WHAT THE MOON SAW [14]
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
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