安徒生童話故事第81篇：沒有畫的畫冊What the Moon Saw

　　引導語：畫冊是沒有畫，那是不是很不可思議呢?下面是小編整理的相關的安徒生童話故事，有中英文版本的，歡迎大家閱讀!

　　前 記

　　說起來也真奇怪!當我感覺得最溫暖和最愉快的時候，我的雙手和舌頭就好像有了束縛，使我不能表達和說出我內心所起的思想。然而我卻是一個畫家呢。我的眼睛這樣告訴我;看到過我的速寫和畫的人也都這樣承認。

　　我是一個窮苦的孩子。我的住處是在最狹的一條巷子里，但我并不是看不到陽光，因為我住在頂高的一層樓上，可以望見所有的屋頂。在我初來到城里的幾天，我感到非常郁悶和寂寞。我在這兒看不到樹林和青山，我看到的只是一起灰色的煙囪。我在這兒沒有一個朋友，沒有一個熟識的面孔和我打招呼。

　　有一天晚上我悲哀地站在窗子面前;我把窗扉打開，朝外邊眺望。啊，我多么高興啊!我總算是看到了一個很熟識的面孔——一個圓圓的、和藹的面孔，一個我在故鄉所熟識的朋友：這就是月亮，親愛的老月亮。他一點也沒有改變，完全跟他從前透過沼澤地上的柳樹葉子來窺望我時的神情一樣。我用手向他飛吻，他直接照進我的房間里來。他答應，在他每次出來的時候，他一定探望我幾分鐘。他忠誠地保持了這個諾言。可惜的是，他停留的時間是那么短促。他每次來的時候，他就告訴我一些他頭天晚上或當天晚上所看見的東西。

　　“把我所講給你的事情畫下來吧!”他第一次來訪的時候說，“這樣你就可以有一本很美的畫冊了。”

　　有好幾天晚上我遵守了他的忠告。我可以繪出我的《新一千零一夜》，不過那也許是太沉悶了。我在這兒所作的一些畫都沒有經過選擇，它們是依照我所聽到的樣子繪下來的。任何偉大的天才畫家、詩人、或音樂家，假如高興的話，可以根據這些畫創造出新的東西。我在這兒所作的不過是在紙上涂下的一些輪廓而已，中間當然也有些我個人的想象;這是因為月亮并沒有每晚來看我——有時一兩塊烏云遮住了他的面孔。

　　第一夜

　　“昨夜”，這是月亮自己說的話，“昨夜我滑過晴朗無云的印度天空。我的面孔映在恒河的水上;我的光線盡量地透進那些濃密地交織著的梧桐樹的枝葉——它們伏在下面，像烏龜的背殼。一位印度姑娘從這濃密的樹林走出來了。她輕巧得像瞪羚①，美麗得像夏娃②。這位印度女兒是那么輕靈，但同時又是那么豐滿。我可以透過她細嫩的皮膚看出她的思想。多刺的蔓藤撕開了她的草履;但是她仍然在大步地向前行走。在河旁飲完了水而走過來的野獸，驚恐地逃開了，因為這姑娘手中擎著一盞燃著的燈。當她伸開手為燈火擋住風的時候，我可以看到她柔嫩手指上的脈紋。她走到河旁邊，把燈放在水上，讓它漂走。燈光在閃動著，好像是想要熄滅的樣子。可是它還是在燃著，這位姑娘一對亮晶晶的烏黑眼珠，隱隱地藏在絲一樣長的睫毛后面，緊張地凝視著這盞燈。她知道得很清楚：如果這盞燈在她的視力所及的范圍內不滅的話，那末她的戀人就是仍然活著的。不過，假如它滅掉了，那末他就已經是死了。燈光是在燃著，在顫動著;她的心也在燃著，在顫動著。她跪下來，念著禱文。一條花蛇睡在她旁邊的草里，但是她心中只想著梵天③和她的未婚夫。

　　“‘他仍然活著!’她快樂地叫了一聲。這時從高山那兒起來一個回音：‘他仍然活著!’”

　　①這是像羚羊一樣小的一種動物，生長在阿拉伯的沙漠地帶。它的動作輕巧，柔和;它的眼睛放亮。

　　②根據古代希伯來人的神話，上帝照自己的形象用土捏出一個男人，叫做亞當，然后從這人身上取出一根肋骨造出一個女人，叫做夏娃。她是非常美麗的。古代希伯來人認為他們兩人是世界上人類第一對夫婦。

　　③梵天(Brana)是印度教中最高主宰;一切神，一切力量，整個的宇宙，都是由他產生的。

　　第二夜

　　“這是昨天的事情，”月亮對我說，“我向下面的一個小院落望去。它的四周圍著一圈房子。院子里有1只母雞和11只小雛。一個可愛的小姑娘在它們周圍跑著，跳著。母雞呱呱地叫起來，驚恐地展開翅膀來保護她的一窩孩子。這時小姑娘的爸爸走來了，責備了她幾句。于是我就走開了，再也沒有想起這件事情。可是今天晚上，剛不過幾分鐘以前，我又朝下邊的這個院落望。四周是一起靜寂。可是不一會兒那個小姑娘又跑出來了。她偷偷地走向雞屋，把門拉開，鉆進母雞和小雞群中去。它們大聲狂叫，向四邊亂飛。小姑娘在它們后面追趕。這情景我看得很清楚，因為我是朝墻上的一個小洞口向里窺望的。我對這個任性的孩子感到很生氣。這時她爸爸走過來，抓著她的手臂，把她罵得比昨天還要厲害，我不禁感到很高興。她垂下頭，她藍色的眼睛里亮著大顆的淚珠。‘你在這兒干什么?’爸爸問。她哭起來，‘我想進去親一下母雞呀，’她說，‘我想請求她原諒我，因為我昨天驚動了她一家。不過我不敢告訴你!’”

　　“爸爸親了一下這個天真孩子的前額，我呢，我親了她的小嘴和眼睛。”

　　第三夜

　　“在那兒一條狹小的巷子里——它是那么狹小，我的光只能在房子的墻上照一分鐘，不過在這一分鐘里，我所看到的東西已經足夠使我認識下面活動著的人世——我看到了一個女人。16年前她還是一個孩子。她在鄉下一位牧師的古老花園里玩耍。玫瑰花樹編成的籬笆已經枯萎了，花也謝了。它們零亂地伸到小徑上，把長枝子盤到蘋果樹上去。只有幾朵玫瑰花還東零西落地在開著——但它們已經稱不上是花中的皇后了。但是它們依然還有色彩，還有香味。牧師的這位小姑娘，在我看來，那時要算是一朵最美麗的玫瑰花了;她在這個零亂的籬笆下的小凳子上坐著，吻著她的玩偶——它那紙板做的臉已經玩壞了。

　　“10年以后我又看到了她。我看到她在一個華麗的跳舞廳內，她是一個富有商人的嬌美的新嫁娘。我為她的幸福而感到愉快。在安靜平和的晚上我常去探望她——啊，誰也沒有想到我澄凈的眼睛和銳敏的視線!唉!正像牧師住宅花園里那些玫瑰花一樣，我的這朵玫瑰花也變得零亂了。每天的生活中都有悲劇發生，而我今晚卻看到了最后一幕。

　　“在那條狹小的巷子里，她躺在床上，病得要死。惡毒、冷酷和粗暴的房東——這是她唯一的保護者，把她的被子掀開。‘起來!’他說，‘你的一副面孔足夠使人害怕。起來穿好衣服!趕快去弄點錢來，不然，我就要把你趕到街上去!快些起來!’‘死神正在嚼我的心!’她說，‘啊，請讓我休息一會兒吧!’可是他把她拉起來，在她的臉上撲了一點粉，插了幾朵玫瑰花，于是他把她放在窗旁的一個椅子上坐下，并且在她身旁點起一根蠟燭，然后他就走開了。

　　“我望著她。她靜靜地坐著，她的雙手垂在膝上。風吹著窗子，把一塊玻璃吹下來跌成碎片。但是她仍然靜靜地坐著。窗簾像她身旁的燭光一樣，在抖動著。她斷氣了。死神在敞開的窗子面前說教;這就是牧師住宅花園里的、我的那朵玫瑰花!”

　　第四夜

　　“昨夜我看到一出德國戲在上演，”月亮說。“那是在一個小城市里。一個牛欄被改裝成為一個劇院;這也就是說，每一個牛圈并沒有變動，只不過是打扮成為包廂罷了。所有的木柵欄都糊上了彩色的紙張。低低的天花板下吊著一個小小的鐵燭臺。為了要像在大劇院里一樣，當提詞人的鈴聲丁當地響了一下以后，燭臺就會升上去不見了，因為它上面特別覆著一個翻轉來的大浴桶。

　　“丁當!小鐵燭臺就上升一尺多高。人們也可以知道戲快要開演了。一位年輕的王子和他的夫人恰巧經過這個小城;他們也來參觀這次的演出。牛欄也就因此而擠滿了人。只有這燭臺下面有一點空，像一個火山的噴口。誰也不坐在這兒，因為蠟油在向下面滴，滴，滴!我看到了這一切情景，因為屋里是那么熱燥，墻上所有的通風口都不得不打開。男仆人和女仆人們都站在外面，偷偷地貼著這些通風口朝里面看，雖然里面坐著警察，而且還在揮著棍子恐嚇他們。在樂隊的近旁，人們可以看見那對年輕貴族夫婦坐在兩張古老的靠椅上面。這兩張椅子平時總是留給市長和他的夫人坐的。可是這兩個人物今晚也只好像普通的市民一樣，坐在木凳子上了。

　　‘現在人們可以看出，強中更有強中手!’這是許多看戲的太太們私下所起的一點感想。這使整個的氣氛變得更愉快。燭臺在搖動著，墻外面的觀眾挨了一通罵。我——月亮——從這出戲的開頭到末尾一直和這些觀眾在一起。”

　　第五夜

　　“昨天，”月亮說，“我看到了忙碌的巴黎。我的視線射進盧浮博物館①的陳列室里。一位衣服破爛的老祖母——她是平民階級的一員——跟著一個保管人走進一間寬大而空洞的宮里去。這正是她所要看的一間陳列室，而且一定要看。她可是作了一點不小的犧牲和費了一番口舌，才能走進這里來。她一雙瘦削的手交叉著，她用莊嚴的神色向四周看，好像她是在一個教堂里面似的。

　　“‘這兒就是!’她說，‘這兒!’她一步一步地走進王位。王座上鋪著富麗的、鑲著金邊的天鵝絨，‘就是這兒!’她說，‘就是這兒!’于是她跪下來，吻了這紫色②的天鵝絨。我想她已經哭出來了。

　　“‘可是這并不是原來的天鵝絨呀!’保管人說，他的嘴角上露出一個微笑。

　　“‘就是在這兒!’老太婆說。‘原物就是這個樣子!’

　　“‘是這個樣子，’他回答說，‘但這不是原來的東西。原來的窗子被打碎了，原來的門也被打破了，而且地板上還有血呢!你當然可以說：我的孫子是在法蘭西的王位上死去了的!’

　　“‘死去了!’老太婆把這幾個字重復了一次。

　　“我想他們再沒有說什么別的話，他們很快就離開了這個陳列室。黃昏的微光消逝了，我的光亮照著法蘭西王位上的華麗的天鵝絨，比以前加倍地明朗。

　　“你想這位老太婆是誰呢?我告訴你一個故事吧。

　　“那正是七月革命③的時候，勝利的最光輝的一個日子的前夕。那時每一間房子是一個堡壘，每一個窗子是一座護胸墻。群眾在攻打杜葉里宮④。甚至還有婦女和小孩在和戰斗者一起作戰。他們攻進了宮的大殿和廳堂。一個半大的窮孩子，穿著襤褸的工人罩衫，也在年長的戰士中間參加戰斗。他身上有好幾處受了很重的刺刀傷，因此他倒下了。他倒下的地方恰恰是王位所在的處所。大家就把這位流血的青年抬上了法蘭西的王位，用天鵝絨裹好他的傷。他的血染到了那象征皇室的紫色上面。這才是一幅圖畫呢!這么光輝燦爛的大殿，這些戰斗的人群!一面撕碎了的旗幟躺在地上，一面三色旗⑤在刺刀林上面飄揚，而王座上卻躺著一個窮苦的孩子;他的光榮的面孔發白，他的雙眼望著蒼天，他的四肢在死亡中彎曲著，他的胸脯露在外面，他的襤褸的衣服被繡著銀百合花的天鵝絨半掩著。

　　“在這孩子的搖籃旁曾經有人作過一個預言：‘他將死在法蘭西的王位上!’母親的心里曾經做過一個夢，以為他就是第二個拿破侖。

　　“我的光已經吻過他墓上的烈士花圈。今天晚上呢，當這位老祖母在夢中看到這幅攤在她面前的圖畫(你可以把它畫下來)——法蘭西的王位上的一個窮苦的孩子——的時候，我的光吻了她的前額。”

　　①盧浮(Louvre)是巴黎一所最大的宮殿，現在成了一個博物館。

　　②在歐洲的封建時代，紫色是代表貴族和皇室的色彩。

　　③指1830年法國的七月革命。

　　④杜葉里宮(Tuilleries)是巴黎的一個宮殿，1789年法國大革命時期路易十六在這里住過，1792年8月巴黎人民曾沖進這里，向路易十六請愿。以后拿破侖一世，路易十八，查理第十都住在這個宮里。查理第十在1820年7月革命中期位逃亡。

　　⑤這是法國從大革命時期開始采用的國旗。

　　第六夜

　　“我到烏卜薩拉①去了一番，”月亮說。“我看了看下面生滿了野草的大平原和荒涼的田野。當一只汽船把魚兒嚇得鉆進燈心草叢里去的時候，我的面孔正映在佛里斯河里。云塊在我下面浮著，在所謂奧丁、多爾和佛列②的墳墓上撒下長塊的陰影。稀疏的蔓草蓋著這些土丘，名字就刻在這些草上。這兒沒有使路過人可以刻上自己名字的路碑，也沒有使人可以寫上自己的名字的石壁。因此訪問者只好在蔓草上劃出自己的名字來。黃土在一些大字母和名字下面露出它的原形。它們縱橫交錯地布滿了整個的山丘。這種不朽支持到新的蔓草長出來為止。

　　“山丘上站著一個人——一個詩人。他喝干了一杯蜜釀的酒——杯子上嵌著很寬的銀邊。他低聲地念出一個什么名字。他請求風不要泄露它，可是我聽到了這個名字，而且我知道它。這名字上閃耀著一個伯爵的榮冠，因此他不把它念出來。我微笑了一下。因為他的名字上閃耀著一個詩人的榮冠。愛倫諾拉·戴斯特的高貴是與達索③的名字分不開的。我也知道美的玫瑰花朵應該是在什么地方開的!”

　　月亮這么說了，于是一塊烏云浮過來了。我希望沒有烏云來把詩人和玫瑰花朵隔開!

　　①烏卜薩拉(Uppsala)是瑞典的一個省份。首府烏卜薩拉是一個大學城，在斯德哥爾摩北邊。這兒有瑞典最老的大學烏卜薩拉大學(1477年建立)。

　　②在北歐神話中奧丁(Odin)是知識、文化和戰爭之神。多爾(Thor)是雷神。佛列(Frey)是豐收和富饒之神。后來人們普遍地把這些名字當做人名來使用。因而成為北歐最常用的名字，等于我們的張三李四。

　　③達索(Torguato Tasso)是16世紀意大利的一個名詩人。愛倫諾拉·戴斯特(Eleanora D'este)是當時皇族的一個美麗公主，因與達索交往而得名。這也就是說，所謂“高貴”和“榮華”是暫時的，美只有與藝術結合才能不朽。

　　第七夜

　　“沿著海岸展開一起樅樹和山毛櫸樹林;這樹林是那么清新，那么充滿了香味。每年春天有成千成萬的夜鶯來拜訪它。它旁邊是一起大海——永遠變幻莫測的大海。橫在它們二者之間的是一條寬廣的公路。川流不息的車輪在這兒飛馳過去，可是我沒有去細看這些東西，因為我的視線只停留在一點上面。那兒立著一座古墓，野梅和黑莓在它上面的石縫中叢生著。這兒是大自然的詩。你知道人們怎樣理解它嗎?是的，我告訴你昨天黃昏和深夜的時分我在那兒所聽到的事情吧。

　　“起初有兩位富有的地主乘著車子走過來。頭一位說：‘多么茂盛的樹木啊!’另一位回答說：‘每一株可以砍成10車柴!這個冬天一定很冷。去年每一捆柴可以賣14塊錢!’于是他們就走開了。

　　“‘這真是一條糟糕的路!’另外一個趕著車子走過的人說。‘這全是因為那些討厭的樹呀!’坐在他旁邊的人回答說。'空氣不能暢快地流通，風只能從海那邊吹來。'于是他們走過去了。

　　“一輛公共馬車也開過來。當它來到這塊最美麗的地方的時候，客人們都睡著了。車夫吹起號角，不過他心里只是想：‘我吹得很美。我的號角聲在這兒很好聽。我不知道車里的人覺得怎樣?’于是這輛馬車就走開了。

　　“兩個年輕的小伙子騎著馬飛馳過來。我覺得他們倒還有點青年的精神和平概呢!他們嘴唇上飄著一個微笑，也把那生滿了青苔的山丘和這濃黑的樹林看了一眼。‘我倒很想跟磨坊主的克麗斯訂在這兒散一下步呢，’于是他們飛馳過去了。

　　“花兒在空氣中散布著強烈的香氣;風兒都睡著了。青天覆在這塊深郁的盆地上，大海就好像是它的一部分。一輛馬車開過去了。里面坐著七個人，其中有四位已經睡著了。第五位在想著他的夏季上衣——它必須合他的身材。第六位把頭掉向車夫問起對面的那堆石頭里是否藏有什么了不起的東西。‘沒有，’車夫回答說：‘那不過是一堆石頭罷了。可是這些樹倒是了不起的東西呢。’‘為什么呢?’‘為什么嗎?它們是非常了不起的!您要知道，在冬天，當雪下得很深、什么東西都看不見的時候，這些樹對我來說就成了地形的指標。我依據它們所指的方向走，就不至于滾到海里去。它們了不起，就是這個緣故。’于是他走過去了。

　　“現在有一位畫家走來了。他的眼睛發著亮光，他一句話也不講。他只是吹著口哨。迎著他的口哨，有好幾只夜鶯在唱歌，一只比一只的調子唱得高。‘閉住你們的小嘴!’他大聲說。于是他把一切色調很仔細地記錄下來：藍色、紫色和褐色!這將是一幅美麗的畫!他心中體會著這景致，正如鏡子反映出了一幅畫一樣。在這同時，他用口哨吹出一個羅西尼①的進行曲。

　　“最后來了一個窮苦的女孩子。她放下她背著的重荷，在一個古墓旁坐下來休息。她慘白的美麗面孔對著樹林傾聽。當她望見大海上的天空的時候，她的眼珠忽然發亮，她的雙手合在一起。我想她是在念《主禱文》。她自己不懂得這種滲透她全身的感覺;但是我知道：這一剎那和這片自然景物將會在她的記憶里存留很久很久，比那位畫家所記錄下來的色調要美麗和真實得多。我的光線照著她，一直到晨曦吻她的前額的時候。”

　　①羅西尼(G.A.Rossini)是19世紀初葉的一位意大利歌劇作曲家。他的音樂的特點是生動，富有活力，充分代表意大利的民族風格。

　　第八夜

　　沉重的云塊掩蓋了天空，月亮完全沒有露面。我待在我的小房間里，感到加倍的寂寞;我抬起頭來，凝視著他平時出現的那塊天空。我的思想飛得很遠，飛向我這位最好的朋友那兒去。他每天晚上對我講那么美麗的故事和給我圖畫看。是的，他經歷過的事情可真不少!他在太古時代的洪水上航行過，他對挪亞的獨木舟①微笑過，正如他最近來看過我、帶給我一些安慰、期許我一個燦爛的新世界一樣。當以色列②的孩子們坐在巴比倫河旁③哭泣的時候，他在懸著豎琴的楊柳樹之間哀悼地望著他們。當羅密歐④走上陽臺、他的深情的吻像小天使的思想似地從地上升起來的時候，這圓圓的月亮，正在明靜的天空上，半隱在深郁的古柏中間。他看到被囚禁的圣赫勒拿島上的英雄⑤，這時他正在一個孤獨的石崖上望著茫茫的大海，他心中起了許多遼遠的思想。啊!月亮有什么事不知道呢?對他說來，人類的生活是一起童話。

　　今晚我不能見到您了，老朋友!今晚我不能繪出關于您的來訪的記憶。我迷糊地向著云兒眺望;天又露出一點光。這是月亮的一絲光線，但是它馬上又消逝了。烏黑的云塊又聚過來，然而這總算是一聲問候，一聲月亮所帶給我的、友愛的“晚安”。

　　①根據古代希伯來人的神話，上帝因為人心太壞，決心要用洪水來毀掉壞人。只有挪亞是一個老實人，所以上帝告訴他準備一條獨木船，先遷到木船里去住。他聽從了上帝的話而沒有被淹死。因之人類也沒有滅亡。

　　②以色列人就是猶太人，公元前13世紀曾在巴勒斯坦居住。公元前2000年他們遷到迦南，之后又因災荒遷移到埃及。

　　③巴比倫是古代“兩河流域”最大的城市，公元二世紀時已化為廢墟。

　　④這是沙士比亞悲劇《羅密歐與朱麗葉》中的男主角，他的家與他的愛人朱麗葉的家是世仇。在封建社會里他們無法結婚，因此殉情而死。

　　⑤這是指法國的將軍拿破侖。他從1804年起做法國的皇帝，在歐洲掀動起一系列的戰役，直到俄國人把他打垮為止。1815年他被放逐到南大西洋上的圣赫勒拿島(St.Helena)。

　　第九夜

　　天空又是晴朗無云。好幾個晚上已經過去了，月亮還只是一道蛾眉。我又得到了一幅速寫的材料。請聽月亮所講的話吧。

　　“我隨著北極鳥和流動的鯨魚到格陵蘭①的東部海岸去。光赤的崖石，上面覆著冰塊和烏云，深鎖著一塊盆地——在這兒，楊柳和覆盆子正盛開著花。芬芳的剪秋羅正在散發著甜蜜的香氣。我的光有些昏暗，我的臉慘白，正如一朵從枝子上摘下來的睡蓮、在巨浪里漂流過了好幾個星期一樣。北極光圈在天空中燃燒著，它的環帶很寬。它射出的光輝像旋轉的火柱，燎燃了整個天空，一會兒變綠，一會兒變紅。這地帶的居民聚在一起，舉行舞會和作樂。不過這種慣常光華燦爛的景象，他們看到并不感到驚奇。‘讓死者的靈魂去玩他們用海象的腦袋所作的球吧!’他們依照他們的迷信作這樣的想法。他們只顧唱歌和跳舞。

　　“在他們的舞圈中，一位沒有穿皮襖的格陵蘭人敲著一個手鼓，唱著一個關于捕捉海豹的故事的歌。一個歌隊也和唱著：‘哎伊亞，哎伊亞，啊!’他們穿著白色的皮袍，舞成一個圓圈，樣子很像一個北極熊的舞會。他們使勁地眨著眼睛和搖動著腦袋。

　　“現在審案和判決要開始了。意見不和的格陵蘭人走上前來。原告用譏諷的口吻，理直氣壯地即席唱一曲關于他的敵人的罪過的歌，而且這一切是在鼓聲下用跳舞的形式進行的。被告回答得同樣地尖銳。聽眾都哄堂大笑，同時作出他們的判決。

　　“山上起來一陣雷轟似的聲音，上面的冰河裂成了碎片;龐大、流動的冰塊在崩頹的過程中化為粉末。這是美麗的格陵蘭的夏夜。

　　“在100步遠的地方，在一個敞著的帳篷里，躺著一個病人。生命還在他的熱血里流動著，但是他仍然是要死的，因為他自己覺得他要死。站在他周圍的人也都相信他要死。因此他的妻子在他的身上縫一件皮壽衣，免得她后來再接觸到尸體。同時她問：‘你愿意埋在山上堅實的雪地里嗎?我打算用你的卡耶克②和箭來裝飾你的墓地。昂格勾克③將會在那上面跳舞!也許你還是愿意葬在海里吧?’

　　“‘我愿意葬在海里，’他低聲說，同時露出一個凄慘的微笑點點頭。

　　“‘是的，海是一個舒適的涼亭，’他的妻子說。‘那兒有成千成萬的海豹在跳躍，海象就在你的腳下睡覺，那兒打獵是一種安全愉快的工作!’

　　“這時喧鬧的孩子們撕掉支在窗孔上的那張皮，好使得死者能被抬到大海里去，那波濤洶涌的大海——這海生前給他糧食，死后給他安息。那些起伏的、日夜變幻著的冰山是他的墓碑。海豹在這冰山上打盹，寒帶的鳥兒在那上面盤旋。”

　　①格陵蘭(Greenland)是在北極圈里，為世界最大的海島，終年為雪所蓋著，現在是由丹麥代管。島上的住民為愛斯基摩人。因為氣候寒冷，無法種植糧食，所以打獵就是他們唯一取得生活資料的方法。

　　②卡耶克(Kajak)是格林蘭島上愛斯基摩人所用的一種皮制的小船，通常只坐一個人。)

　　③昂格勾克(Angekokk)是愛斯基摩人的巫師，據說能治病。

　　第十夜

　　“我認識一位老小姐，”月亮說。“每年冬天她穿一件黃緞子皮襖。它永遠是新的，它永遠是她唯一的時裝。她每年夏天老是戴著同樣一頂草帽，同時我相信，老是穿著同樣一件灰藍色袍子。

　　“她只有去看一位老女朋友時才走過街道。但是最近幾年來，她甚至這段路也不走了，因為這位老朋友已經死去了。我的這位老小姐孤獨地在窗前忙來忙去;窗子上整個夏天都擺滿了美麗的花，在冬天則有一堆在氈帽頂上培養出來的水堇。最近幾個月來，她不再坐在窗子面前了。但她仍然是活著的，這一點我知道，因為我并沒看到她作一次她常常和朋友提到過的‘長途旅行’。‘是的，’她那時說，‘當我要死的時候，我要作一次一生從來沒有作過的長途旅行。我們祖宗的墓窖①離這兒有18里路遠。那兒就是我要去的地方;我要和我的家人睡在一起。’

　　“昨夜這座房子門口停著一輛車子。人們抬出一具棺木;這時我才知道，她已經死了。人們在棺材上裹了一些麥草席子，于是車子就開走了。這位過去一整年沒有走出過大門的安靜的老小姐，就睡在那里面。車子叮達叮達地走出了城，輕松得好像是去作一次愉快的旅行似的。當它一走上了大路以后，它走得更快。車夫神經質地向后面望了好幾次——我猜想他有點害怕，以為她還穿著那件黃緞子皮襖坐在后面的棺材上面呢。因此他傻氣地使勁抽著馬兒，牢牢地拉住韁繩，弄得它們滿口流著泡沫——它們是幾匹年輕的劣馬。一只野兔在它們面前跑過去了，于是它們也驚慌地跑起來。

　　“這位沉靜的老小姐，年年月月在一個呆板的小圈子里一聲不響地活動著。現在——死后——卻在一條崎嶇不平的公路上跑起來。麥草席子裹著的棺材終于跌出來了，落到公路上。馬兒、車夫和車子就急馳而去，像一陣狂風一樣。一只唱著歌的云雀從田里飛起來，對著這具棺材吱吱喳喳地唱了一曲晨歌。不一會兒它就落到這棺材上，用它的小嘴啄著麥草席子，好像想要把席子撕開似的。

　　“云雀又唱著歌飛向天空去了。同時我也隱到紅色的朝云后面。”

　　①這是歐洲古建筑物中的一種地下室，頂上是圓形。所有的古教堂差不多都有這種地下室，里面全是墳墓，特別是有重要地位的人的墳墓。

　　第十一夜

　　“這是一個結婚的宴會!”月亮說。“大家在唱歌，大家在敬酒，一切都是富麗堂皇的。客人都告別了;這已經是半夜過后。母親們吻了新郎和新娘。最后只有我看到這對新婚夫婦單獨在一起了，雖然窗簾已經掩得相當地緊。燈光把這間溫暖的新房照得透亮。

　　“‘謝天謝地，大家現在都走了!’他說，吻著她的手和嘴唇。她一面微笑，一面流淚，同時倒到他的懷里，顫抖著，像激流上漂著的一朵荷花。他們說著溫柔甜蜜的話。

　　“‘甜蜜地睡著吧!’他說。這時她把窗簾拉向一邊。

　　“‘月亮照得多么美啊!’她說，‘看吧，它是多么安靜，多么明朗!’

　　“于是她把燈吹滅了;這個溫暖房間里變成一起漆黑。可是我的光在亮著，亮得差不多跟她的眼睛一樣。女性呵，當一個詩人在歌唱著生命之神秘的時候，請你吻一下他的豎琴吧!”

　　第十二夜

　　“我給你一張龐貝城①的圖畫吧，”月亮說。“我是在城外，在人們所謂的墳墓之街上。這條街上有許多美麗的紀念碑。在這塊地方，歡樂的年輕人，頭上戴著玫瑰花，曾經一度和拉綺司②的美麗的姊妹們在一起跳過舞。可是現在呢，這兒是一起死的沉寂。為拿波里政府服務的德國雇傭兵在站崗，打紙牌，擲骰子。從山那邊來的一大群游客，由一位哨兵陪伴著，走進這個城市。他們想在我的明朗的光中，看看這座從墳墓中升起來的城市。我把熔巖石砌的寬廣的街道上的車轍指給他們看;我把許多門上的姓名以及還留在那上面的門牌也指給他們看。在一個小小的庭院里他們看到一個鑲著貝殼的噴泉池;可是現在沒有噴泉射出來了;從那些金碧輝煌的、由古銅色的小狗看守著的房間里，也沒有歌聲流露出來了。

　　“這是一座死人的城。只有維蘇威山在唱著它無休止的頌歌。人類把它的每一支曲子叫做'新的爆發'。我們去拜訪維納斯③的神廟。它是用大理石建的，白得放亮;那寬廣的臺階前就是它高大的祭壇。新的垂柳在圓柱之間冒出來，天空是透明的，蔚藍色的。漆黑的維蘇威山成為這一切的背景。火不停地從它頂上噴出來，像一株松樹的枝干。反射著亮光的煙霧，在夜的靜寂中漂浮著，像一株松樹的簇頂，可是它的顏色像血一樣的鮮紅。

　　“這群游客中有一位女歌唱家，一位真正偉大的歌唱家。我在歐洲的第一等城市里看過她受到人們的崇敬。當他們來到這悲劇舞臺的時候，他們都在這個圓形劇場的臺階上坐下來;正如許多世紀以前一樣，這兒總算有一塊小地方坐滿了觀眾。布景仍然像從前一樣，沒有改變;它的側景是兩面墻，它的背景是兩個拱門——通過拱門觀眾可以看到在遠古時代就用過的那幅同樣的布景——自然本身：蘇倫多④和亞瑪爾菲⑤之間的那些群山。

　　“這位歌唱家一時高興，走進這幅古代的布景中去，歌唱起來。這塊地方本身給了她靈感。她使我想起阿拉伯的野馬，在原野上奔馳，它的鼻息如雷，它的紅鬃飛舞——她的歌聲是和這同樣地輕快而又肯定。這使我想起在各各他山⑥十字架下悲哀的母親——她的苦痛的表情是多么深刻呵。在此同時正如千余年前一樣，四周起了一片鼓掌和歡呼聲。

　　“‘幸福的，天才的歌者啊!’大家都歡呼著。

　　“三分鐘以后，舞臺空了。一切都消逝了。聲音也沒有了;游人也走開了，只有古跡還是立在那兒，沒有改變。千百年以后，當誰也再記不起這片刻的喝彩，當這位美麗的歌者、她的聲調和微笑被遺忘了的時候，當這片刻對于我也成為逝去的回憶的時候，這些古跡仍然不會改變。”

　　①龐貝(Pompeii)是意大利的一個古城，在那不勒斯灣附近，維蘇威火山的腳下。它是古代羅馬貴族集居的一個城市，紀元79年維蘇威火山爆發把這城全部毀了。在中古時仆人們把這個城完全忘記了。從1861年起意大利人開始有計劃地發掘，此城即陸續出土。最有價值的發現是一個能坐兩萬人的圓形劇場及許多神廟。

　　②拉綺司(Lais)是古希臘的一個宮妓，長得很美。

　　③維納斯(Venus)是古代意大利的文藝和春天的女神。羅馬人后來把她和希臘的愛情之女神亞芙羅蒂(Aphrodite)統一起來，所以她就成了愛情之神。

　　④蘇倫多(Sorrento)是那不勒斯灣上的一個城，有古教堂和古跡。

　　⑤亞瑪爾菲(Amalfi)是意大利的古城，在那下勒斯西南24英里的地方，古跡很多。

　　⑥各各他山(Golgotha)是耶路撒冷城外的一個小山。據說耶穌就是在這山上被釘在十字架上死去的。

　　第十三夜

　　“我朝著一位編輯先生的窗子望進去，”月亮說。“那是在德國的一個什么地方。這兒有很精致的家具、許多書籍和一堆報紙。里面坐著好幾位青年人。編輯先生自己站在書桌旁邊，計劃要評論兩本書——都是青年作家寫的。

　　“‘這一本是才送到我手中來的’，他說。‘我還沒有讀它呢，可是它的裝幀很美。你們覺得它的內容怎樣呢?’

　　“‘哦!’一位客人說——他自己是一個詩人。‘他寫得很好，不過太羅嗦了一點。可是，天哪，作者是一個年輕人呀，詩句當然還可以寫得更好一點!思想是很健康的，只不過是平凡了一點!但是這有什么可說的呢?你不能老是遇見新的東西呀!你可以稱贊他一下!不過我想他作為一個詩人，不會有什么成就的。他讀了很多的書，是一位出色的東方學問專家，也有正確的判斷力。為我的《家常生活感言》寫過一篇很好書評的人就是他。我們應該對這位年輕人客氣一點。’

　　“‘不過他是一個不折不扣的糊涂蛋呀!’書房里的另外一位先生說。‘寫詩最糟糕的事莫過于平庸乏味。它是不能突破這個范圍的。’

　　“‘可憐的家伙!’第三位說，‘他的姑媽卻以為他了不起呢。編輯先生，為你新近翻譯的一部作品弄到許多定單的人，就正是她——’

　　“‘好心腸的女人!唔，我已經簡略地把這本書介紹了一下。肯定地他是一個天才——一件值得歡迎的禮物!是詩壇里的一朵鮮花!裝幀也很美等等，可是另外的那本書呢——我想作者是希望我買它的吧?我聽到人們稱贊過它。他是一位天才，你說對不對?'

　　“‘是的，大家都是這么叫喊，’那位詩人說，‘不過他寫得有點狂。只是標點符號還說明他有點才氣!’

　　“‘假如我們斥責他一通，使他發點兒火，對于他是有好處的;不然他總會以為他了不起。’

　　“‘可是這不近人情!’第四位大聲說。‘我們不要在一些小錯誤上做文章吧，我們應該對于它的優點感到高興，而它的優點也很多。他的成就超過了他們同行。’

　　“‘天老爺啦!假如他是這樣一位真正的天才，他就應該能受得住尖銳的批評。私下稱贊他的人夠多了，我們不要把他的頭腦弄昏吧!’

　　“‘他肯定是一個天才!’編輯先生寫著，‘一般粗心大意之處是偶爾有之。在第25頁上我們可以看出，他會寫出不得體的詩句——那兒可以發現兩個不協調的音節。我們建議他學習一下古代的詩人……’

　　“‘我走開了，’月亮說，我向那位姑媽的窗子望進去。那位被稱贊的、不狂的詩人就坐在那兒。他得到所有的客人的敬意，非常快樂。

　　“我去找另外那位詩人——那位狂詩人。他也在一個恩人①家里和一大堆人在一起。人們正在這里談論那另一位詩人的作品。

　　“‘我將也要讀讀你的詩!’恩人說，‘不過，老實說——你們知道，我是從來不說假話的——我想從那些詩里找不出什么偉大的東西。我覺得你太狂了，太荒唐了。但是，我得承認，作為一個人你是值得尊敬的!’

　　“一個年輕的女仆人在墻角邊坐著;她在一本書里面讀到這樣的字句：

　　“'天才的榮譽終會被埋入塵土，

　　只有平庸的材料獲得人稱贊。

　　這是一件古老古老的故事，

　　不過這故事卻是每天在重演。'“

　　①：“恩人”是歐洲封建時代文壇上的一個特色。那時詩人的詩賣不出錢，所以貴族和地主常常利用這個弱點，送給詩人們一點生活費，而要求詩人把詩“獻給”他們，好使他們的名字“永垂不朽”。

　　第十四夜

　　月亮說："在樹林的小徑兩旁有兩座農家的房子。它們的門很矮，窗子有的很高，有的很低。在它們的周圍長滿了山楂和伏牛花。屋頂上長得有青苔、黃花和石蓮花。那個小小的花園里只種著白菜和馬鈴薯。可是籬笆旁邊有一株接骨木樹在開著花。樹下坐著一個小小的女孩子。她的一雙棕色眼睛凝望著兩座房子之間的那株老櫟樹。

　　“這樹的樹干很高，但是枯萎了;它的頂已經被砍掉了。鸛鳥在那上面筑了一個窠。它立在窠里，用尖嘴發出啄啄的響聲。一個小男孩子走出來了，站在一個小姑娘的旁邊。他們是兄妹。

　　“‘你在看什么?’他問。

　　“‘我在看那鸛鳥，’她回答說：‘我們的鄰人告訴我，說它今晚會帶給我們一個小兄弟或妹妹。我現在正在望，希望看見它怎樣飛來!’

　　“‘鸛鳥什么也不會帶來!’男孩子說。'你可以相信我的話。鄰人也告訴過我同樣的事情，不過她說這話的時候，她在大笑。所以我問她敢不敢向上帝賭咒!可是她不敢。所以我知道，鸛鳥的事情只不過是人們對我們小孩子編的一個故事罷了。'

　　“‘那么小孩子是從什么地方來的呢?’小姑娘問。

　　“‘跟上帝一道來的，’男孩子說，‘上帝把小孩子夾在大衣里送來，不過誰也看不見上帝呀。所以我們也看不見他送來小孩子!’

　　“正在這個時候，一陣微風吹動櫟樹的枝葉。這兩個孩子疊著手，互相呆望著;無疑地這是上帝送小孩子來了。于是他們互相捏了一下手。屋子的門開了。那位鄰居出來了。

　　“'進來吧，'她說。'你們看鸛鳥帶來了什么東西。帶來了一個小兄弟!'

　　“這兩個孩子點了點頭;他們知道嬰兒已經來了。”

　　第十五夜

　　“我在呂涅堡①荒地上滑行著，”月亮說。“有一個孤獨的茅屋立在路旁，在它的近旁有好幾個凋零的灌木林。一只迷失了方向的夜鶯在這兒唱著歌。在寒冷的夜其中它一定會死去的。我所聽到的正是它最后的歌。

　　“曙光露出來了。一輛大篷車走過來了，這是一家遷徙的農民。他們是要向卜列門②或漢堡走去——從這兒再搭船到美洲去——在那兒，幸運，他們所夢想的幸運，將會開出花朵。母親們把最小的孩子背在背上，較大的孩子則在她們身邊步行。一起瘦馬抱著這輛裝著他們那點微不足道的家產的車子。

　　“寒冷的風在吹著，一個小姑娘緊緊地偎著她的母親。這位母親，一邊抬頭望著我的淡薄的光圈，一邊想起了她在家中所受到的窮困。她想起了他們沒有能力交付的重稅。她在想著這整群遷徙的人們。紅色的曙光似乎帶來了一個喜訊;幸運的太陽將又要為他們升起。他們聽到那只垂死的夜鶯的歌唱：它不是一個虛假的預言家，而是幸運的使者。

　　“風在呼嘯，他們也聽不清夜鶯的歌聲：'祝你們安全地在海上航行!你們賣光了所有的東西來付出這次長途航行的旅費，所以你們走進樂園的時候將會窮得無依無靠。你們將不得不賣掉你們自己、你們的女人和你們的孩子。不過你們的苦痛不會拖得很久!死神的女使者就坐在那芬芳的寬大葉子后面。她將把致命的熱病吹進你們的血液，作為她歡迎你們的一吻。去吧，去吧，到那波濤洶涌的海上去吧!'遠行的人高興地聽著夜鶯之歌，因為它象征著幸運。

　　“曙光在浮云中露出來了;農人走過荒地到教堂里去。穿著黑袍子、裹著白頭巾的婦女們看起來好像是從教堂里的掛圖上走下來的幽靈。周圍是一起死寂，一起凋零了的、棕色的石楠，一起橫在白沙丘陵之間的、被野火燒光了的黑色平原。啊，祈禱吧!為那些遠行的人們——那些向茫茫大海的彼岸去尋找墳墓的人們而祈禱吧!”

　　①呂涅堡(Lynebueg)是德國的一個小城市，在漢堡東南31英里的地方。

　　②卜列門(Btemen)是德國西北部的一個城市。

　　第十六夜

　　“我認識一位普啟涅羅①”月亮說。“觀眾只要一看見他便向他歡呼。他的每一個動作都非常滑稽，總是使整個劇場的觀眾笑痛了肚子。可是這里面沒有任何做作;這是他天生的特點。當他小時和別的孩子在一起玩耍的時候，他已經就是一個普啟涅羅了。大自然把他創造成為這樣的一個人物，在他的背上安了一個大駝子，在他的胸前安了一個大肉瘤。可是他的內部恰恰相反，他的內心卻是天賦獨厚。誰也沒有他那樣深的感情，他那樣的精神強度。

　　“劇場是他的理想的世界。如果他的身材能長得秀氣和整齊一點，他可能在任何舞臺上成為一個頭等的悲劇演員，他的靈魂里充滿了悲壯和偉大的情緒。然而他不得不成為一個普啟涅羅。他的痛苦和憂郁只有增加他古怪外貌的滑稽性，只有引其他廣大觀眾的笑聲和對于他們這位心愛的演員一陣鼓掌。

　　“美麗的訶龍比妮②對他的確是很友愛和體貼的;可是她只愿意和亞爾列金諾③結婚。如果'美和丑'結為夫婦，那也實在是太滑稽了。

　　“在普啟涅羅心情很壞的時候，只有她可以使他微笑起來;的確，她可以使他痛快地大笑一陣。起初她總是像他一樣地憂郁，然后就略為變得安靜一點，最后就充滿了愉快的神情。

　　“‘我知道你心里有什么毛病，’她說。‘你是在戀愛中!’這時他就不禁要笑起來。

　　“‘我在戀愛中!’他大叫一聲，‘那末我就未免太荒唐了。觀眾將會要笑痛肚子!’

　　“‘當然你是在戀愛中，’她繼續說，并且還在話里加了一點凄楚的滑稽感，'而且你愛的那個人正是我呢!'

　　“的確，當人們知道實際上沒有愛情這回事兒的時候，人們是可以講出這類的話來的。普啟涅羅笑得向空中翻了一個筋斗。這時憂郁感就沒有了。然而她講的是真話。他的確愛她，拜倒地愛她，正如他愛藝術的偉大和崇高一樣。

　　“在她舉行婚禮的那天，他是一個最愉快的人物;但是在夜里他卻哭起來了。如果觀眾看到他這副哭喪的尊容，他們一定會又鼓起掌來的。

　　“幾天以前訶龍比妮死去了。在她入葬的這天，亞爾列金諾可以不必在舞臺上出現，因為他應該是一個悲哀的鰥夫。經理不得不演出一個愉快的節目，好使觀眾不致于因為沒有美麗的訶龍比妮和活潑的亞爾列金諾而感到太難過。因此普啟涅羅演得要比平時更愉快一點才行。所以他跳著，翻著筋斗，雖然他滿肚皮全是悲愁。觀眾鼓掌，喝彩：‘好，好極了!’

　　“普啟涅羅謝幕了好幾次。啊，他真是杰出的藝人!

　　“晚上，演完了戲以后，這位可愛的丑八怪獨自走出城外，走到一個孤寂的墓地里去。訶龍比妮墳上的花圈已經凋殘了，他在墳旁邊坐下來。他的這副樣兒真值得畫家畫下來。他用手支著下巴，他的雙眼朝著我望。他像一個奇特的紀念碑，一個墳上的普啟涅羅：古怪而又滑稽。假如觀眾看見了他們這位心愛的藝人的話，他們一定會喝彩：‘好!普啟涅羅!好，好極了!’”

　　①普啟涅羅(Pulcinello)是意大利傳統戲曲職業喜劇(Commediadell' Arte)中的一個常見的主角。他的面貌古怪：勾鼻子，駝背，性情滑稽，愛逗人發笑，同時喜歡吹牛。

　　②訶龍比妮(Columbine)是意大利喜劇中的一個女主角。

　　③亞爾列金諾(Arlechino)是訶龍比妮的戀人。

　　第十七夜

　　請聽月亮所講的話吧：”我看到一位升為軍官的海軍學生，第一次穿上他漂亮的制服。我看到一位穿上舞會禮服的年輕姑娘。我看到一位王子的年輕愛妻，穿著節日的衣服，非常快樂。不過誰的快樂也比不上我今晚看到的一個孩子——一個四歲的小姑娘。她得到了一件蔚藍色的衣服和一頂粉紅色的帽子。她已經打扮好了，大家都叫把蠟燭拿來照照，因為我的光線，從窗子射進去，還不夠亮，所以必須有更強的光線才成。

　　“這位小姑娘筆直地站著，像一個小玩偶。她的手小心翼翼地從衣服里伸出來，她的手指撒開著。啊，她的眼里，她整個的面孔，發出多么幸福的光輝啊!

　　“‘明天你應該到街上去走走!’她的母親說。這位小寶貝朝上面望了望自己的帽子，朝下面望了望自己的衣服，不禁發出一個幸福的微笑。

　　“‘媽媽!’她說，‘當那些小狗看見我穿得這樣漂亮的時候，它們心里會想些什么呢?'”

　　第十八夜

　　“我曾經和你談過龐貝城，”月亮說;“這座城的尸骸，現在又回到有生命的城市的行列中來了。我知道另外一個城：它不是一座城的尸骸，而是一座城的幽靈。凡是有大理石噴泉噴著水的地方，我就似乎聽到關于這座水上浮城的故事。是的，噴泉可以講出這個故事，海上的波浪也可以把它唱出來。茫茫的大海上常常浮著一層煙霧——這就是它的未亡人的面罩。海的新郎已經死了，他的城垣和宮殿成了他的陵墓。你知道這座城嗎?它從來沒有聽到過車輪和馬蹄聲在它的街道上響過。這里只有魚兒游來游去，只有黑色的貢杜拉①在綠水上像幽靈似地滑過。

　　“我把它的市場——它最大的一個廣場——指給你看吧，"月亮繼續說，"你看了一定以為你走進了一個童話的城市。草在街上寬大的石板縫間叢生著，在清晨的迷茫中成千成萬的馴良鴿子繞著一座孤高的塔頂飛翔。在三方面圍繞著你的是一系列的走廊。在這些走廊里，土耳奇人靜靜地坐著抽他們的長煙管，美貌的年輕希臘人倚著圓柱看那些戰利品：高大的旗桿——代表古代權威的紀念品。許多旗幟在倒懸著，像哀悼的黑紗。有一個女孩子在這兒休息。她已經放下了盛滿了水的重桶，但背水的擔杠仍然擱在她的肩上。她靠著那根勝利的旗桿站著。

　　“你在你面前所看的不是一個虛幻的宮殿，而是一個教堂，它的鍍金的圓頂和周圍的圓球在我的光中射出亮光。那上面雄偉的古銅馬，像童話中的古銅馬一樣，曾經作過多次的旅行：它們旅行到這兒來，又從這兒走去，最后又回到這兒來。

　　“你看到墻上和窗上那些華麗的色彩嗎?這好像是一位天才，為了滿足小孩子的請求，把這個奇怪的神廟裝飾過了一番似的。你看到圓柱上長著翅膀的雄獅嗎?它上面的金仍然在發著亮光，但是它的翅膀卻落下來了。雄獅已經死了，因為海王②已經死了。那些寬大的廳堂都空了，曾經掛著貴重藝術品的地方，現在只是一起零落的墻壁。

　　“過去只許貴族可以走過的走廊，現在卻成了叫化子睡覺的地方。從那些深沉的水井里——也許是從那‘嘆息橋’③旁的牢獄里——升起一起嘆息。這和從前金指環從布生脫爾④拋向海后亞得里亞時快樂的貢杜拉奏出的一起手鼓聲完全是一樣。亞得里亞啊!讓煙霧把你隱藏起來吧!讓寡婦的面紗罩著你的軀體，蓋住你的新郎的陵墓——大理石砌的、虛幻的威尼斯城——吧!”

　　①貢杜拉(Gondola)是在意大利水城威尼斯來往運行的一種細長平底的小船。

　　②即中古時期“海上霸權”威尼斯。

　　③這是威尼斯城內聯接宮殿和國家監獄的一條走廊。凡是被判了死刑的人都是走過這條走廊到行刑的地方去，所以它叫做“嘆息橋”。

　　④這是代表威尼斯的一只“御船”的名字。古代威尼斯的首長，在耶穌升天節這天，就乘這只船開到海上(亞得里亞海)，向海里投下一個金戒指，表示他代表威尼斯與海結婚。因為威尼斯在中世紀時是一個海上霸權，與海分不開的，故有此迷信。在15世紀末葉，自從繞過好望角到東方的新航線發現以后，威尼斯就喪失了它海上霸權的地位。

　　第十九夜

　　“我朝著下面的一個大劇場望，”月亮說。“觀眾擠滿了整個屋子，因為有一位新演員今晚第一次出場。我的光滑到墻上的一個小窗口上，一個化裝好了的面孔緊貼著窗玻璃。這就是今晚的主角。他武士風的胡子密密地卷在他下巴的周圍;但是這個人的眼里卻閃著淚珠，因為他剛才曾被觀眾噓下了舞臺，而且噓得很有道理。可憐的人啊!不過在藝術的王國里是不容許低能人存在的。他有深厚的感情，他熱愛藝術，但是藝術卻不愛他。

　　“舞臺監督的鈴聲響了。關于他這個角色的舞臺指示是：'主角以英勇和豪邁的姿態出場。'所以他只好又在觀眾面前出現，成為他們哄笑的對象。當這場戲演完以后，我看到一個裹在外套里的人形偷偷地溜下了臺。布景工人互相竊竊私語，說：這就是今晚那位扮演失敗了的武士。我跟著這個可憐的人回家，回到他的房間里去。

　　“上吊是一種不光榮的死，而毒藥并不是任何人手頭就有的。我知道，這兩種辦法他都想到了。我看到他在鏡子里瞧了瞧自己慘白的面孔;他半開著眼睛，想要看看，作為一具死尸他是不是還像個樣子。一個人可能是極度地不幸，但這并不能阻止他裝模作態一番。他在想著死，想著自殺。我相信他在憐惜自己，因為他哭得可憐傷心。然而，當一個人能夠哭出來的時候，他就不會自殺了。

　　“自從這時候起，一年已經過去了。又有一出戲要上演，可是在一個小劇場里上演，而且是由一個寒酸的旅行劇團演出的。我又看到那個很熟的面孔，那個雙頰打了胭脂水粉和下巴上卷著胡子的面孔。他抬頭向我望了一眼，微笑了一下。可是剛剛在一分鐘以前他又被唬下了舞臺——被一群可憐的觀眾噓下一座可憐的舞臺!

　　“今天晚上有一輛很寒酸的柩車開出了城門，沒有一個人在后面送葬。這是一位尋了短見的人——我們那位搽粉打胭脂的、被人瞧不起的主角。他的朋友只有一個車夫，因為除了我的光線以外，沒有什么人送葬。在教堂墓地的一角，這位自殺者的尸體被投進土里去了。不久他的墳上就會長滿了荊棘，而教堂的看守人便會在它上面加一些從別的墳上扔過來的荊棘和荒草。”

　　第二十夜

　　“我到羅馬去過，”月亮說，“在這城的中央，在那七座山①中的一座山上②堆著一起皇宮的廢墟。野生的無花果樹在壁縫中生長出來了，用它們灰綠色的大葉子蓋住墻壁的荒涼景象。在一堆瓦礫中間，毛驢踐踏著桂花，在不開花的薊草上嬉戲。羅馬的雄鷹曾經從這兒飛向海外，發現和征服過別的國家;現在從這兒有一道門通向一個夾在兩根殘破大理石圓柱中間的小土房子。長春藤掛在一個歪斜的窗子上，像一個哀悼的花圈。

　　“屋子里住著一個老太婆和她幼小的孫女。她們現在是這皇宮的主人，把這些豪華的遺跡指給陌生人看。曾經是皇位所在的那間大殿，現在只剩得一座赤裸裸的斷墻。放著皇座的那塊地方，現在只有一座深青色的柏樹所撒下的一道長影。在破碎的地板上現在堆著好幾尺高的黃土。當暮鐘響起的時候，那位小姑娘——皇宮的女兒——常常在這兒坐在一個小凳子上。她把旁邊門上的一個鎖匙孔叫做她的角樓窗。從這個窗子望去，她可以看到半個羅馬，一直到圣彼得教堂③上雄偉的圓屋頂。

　　“這天晚上，像平時一樣，周圍是一起靜寂。下面的這位小姑娘來到我圓滿的光圈里面。她頭上頂著一個盛滿了水的、古代的土制汲水甕。她打著赤腳，她的短裙子和她的衣袖都破了。我吻了一下這孩子美麗的、圓圓的肩膀，她的黑眼睛和她發亮的黑頭發。

　　“她走上臺階。臺階很陡峭，是用殘磚和破碎的大理石柱頂砌成的。斑點的蜥蜴在她的腳旁羞怯地溜過去了，可是她并不害怕它們。她已經舉起手去拉門鈴——皇宮門鈴的把手現在是系在一根繩子上的兔子腳。她停了一會兒——她在想什么事情：也許是在想著下邊教堂里那個穿金戴銀的嬰孩——耶穌——吧。那兒點著銀燈，她的小朋友們就在那兒唱著她所熟悉的贊美詩，我不知道這是不是她所想的東西。不一會兒她又開始走起來，而且跌了一跤。那個土制的水甕從她的頭上落下來了，在大理石臺階上摔成碎片。她大哭起來。這位皇宮的美麗女兒居然為了一個不值錢的破水甕而哭起來了。她打著赤腳站在那兒哭，不敢拉那根繩子——那根皇宮的鈴繩!”

　　①在提未累(Tivere)河的東岸，古代的羅馬即建在這些山上。

　　②指巴拉蒂尼山(Palatine)。這山上現在全是古代的遺跡。

　　③這是羅馬梵蒂岡山上一個著名的大教堂。在1506年開始建造，1626年完成。圓屋頂是藝術家米開朗琪羅(1475-1564)設計的。

　　第二十一夜

　　月亮有半個來月沒有出現了。現在我又看見他了，又圓又亮，徐徐地升到云層上面。請聽月亮對我講的話吧。

　　“我跟著一隊旅行商從費贊的一個城市走出來。在沙漠的邊緣，在一塊鹽池上，他們停下來了。鹽池發著光，像一個結了冰的湖，只有一小塊地方蓋著一層薄薄的、流動著的沙。旅人中最年長的一個老人——他腰帶上掛著一個水葫蘆，頭上頂著一個未經發酵過的面包——用他的手杖在沙子上畫了一個方格，同時在方格里寫了《可蘭經》里的一句話。然后整隊的旅行商就走過了這塊獻給神的處所。

　　“一位年輕的商人——我可以從他的眼睛和清秀的外貌看出他是一個東方人——若有所思地騎著一起鼻息呼呼的白馬走過去了。也許他是在思念他美麗的年輕妻子吧?那是兩天前的事：一匹用毛匹和華貴的披巾所裝飾著的駱駝載著她——美貌的新嫁娘——繞著城墻走了一周。這時，在駱駝的周圍，鼓聲和風琴奏著樂，婦女唱著歌，所有的人都放著鞭炮，而新郎放得最多，最熱烈。現在——他跟著這隊旅行商走過沙漠。

　　“一連好幾夜我跟著這隊旅人行走。我看到他們在井旁，在高大的棕櫚樹之間休息。他們用刀子向病倒的駱駝胸脯中插進去，在水上烤著它的肉吃。我的光線使灼熱的沙子冷下來，同時對他們指出那些黑石頭——這一望無涯的沙漠中的死島。在他們沒有路的旅程中，他們沒有遇見懷著敵意的異族人，沒有暴風雨出現，沒有夾著沙子的旋風襲擊他們。

　　“家里那位美麗的妻子在為她的丈夫和父親祈禱。‘他們死了嗎?’她向我金黃色的蛾眉問。‘他們病了嗎?’她向我圓滿的光圈問。

　　“現在沙漠已經落在背后了。今晚他們坐在高大的棕櫚樹下。這兒有一只白鶴在他們的周圍拍著長翅膀飛翔，這兒鵜鶘在含羞樹的枝上朝著他們凝望。豐茂的低矮植物被大象沉重的步子踐踏著。一群黑人，在內地的市場上趕完集以后，正在朝回家的路上走來。用銅紐子裝飾著黑發的、穿著靛青色衣服的婦女們在趕著一群載重的公牛;赤裸的黑孩子在它們背上睡覺。另外有一個黑人牽著他剛才買來的幼獅。他們走近這隊旅行商;那個年輕商人靜靜地坐著，一動也不動，只是想著他的美麗的妻子，在這個黑人的國度里夢想著在沙漠彼岸的、他的那朵芬芳的白花。他抬起頭，但是——”

　　但是恰恰在這時，一塊烏云浮到月亮面前來，接著又來了另一塊烏云。這天晚上我再沒有聽到別的事情。

　　第二十二夜

　　“我看到一個小女孩子在哭，”月亮說。“她為人世間的惡毒而哭。她曾得到一件禮物——一個最美麗的玩偶。啊!這才算得是一個玩偶呢!它是那么好看，那么可愛!它似乎不是為了要受苦而造出來的。可是小姑娘的幾個哥哥——那些高大的男孩子——把這玩偶拿走了，高高地把它放在花園的樹上，然后他們就跑開了。

　　“小姑娘的手達不到玩偶，沒法把它抱下來，因此她才哭起來。玩偶一定也在哭，因為它的手在綠枝間伸著，好像很不幸的樣子。是的，這就是媽媽常常提到的人世間的惡毒。唉，可憐的玩偶啊!天已經快要黑了，夜馬上就要到來!難道就這樣讓它單獨地在樹枝間坐一通夜嗎?不，小姑娘不忍讓這樣的事情發生。

　　“'我陪著你吧!'她說，雖然她并沒有這樣的勇敢。她已經在想象中清楚地看到一些小鬼怪，戴著高帽子，在灌木林里向外窺探，同時高大的幽靈在黑暗的路上跳著舞，一步一步地走近來，并且把手伸向坐在樹上的玩偶。他們用手指指著玩偶，對玩偶大笑。啊，小姑娘是多么害怕啊!

　　“‘不過，假如一個人沒有做過壞事，’她想，‘那么，什么妖魔也不能害你!我不知道我是不是做過壞事?’于是她沉思起來。‘哦，對了!’她說，‘有一次我譏笑過一只腿上系有一條紅布匹的可憐的小鴨。她搖搖擺擺走得那么滑稽，我真忍不住笑了;可是對動物發笑是一樁罪過呵!’她抬起頭來望望玩偶。‘你譏笑過動物沒有?’她問。玩偶好像是在搖頭的樣子。”

　　第二十三夜

　　“我望著下面的蒂洛爾①，”月亮說。“我使深郁的松樹在石頭上映下長長的影子。我凝望著圣·克利斯朵夫肩上背著嬰孩耶穌②。這是繪在屋墻上的一幅畫，是一幅從墻角伸到屋頂的巨畫。還有一些關于圣·佛羅陵③正向一座火燒的屋子潑水和上帝在路旁的十字架上流血的畫。對于現在這一代的人說來，這都成了古畫了。相反地，我親眼看到它們被繪出來，一幅一幅地被繪出來。

　　“在一座高山的頂上立著一個孤獨的尼姑庵，簡直像一個燕子窠。有兩位修女在鐘塔上敲鐘。她們都很年輕，因此她們的視線不免要飛到山上，飛到塵世里去。一輛路過的馬車正在下邊經過;車夫這時捏了一下號筒。這兩位可憐的修女的思想，也像她們的眼睛一樣，跟著這輛車子后面跑，這時那位較年輕的修女的眼里冒出了一顆淚珠。

　　“號角聲漸漸迷朦起來，同時尼姑庵里的鐘聲就把這迷朦的號角聲沖淡得聽不見了。”

　　①蒂洛爾(Tyrol)是奧國西部的一個省份。

　　②依據希伯來人的神話，圣·克利斯朵夫(St. Christopher)是渡船的保護神。這幅畫是起源于下面的故事：有一個小孩子看到克利斯朵夫身材魁梧，特請他抱他過河。克利斯朵夫走到河中，越抱越覺得沉重，不禁發起牢騷來。小孩子這時就說："不要奇怪，你抱住了我就等于抱住了全世界的罪惡。"這孩子就是耶穌。)

　　③圣·佛羅陵(St. Florian)是耶穌的門徒。一般人認為他是防火的保護神。祭他的節日是每年5月4日。

　　第二十四夜

　　請聽月亮講的話吧：“那是幾年以前的事，在哥本哈根發生的。我對著窗子向一個簡陋的房間望進去。爸爸和媽媽都睡著了，不過小兒子睡不著。我看到床上的花布帳子在動著，這個小家伙在偷偷地向外望。起初我以為他在看那個波爾霍爾姆造的大鐘。它上了一層紅紅綠綠的油漆，它頂上立著一個杜鵑。它有沉重的、鋁制的鐘錘，包著發亮的黃銅的鐘擺搖來搖去：‘滴答!滴答!’不過這并不是他所要看的東西。不是的!他要看的是他媽媽的紡車。它是在鐘的下面。這是這孩子在整個屋中最心愛的一件家具，可是他不敢動它，因為他怕挨打。他的媽媽在紡紗的時候，他可以在旁邊坐幾個鐘頭，望著紡錘呼呼地動和車輪急急地轉，同時他幻想著許多東西。啊!他多么希望自己也能紡幾下啊!

　　“爸爸和媽媽睡著了。他望了望他們，也望了望紡車，然后他就把一只小赤腳伸出床外來，接著又把另一只小赤腳伸出來，最后一雙小白腿就現出來了。噗!他落到地板上來。他又掉轉身望了一眼，看爸爸媽媽是不是還在睡覺。是的，他們還是睡著的。于是他就輕輕地，輕輕地，只是穿著破襯衫，溜到紡車旁，開始紡起紗來。棉紗吐出絲來，車輪就轉動得更快。我吻了一下他金黃的頭發和他碧藍的眼睛。這真是一幅可愛的圖畫。

　　“這時媽媽忽然醒了。床上的帳子動了;她向外望，她以為她看到了一個小鬼或者一個什么小妖精。‘老天爺呀!’她說，同時驚惶地把她的丈夫推醒。他睜開眼睛，用手揉了幾下，望著這個忙碌的小鬼。‘怎么，這是巴特爾呀!’他說。"于是我的視線就離開了這個簡陋的房間——我還有那么多的東西要看!這時候我看了一下梵蒂岡的大廳。那里面有許多大理石雕的神像。我的光照到拉奧孔①這一系列的神像;這些雕像似乎在嘆氣。我在那些繆斯②的唇上靜靜地親了一吻，我相信她們又有了生命。可是我的光輝在擁有‘巨神’的尼羅③一系列的神像上逗留得最久。那巨神倚在斯芬克斯④身上，默默無言地夢著，想著那些一去不復返的歲月。一群矮小的愛神在他的周圍和一群鱷魚玩耍。在豐饒之角⑤里坐著一位細小的愛神，他的雙臂交叉著，眼睛凝視著那位巨大的、莊嚴的河神。他正是坐在紡車旁的那個小孩的寫照——面孔一模一樣。這個小小的大理石像是既可愛又生動，像具有生命，可是自從它從石頭出生的時候起，歲月的輪子已經轉動不止1000次了。在世界能產生出同樣偉大的大理石像以前，歲月的大輪子，像這小孩在這間簡陋的房里搖著的紡車那樣，又不知要轉動多少次。

　　“自此以后，許多歲月又過去了，“月亮繼續說。”昨天我向下面看了看瑟蘭東海岸的一個海灣。那兒有可愛的樹林，有高大的堤岸，又有紅磚砌的古老的邸宅;水池里飄著天鵝;在蘋果園的后面隱隱地現出一個小村鎮和它的教堂。許多船只，全都燃著火柱，在這靜靜的水上滑過。人們點著火柱，并不是為了要捕捉鱔魚，不是的，是為了要表示慶祝!音樂奏起來了，歌聲唱起來了。在這許多船中間，有一個人在一條船里站起來了。大家都向他致敬。他穿著外套，是一個高大、雄偉的人。他有碧藍的眼睛和長長的白發。我認識他，于是我想起了梵蒂岡里尼羅那一系列的神像和所有的大理石神像;我想起了那個簡陋的小房間——我相信它是位于格龍尼街上的。小小的巴特爾曾經穿著破襯衫坐在里面紡紗。是的，歲月的輪子已經轉動過了，新的神像又從石頭中雕刻出來了。從這些船上升起一片歡呼聲：‘萬歲!巴特爾·多瓦爾生⑥萬歲!’”

　　①拉奧孔(Laokon)是希臘神話里的一個祭司。他因為觸犯了神怒，被兩條蛇活活地縛死。以他為中心的一系列的雕刻，是留存在梵蒂岡的最優美的古代藝術作品，這些雕刻是在1509年出土的。

　　②希臘神話中藝術之女神。

　　③這是焚蒂岡的另一系列的巨大神像，以尼羅河神為中心。

　　④這是古代埃及的一個假想的動物，他的頭像人，身像獅子。

　　⑤這是和平與繁榮的象征，所以愛神坐在里面。據希臘神話，希臘之天神裘斯(Zeus)是一位叫做亞馬爾苔亞(Amalthea)的女仙用羊奶養大的。裘斯長大了要報答她的恩，特地送她一個羊角，并且說，有了這個東西想要什么就有什么。

　　⑥多瓦爾生(Bertel Thorwaldsen，1770-1844)是丹麥一個窮木刻匠的兒子，后來成了世界聞名的雕刻家。他的作品深受古代希臘和羅馬雕刻的影響，散見于歐洲各大教堂和公共建筑物里。

　　第二十五夜

　　“我現在給你一幅法蘭克福的圖畫，”月亮說。“我特別凝望那兒的一幢房子。那不是歌德出生的地點，也不是那古老的市政廳——帶角的牛頭蓋骨仍然從它的格子窗里露出來，因為在皇帝舉行加冕禮的時候，這兒曾經烤過牛肉，分贈給眾人吃。這是一幢市民的房子，漆上一起綠色，外貌很樸素。它立在那條狹小的猶太人街的角落里。它是羅特席爾特①的房子。

　　“我朝敞著的門向里面望。樓梯間照得很亮：在這兒，仆人托著巨大的銀燭臺，里面點著蠟燭，向一位坐在轎子里被抬下樓梯的老太太深深地鞠著躬。房子的主人脫帽站著，恭恭敬敬地在這位老太太的手上親了一吻。這位老婦人就是他的母親。她和善地對他和仆人們點點頭;于是他們便把她抬到一條黑暗的狹小巷子里去，到一幢小小的房子里去。她曾經在這兒生下一群孩子，在這兒發家。假如她遺棄了這條被人瞧不起的小巷和這幢小小的房子，幸運可能就會遺棄他們。這是她的信念!”

　　月亮再沒有對我說什么;他今晚的來訪是太短促了。不過我想著那條被人瞧不起的、狹小巷子里的老太太。她只須一開口就可以在泰晤士河②邊有一幢華麗的房子——只須一句話就有人在那不勒斯灣為她準備好一所別墅。

　　“假如我遺棄了這幢卑微的房子(我的兒子們是在這兒發跡的)，幸運可能就會遺棄他們!”這是一個迷信。這個迷信，對于那些了解這個故事和看過這幅畫的人，只須加這樣兩個字的說明就能理解：“母親。”

　　①羅特席爾特(Rothschild)是歐洲一個猶太籍的大財閥家族。這家族于18世紀中在德國法蘭克福開始發家，以后分布到歐洲各大首都。這家族的子孫有不同的國籍，左右許多資本主義國家的政局。)

　　②這是穿過倫敦的一條大河。

　　第二十六夜

　　“那是昨天，在天剛要亮的時候!”這是月亮自己的話;“在這個大城市里，煙囪還沒有開始冒煙——而我所望著的正是煙囪。正在這時候，有一個小小的腦袋從一個煙囪里冒出來了，接著就有半截身子，最后便有一雙手臂擱在煙囪口上。

　　'好!'這原來是那個小小掃煙囪的學徒。這是他有生第一次爬出煙囪，把頭從煙囪頂上伸出來。'好!'的確，比起在又黑又窄的煙囪管里爬，現在顯然是不同了!空氣是新鮮得多了，他可以望見全城的風景，一直望到綠色的森林。太陽剛剛升起來。它照得又圓又大，直射到他的臉上——而他的臉正發著快樂的光芒，雖然它已經被煙灰染得相當黑了。

　　“‘整個城里的人都可以看到我了!’他說，‘月亮也可以看到我了，太陽也可以看到我了!好啊!’于是他揮其他的掃帚。”

　　第二十七夜

　　“昨夜我望見一個中國的城市，”月亮說。“我的光照著許多長長的、光赤的墻壁;這城的街道就是它們形成的。當然，偶爾也有一扇門出現，但它是鎖著的，因為中國人對外面的世界能有什么興趣呢?房子的墻后面，緊閉著的窗扉掩住了窗子。只有從一所廟宇的窗子里，有一絲微光透露了出來。

　　“我朝里面望，我看到里面一起華麗的景象。從地下一直到天花板，有許多用鮮艷的彩色和富麗的金黃所繪出的圖畫——代表神仙們在這個世界上所作的事跡的一些圖畫。

　　“每一個神龕里有一個神像，可是差不多全被掛在廟龕上的花帷幔和平幟所掩住了。每一座神像——都是用錫做的——面前有一個小小的祭臺，上面放著圣水、花朵和燃著的蠟燭。但是這神廟里最高之神是神中之神——佛爺。他穿著黃緞子衣服，因為黃色是神圣的顏色。祭臺下面坐著一個有生命的人——一個年輕的和尚。他似乎在祈禱，但在祈禱之中他似乎墮入到冥想中去了;這無疑地是一種罪過，所以他的臉燒起來，他的頭也低得抬不起來。可憐的瑞虹啊!難道他夢著到高墻里邊的那個小花園里(每個屋子前面都有這樣一個花園)去種花嗎?難道他覺得種花比呆在廟里守著蠟燭還更有趣嗎?難道他希望坐在盛大的筵席桌旁，在每換一盤菜的時候，用銀色的紙擦擦嘴嗎?難道他犯過那么重的罪，只要他一說出口來，天朝就要處他死刑嗎?難道他的思想敢于跟化外人的輪船一起飛，一直飛到他們的家鄉——遼遠的英國嗎?不，他的思想并沒有飛得那么遠，然而他的思想，一種青春的熱情所產生的思想，是有罪的;在這個神廟里，在佛爺的面前，在許多神像面前，是有罪的。

　　“我知道他的思想飛到什么地方去了。在城的盡頭，在平整的、石砌的、以瓷磚為欄桿的、陳列著開滿了鐘形花的花盆的平臺上，坐著玲瓏小眼的、嘴唇豐滿的、雙腳小巧的、嬌美的白姑娘。她的鞋子緊得使她發痛，但她的心更使她發痛。她舉起她柔嫩的、豐滿的手臂——這時她的緞子衣裳就發出沙沙的響聲。她面前有一個玻璃缸，里面養著四尾金魚。她用一根彩色的漆棍子在里面攪了一下，啊!攪得那么慢，因為她在想著什么東西!可能她在想：這些魚是多么富麗金黃，它們在玻璃缸里生活得多么安定，它們的食物是多么豐富，然而假如它們獲得自由，它們將更會活得多么快樂!是的，她，美麗的白是懂得這個道理的。她的思想飛出了她的家，飛到廟里去了——但不是為那些神像而飛去的。可憐的白啊!可憐的瑞虹啊!他們兩人的紅塵思想交流起來，可是我的冷靜的光，像小天使的劍一樣，隔在他們兩人的中間。”

　　第二十八夜

　　“天空是澄清的，”月亮說;“水是透明的，像我正在滑行過的晴空。我可以看到水面下的奇異的植物，它們像森林中的古樹一樣對我伸出蔓長的梗子。魚兒在它們上面游來游去。高空中有一群雁在沉重地向前飛行。它們中間有一只拍著疲倦的雙翼，慢慢地朝著下面低飛。它的雙眼凝視著那向遠方漸漸消逝著的空中旅行隊伍。雖然它展開著雙翼，它是在慢慢地下落，像一個肥皂泡似地，在沉靜的空中下落，直到最后它接觸到水面。它把頭掉過來，插進雙翼里去。這樣，它就靜靜地躺下來，像平靜的湖上的一朵白蓮花。

　　“風吹起來了，吹皺了平靜的水面。水泛著光，很像一瀉千里的云層，直到它翻騰成為巨浪。發著光的水，像藍色的火焰，燎著它的胸和背。曙光在云層上泛起一片紅霞。這只孤雁有了一些氣力，升向空中;它向那升起的太陽，向那吞沒了那一群空中隊伍的、蔚藍色的海岸飛。但是它是在孤獨地飛，滿懷著焦急的心情，孤獨地在碧藍的巨浪上飛。”

　　第二十九夜

　　“我還要給你一幅瑞典的圖畫，”月亮說。“在深郁的黑森林中，在羅克生河①的憂郁的兩岸的附近，立著烏列達古修道院。我的光，穿過墻上的窗格子，射進寬廣的地下墓窖里去——帝王們在這兒的石棺里長眠。墻上掛著一個作為人世間的榮華的標記：皇冠。不過這皇冠是木雕的，涂了漆，鍍了金。它是掛在一個釘進墻里的木栓上的。蛀蟲已經吃進這塊鍍了金的木頭里去了，蜘蛛在皇冠和石棺之間織起一層網來;作為一面哀悼的黑紗，它是脆弱的，正如人間對死者的哀悼一樣。

　　“這些帝王們睡得多么安靜啊!我還能清楚地記其他們。我還能看到他們嘴唇上得意的微笑——他們是那么有威權，有把握，可以叫人快樂，也可以叫人痛苦。

　　“當汽船像有魔力的蠕蟲似地在山間前進的時候，常常會有個別陌生人走進這個教堂，拜訪一下這個墓窖。他問著這些帝王們的姓名，但是這些姓名只剩下一種無生氣的，被遺忘了的聲音。他帶著微笑望了望那些蟲蛀了的皇冠。假如他是一個有虔誠品質的人，他的微笑會帶上憂郁的氣氛。

　　“安眠吧，你們這些死去了的人們!月亮還記得你們，月亮在夜間把它寒冷的光輝送進你們靜寂的王國——那上面掛著松木作的皇冠!——”

　　①羅克生(Roxen)是在瑞典南部的一條小河。

　　第三十夜

　　“緊貼著大路旁邊，”月亮說，“有一個客棧，在客棧的對面有一個很大的車棚，棚子上的草頂正在重新翻蓋。我從椽子和敞著的頂樓窗朝下望著那不太舒服的空間。雄吐綬雞在橫梁上睡覺，馬鞍躺在空秣桶里。棚子的中央有一輛旅行馬車，車主人在甜蜜地打盹;馬兒在喝著水，馬車夫在伸著懶腰，雖然我確信他睡得最好，而且不止睡了一半的旅程。下人房的門是開著的，里面的床露出來了，好像是亂七八糟的樣子。蠟燭在地板上燃著，已經燃到燭臺的接口里去了。風寒冷地吹進棚子里來;時間與其說是接近半夜，倒不如說是接近天明。在旁邊的畜欄里有一個流浪音樂師的一家人睡在地上。爸爸和媽媽在夢著酒瓶里剩下來的烈酒。那個沒有血色的小女兒在夢著眼睛里的熱淚。豎琴靠在他們的頭邊，小狗睡在他們的腳下。”

　　第三十一夜

　　“那是一個小小的鄉下城鎮，”月亮說;“這事兒是我去年看見的，不過這倒沒有什么關系，因為我看得非常清楚。今晚我在報上讀到關于它的報道，不過報道卻不是很清楚。在小客棧的房間里坐著一位玩熊把戲的人，他正在吃晚餐。熊是系在外面一堆木柴的后面——可憐的熊，他并不傷害任何人，雖然他那副樣子似乎很兇猛。頂樓上有三個小孩子在我的明朗光線里玩耍;最大的那個孩子將近六歲，最小的不過兩歲。卜卜!卜卜!——有人爬上樓梯來了：這會是誰呢?門被推開了——原來是那只熊，那只毛發蓬蓬的大熊!他在下面的院子里呆得已經有些膩了，所以他才獨自個兒爬上樓來。這是我親眼看見的，"月亮說。

　　“孩子們看到這個毛發蓬蓬的大熊，嚇得不得了。他們每個人鉆到一個墻角里去，可是他把他們一個一個地找出來，在他們身上嗅了一陣子，但是一點也沒有傷害他們!'這一定是一只大狗，'他們想，開始撫摸他。他躺在地板上。最小的那個孩子爬到他身上，把他長滿了金黃鬈發的頭鉆進熊的厚毛里，玩起捉迷藏來。接著那個最大的孩子取出他的鼓來，敲得冬冬地響。這時熊兒便用它的一雙后腿立起來，開始跳起舞來。這真是一個可愛的景象!現在每個孩子背著一支槍，熊也只好背起一支來，而且背得很認真。他們真算找到了一個很好的玩伴!他們開始'開步走'起來——一二!一二……

　　“忽然有人把門推開了;這是孩子們的母親。你應該看看她的那副樣子，那副驚恐得說不出話來的樣子，那副慘白的面孔，那個半張著的嘴，和她那對發呆的眼睛。可是頂小的那個孩子卻是非常高興地在對她點頭，用他幼稚的口吻大聲說：'我們在學軍隊練操啦!'

　　“這時玩熊把戲的人也跑來了。"

　　第三十二夜

　　風在狂暴地吹，而且很冷;云塊在空中奔馳。我只在偶爾之間能看到一會兒月亮。

　　“我從沉靜的天空上望著下面奔馳著的云塊!”他說，“我看到巨大的陰影在地面上互相追逐!

　　“最近我朝下面看了一個監獄。它面前停著一輛緊閉著的馬車：有一個囚犯快要被運走了。我的光穿過格子窗射到墻上。那囚犯正在墻上劃幾行告別的東西。可是他寫的不是字，而是一支歌譜——他在這兒最后一晚從心里發出的聲音。門開了。他被牽出去，他的眼睛凝望著我圓滿的光圈。

　　“云塊在我們之間掠過，好像我不想要看到他、他也不想要看到我似的。他走進馬車，門關上了，馬鞭響起來，馬兒奔向旁邊的一個濃密的森林里去——到這兒我的光就再也沒有辦法跟著他進去了。不過我朝那格子窗向里面望，我的光滑到那支劃在墻上的歌曲——那最后的告別詞上去。語言表達不出來的話，聲音可以表達出來!我的光只能照出個別的音符，大部分的東西對我說來，只有永遠藏在黑暗中了。他所寫的是死神的贊美詩呢，還是歡樂的曲調?他乘著這車子是要到死神那兒去呢，還是要回到他愛人的懷抱里去?月光并不是完全能讀懂人類所寫的東西的。

　　“我從沉靜廣闊的天空上望著下面奔馳著的云塊。我看到巨大的陰影在地面上互相追逐!”

　　第三十三夜

　　“我非常喜歡小孩子!”月亮說，“頂小的孩子是特別有趣。當他們沒有想到我的時候，我常常在窗簾和窗架之間向他們的小房間窺望，看到他們自己穿衣服和脫衣服是那么好玩。一個光赤的小圓肩頭先從衣服里冒出來，接著手臂也冒出來了。有時我看到襪子脫下去，露出一條胖胖的小白腿來，接著是一個值得吻一下的小腳板，而我也就吻它一下了!”月亮說。

　　“今晚——我得告訴你!——今晚我從一扇窗子望進去。窗子上的窗簾沒有放下來，因為對面沒有鄰居。我看到里面有一大群的小家伙——兄弟和平妹。他們中間有一個頂小的妹妹。她只有四歲，不過，像別人一樣，她也會念《主禱文》。每天晚上媽媽坐在她的床邊，聽她念這個禱告。然后她就得到一個吻。媽媽坐在旁邊等她睡著——一般說來，只要她的小眼睛一閉，她就睡著了。

　　“今天晚上那兩個較大的孩子有點兒鬧。一個穿著白色的長睡衣，用一只腳跳來跳去。另一個站在一把堆滿了別的孩子的衣服的椅子上。他說他是在表演一幅圖畫，別的孩子不妨猜猜看。第三和第四個孩子把玩具很仔細地放進匣子里去，因為事情應該是這樣辦才對。不過媽媽坐在最小的那個孩子身邊，同時說，大家應該放安靜一點，因為小妹妹要念《主禱文》了。

　　“我的眼睛直接朝燈那邊望，”月亮說。“那個四歲的孩子睡在床上，蓋著整潔的白被褥;她的一雙小手端正地疊在一起，她的小臉露出嚴肅的表情。她在高聲地念《主禱文》。

　　“‘這是怎么一回事?’媽媽打斷她的禱告說，‘當你念到“我們日用的飲食，天天賜給我們”①的時候，你總加進去一點東西——但是我聽不出究竟是什么。究竟是什么呢?你必須告訴我。’小姑娘一聲不響，難為情地望著媽媽。‘除了說“我們每天的面包，您今天賜給我們”以外，你還加了些什么進去呢?’

　　“‘親愛的媽媽，請你不要生氣吧，’小姑娘說，‘我只是祈求在面包上多放點黃油!’”

　　①這句是引自《圣經·新約·路加福音》第11章第3節。

　　沒有畫的畫冊英文版：

　　What the Moon Saw

　　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

　　A LONG 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

　　ILOOKED 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

　　ILOVE 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.’”

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