sigh. I pressed a silent kiss on the lips of the Muses, and they

seemed to stir and move. But my rays lingered longest about the Nile

group with the colossal god. Leaning against the Sphinx, he lies there

thoughtful and meditative, as if he were thinking on the rolling

centuries; and little love-gods sport with him and with the

crocodiles. In the horn of plenty sat with folded arms a little tiny

love-god, contemplating the great solemn river-god, a true picture

of the boy at the spinning wheel- the features were exactly the

same. Charming and life-like stood the little marble form, and yet the

wheel of the year has turned more than a thousand times since the time

when it sprang forth from the stone. Just as often as the boy in the

little room turned the spinning wheel had the great wheel murmured,

before the age could again call forth marble gods equal to those he

afterwards formed.

"Years have passed since all this happened," the Moon went on to

say. "Yesterday I looked upon a bay on the eastern coast of Denmark.

Glorious woods are there, and high trees, an old knightly castle

with red walls, swans floating in the ponds, and in the background

appears, among orchards, a little town with a church. Many boats,

the crews all furnished with torches, glided over the silent

expanse- but these fires had not been kindled for catching fish, for

everything had a festive look. Music sounded, a song was sung, and

in one of the boats the man stood erect to whom homage was paid by the

rest, a tall sturdy man, wrapped in a cloak. He had blue eyes and long

white hair. I knew him, and thought of the Vatican, and of the group

of the Nile, and the old marble gods. I thought of the simple little

room where little Bertel sat in his night-shirt by the spinning wheel.

The wheel of time has turned, and new gods have come forth from the

stone. From the boats there arose a shout: 'Hurrah, hurrah for

Bertel Thorwaldsen!'"

                     TWENTY-FOURTH EVENING



"I will now give you a picture from Frankfort," said the Moon.

"I especially noticed one building there. It was not the house in

which Goethe was born, nor the old Council House, through whose grated

windows peered the horns of the oxen that were roasted and given to

the people when the emperors were crowned. No, it was a private house,

plain in appearance, and painted green. It stood near the old Jews'

Street. It was Rothschild's house.

"I looked through the open door. The staircase was brilliantly

lighted: servants carrying wax candles in massive silver

candlesticks stood there, and bowed low before an old woman, who was

being brought downstairs in a litter. The proprietor of the house

stood bare-headed, and respectfully imprinted a kiss on the hand of

the old woman. She was his mother. She nodded in a friendly manner

to him and to the servants, and they carried her into the dark

narrow street, into a little house, that was her dwelling. Here her

children had been born, from hence the fortune of the family had

arisen. If she deserted the despised street and the little house,

fortune would also desert her children. That was her firm belief."

The Moon told me no more; his visit this evening was far too

short. But I thought of the old woman in the narrow despised street.

It would have cost her but a word, and a brilliant house would have

arisen for her on the banks of the Thames- a word, and a villa would

have been prepared in the Bay of Naples.

"If I deserted the lowly house, where the fortunes of my sons

first began to bloom, fortune would desert them!" It was a

superstition, but a superstition of such a class, that he who knows

the story and has seen this picture, need have only two words placed

under the picture to make him understand it; and these two words

are: "A mother."

                     TWENTY-FIFTH EVENING



"It was yesterday, in the morning twilight"- these are the words

the Moon told me- "in the great city no chimney was yet smoking- and

it was just at the chimneys that I was looking. Suddenly a little head

emerged from one of them, and then half a body, the arms resting on

the rim of the chimney-pot. 'Ya-hip! ya-hip!' cried a voice. It was

the little chimney-sweeper, who had for the first time in his life

crept through a chimney, and stuck out his head at the top. 'Ya-hip!

ya-hip' Yes, certainly that was a very different thing to creeping

about in the dark narrow chimneys! the air blew so fresh, and he could

look over the whole city towards the green wood. The sun was just

rising. It shone round and great, just in his face, that beamed with

triumph, though it was very prettily blacked with soot.

"'The whole town can see me now,' he exclaimed, 'and the moon

can see me now, and the sun too. Ya-hip! ya-hip!' And he flourished

his broom in triumph."

                     TWENTY-SIXTH EVENING



"Last night I looked down upon a town in China," said the Moon.

"My beams irradiated the naked walls that form the streets there.

Now and then, certainly, a door is seen; but it is locked, for what

does the Chinaman care about the outer world? Close wooden shutters

covered the windows behind the walls of the houses; but through the

windows of the temple a faint light glimmered. I looked in, and saw

the quaint decorations within. From the floor to the ceiling

pictures are painted, in the most glaring colours, and richly gilt-

pictures representing the deeds of the gods here on earth. In each

niche statues are placed, but they are almost entirely hidden by the

coloured drapery and the banners that hang down. Before each idol (and

they are all made of tin) stood a little altar of holy water, with

flowers and burning wax lights on it. Above all the rest stood Fo, the

chief deity, clad in a garment of yellow silk, for yellow is here

the sacred colour. At the foot of the altar sat a living being, a

young priest. He appeared to be praying, but in the midst of his

prayer he seemed to fall into deep thought, and this must have been

wrong, for his cheeks glowed and he held down his head. Poor

Soui-Hong! Was he, perhaps, dreaming of working in the little flower

garden behind the high street wall? And did that occupation seem

more agreeable to him than watching the wax lights in the temple? Or

did he wish to sit at the rich feast, wiping his mouth with silver

paper between each course? Or was his sin so great that, if he dared

utter it, the Celestial Empire would punish it with death? Had his

thoughts ventured to fly with the ships of the barbarians, to their

homes in far distant England? No, his thoughts did not fly so far, and

yet they were sinful, sinful as thoughts born of young hearts,

sinful here in the temple, in the presence of Fo and the other holy

gods.

"I know whither his thoughts had strayed. At the farther end of

the city, on the flat roof paved with porcelain, on which stood the

handsome vases covered with painted flowers, sat the beauteous Pu,

of the little roguish eyes, of the full lips, and of the tiny feet.

The tight shoe pained her, but her heart pained her still more. She

lifted her graceful round arm, and her satin dress rustled. Before her

stood a glass bowl containing four gold-fish. She stirred the bowl

carefully with a slender lacquered stick, very slowly, for she, too,

was lost in thought. Was she thinking, perchance, how the fishes

were richly clothed in gold, how they lived calmly and peacefully in

their crystal world, how they were regularly fed, and yet how much

happier they might be if they were free? Yes, that she could well

understand, the beautiful Pu. Her thoughts wandered away from her

home, wandered to the temple, but not for the sake of holy things.

Poor Pu! Poor Soui-hong!

"Their earthly thoughts met, but my cold beam lay between the two,

like the sword of the cherub."

                     TWENTY-SEVENTH EVENING



"The air was calm," said the Moon; "the water was transparent as

the purest ether through which I was gliding, and deep below the

surface I could see the strange plants that stretched up their long

arms towards me like the gigantic trees of the forest. The fishes swam

to and fro above their tops. High in the air a flight of wild swans

were winging their way, one of which sank lower and lower, with

wearied pinions, his eyes following the airy caravan, that melted

farther and farther into the distance. With outspread wings he sank

slowly, as a soap bubble sinks in the still air, till he touched the

water. At length his head lay back between his wings, and silently

he lay there, like a white lotus flower upon the quiet lake. And a

gentle wind arose, and crisped the quiet surface, which gleamed like

the clouds that poured along in great broad waves; and the swan raised

his head, and the glowing water splashed like blue fire over his

breast and back. The morning dawn illuminated the red clouds, the swan

rose strengthened, and flew towards the rising sun, towards the bluish

coast whither the caravan had gone; but he flew alone, with a

longing in his breast. Lonely he flew over the blue swelling billows."

                     TWENTY-EIGHTH EVENING



"I will give you another picture of Sweden," said the Moon. "Among

dark pine woods, near the melancholy banks of the Stoxen, lies the old

convent church of Wreta. My rays glided through the grating into the

roomy vaults, where kings sleep tranquilly in great stone coffins.

On the wall, above the grave of each, is placed the emblem of

earthly grandeur, a kingly crown; but it is made only of wood, painted

and gilt, and is hung on a wooden peg driven into the wall. The

worms have gnawed the gilded wood, the spider has spun her web from

the crown down to the sand, like a mourning banner, frail and

transient as the grief of mortals. How quietly they sleep! I can

remember them quite plainly. I still see the bold smile on their lips,

that so strongly and plainly expressed joy or grief. When the

steamboat winds along like a magic snail over the lakes, a stranger

often comes to the church, and visits the burial vault; he asks the

names of the kings, and they have a dead and forgotten sound. He

glances with a smile at the worm-eaten crowns, and if he happens to be

a pious, thoughtful man, something of melancholy mingles with the

smile. Slumber on, ye dead ones! The Moon thinks of you, the Moon at

night sends down his rays into your silent kingdom, over which hangs

the crown of pine wood."

                     TWENTY-NINTH EVENING



"Close by the high-road," said the Moon, "is an inn, and

opposite to it is a great waggon-shed, whose straw roof was just being

re-thatched. I looked down between the bare rafters and through the

open loft into the comfortless space below. The turkey-cock slept on

the beam, and the saddle rested in the empty crib. In the middle of

the shed stood a travelling carriage; the proprietor was inside,

fast asleep, while the horses were being watered. The coachman

stretched himself, though I am very sure that he had been most

comfortably asleep half the last stage. The door of the servants' room

stood open, and the bed looked as if it had been turned over and over;

the candle stood on the floor, and had burnt deep down into the

socket. The wind blew cold through the shed: it was nearer to the dawn

than to midnight. In the wooden frame on the ground slept a wandering

family of musicians. The father and mother seemed to be dreaming of

the burning liquor that remained in the bottle. The little pale

daughter was dreaming too, for her eyes were wet with tears. The harp

stood at their heads, and the dog lay stretched at their feet."

                     THIRTIETH EVENING



"It was in a little provincial town," the Moon said; "it certainly

happened last year, but that has nothing to do with the matter. I

saw it quite plainly. To-day I read about it in the papers, but

there it was not half so clearly expressed. In the taproom of the

little inn sat the bear leader, eating his supper; the bear was tied

up outside, behind the wood pile- poor Bruin, who did nobody any harm,

though he looked grim enough. Up in the garret three little children

were playing by the light of my beams; the eldest was perhaps six

years old, the youngest certainly not more than two. 'Tramp, tramp'-

somebody was coming upstairs: who might it be? The door was thrust

open- it was Bruin, the great, shaggy Bruin! He had got tired of

waiting down in the courtyard, and had found his way to the stairs.

I saw it all," said the Moon. "The children were very much

frightened at first at the great shaggy animal; each of them crept

into a corner, but he found them all out, and smelt at them, but did

them no harm. 'This must be a great dog,' they said, and began to

stroke him. He lay down upon the ground, the youngest boy clambered on

his back, and bending down a little head of golden curls, played at

hiding in the beast's shaggy skin. Presently the eldest boy took his

drum, and beat upon it till it rattled again; the bear rose upon his

hind legs, and began to dance. It was a charming sight to behold. Each

boy now took his gun, and the bear was obliged to have one too, and he

held it up quite properly. Here was a capital playmate they had found;

and they began marching- one, two; one, two.

"Suddenly some one came to the door, which opened, and the

mother of the children appeared. You should have seen her in her

dumb terror, with her face as white as chalk, her mouth half open, and

her eyes fixed in a horrified stare. But the youngest boy nodded to

her in great glee, and called out in his infantile prattle, 'We're

playing at soldiers.' And then the bear leader came running up."

                     THIRTY-FIRST EVENING



The wind blew stormy and cold, the clouds flew hurriedly past;

only for a moment now and then did the Moon become visible. He said,

"I looked down from the silent sky upon the driving clouds, and saw

the great shadows chasing each other across the earth. I looked upon a

prison. A closed carriage stood before it; a prisoner was to be

carried away. My rays pierced through the grated window towards the

wall; the prisoner was scratching a few lines upon it, as a parting

token; but he did not write words, but a melody, the outpouring of his

heart. The door was opened, and he was led forth, and fixed his eyes

upon my round disc. Clouds passed between us, as if he were not to see

his face, nor I his. He stepped into the carriage, the door was

closed, the whip cracked, and the horses gallopped off into the

thick forest, whither my rays were not able to follow him; but as I

glanced through the grated window, my rays glided over the notes,

his last farewell engraved on the prison wall- where words fail,

sounds can often speak. My rays could only light up isolated notes, so

the greater part of what was written there will ever remain dark to

me. Was it the death-hymn he wrote there? Were these the glad notes of

joy? Did he drive away to meet death, or hasten to the embraces of his

beloved? The rays of the Moon do not read all that is written by

mortals."

                     THIRTY-SECOND EVENING



"I love the children," said the Moon, "especially the quite little

ones- they are so droll. Sometimes I peep into the room, between the

curtain and the window frame, when they are not thinking of me. It

gives me pleasure to see them dressing and undressing. First, the

little round naked shoulder comes creeping out of the frock, then

the arm; or I see how the stocking is drawn off, and a plump little

white leg makes its appearance, and a white little foot that is fit to

be kissed, and I kiss it too.

"But about what I was going to tell you. This evening I looked

through a window, before which no curtain was drawn, for nobody

lives opposite. I saw a whole troop of little ones, all of one family,

and among them was a little sister. She is only four years old, but

can say her prayers as well as any of the rest. The mother sits by her

bed every evening, and hears her say her prayers; and then she has a

kiss, and the mother sits by the bed till the little one has gone to

sleep, which generally happens as soon as ever she can close her eyes.

"This evening the two elder children were a little boisterous. One

of them hopped about on one leg in his long white nightgown, and the

other stood on a chair surrounded by the clothes of all the

children, and declared he was acting Grecian statues. The third and

fourth laid the clean linen carefully in the box, for that is a

thing that has to be done; and the mother sat by the bed of the

youngest, and announced to all the rest that they were to be quiet,

for little sister was going to say her prayers.

"I looked in, over the lamp, into the little maiden's bed, where

she lay under the neat white coverlet, her hands folded demurely and

her little face quite grave and serious. She was praying the Lord's

prayer aloud. But her mother interrupted her in the middle of her

prayer. 'How is it,' she asked, 'that when you have prayed for daily

bread, you always add something I cannot understand? You must tell

me what that is.' The little one lay silent, and looked at her

mother in embarrassment. 'What is it you say after our daily bread?'

'Dear mother, don't be angry: I only said, and plenty of butter on

it.'"

                          THE END

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