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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 bac