WHAT THE MOON SAW [11]
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;
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;