WHAT THE MOON SAW [3]
older insurgents.
Mortally wounded with several bayonet thrusts, he sank down. This
happened in the throne-room. They laid the bleeding youth upon the
throne of France, wrapped the velvet around his wounds, and his
blood streamed forth upon the imperial purple. There was a picture!
The splendid hall, the fighting groups! A torn flag upon the ground,
the tricolor was waving above the bayonets, and on the throne lay
the poor lad with the pale glorified countenance, his eyes turned
towards the sky, his limbs writhing in the death agony, his breast
bare, and his poor tattered clothing half hidden by the rich velvet
embroidered with silver lilies. At the boy's cradle a prophecy had
been spoken: 'He will die on the throne of France!' The mother's heart
dreamt of a second Napoleon.
"My beams have kissed the wreath of immortelles on his grave,
and this night they kissed the forehead of the old grandame, while
in a dream the picture floated before her which thou mayest draw-
the poor boy on the throne of France."
SIXTH EVENING
"I've been in Upsala," said the Moon: "I looked down upon the
great plain covered with coarse grass, and upon the barren fields. I
mirrored my face in the Tyris river, while the steamboat drove the
fish into the rushes. Beneath me floated the waves, throwing long
shadows on the so-called graves of Odin, Thor, and Friga. In the
scanty turf that covers the hill-side names have been cut. There is no
monument here, no memorial on which the traveller can have his name
carved, no rocky wall on whose surface he can get it painted; so
visitors have the turf cut away for that purpose. The naked earth
peers through in the form of great letters and names; these form a
network over the whole hill. Here is an immortality, which lasts
till the fresh turf grows!
"Up on the hill stood a man, a poet. He emptied the mead horn with
the broad silver rim, and murmured a name. He begged the winds not
to betray him, but I heard the name. I knew it. A count's coronet
sparkles above it, and therefore he did not speak it out. I smiled,
for I knew that a poet's crown adorns his own name. The nobility of
Eleanora d'Este is attached to the name of Tasso. And I also know
where the Rose of Beauty blooms!"
Thus spake the Moon, and a cloud came between us. May no cloud
separate the poet from the rose!
SEVENTH EVENING
"Along the margin of the shore stretches a forest of firs and
beeches, and fresh and fragrant is this wood; hundreds of nightingales
visit it every spring. Close beside it is the sea, the ever-changing
sea, and between the two is placed the broad high-road. One carriage
after another rolls over it; but I did not follow them, for my eye
loves best to rest upon one point. A Hun's Grave lies there, and the
sloe and blackthorn grow luxuriantly among the stones. Here is true
poetry in nature.
"And how do you think men appreciate this poetry? I will tell
you what I heard there last evening and during the night.
"First, two rich landed proprietors came driving by. 'Those are
glorious trees!' said the first. 'Certainly; there are ten loads of
firewood in each,' observed the other: 'it will be a hard winter,
and last year we got fourteen dollars a load'- and they were gone.
'The road here is wretched,' observed another man who drove past.
'That's the fault of those horrible trees,' replied his neighbour;
'there is no free current of air; the wind can only come from the
sea'- and they were gone. The stage coach went rattling past. All
the passengers were asleep at this beautiful spot. The postillion blew
his horn, but he only thought, 'I can play capitally. It sounds well
here. I wonder if those in there like it?'- and the stage coach
vanished. Then two young fellows came gallopping up on horseback.
There's youth and spirit in the blood here! thought I; and, indeed,
they looked with a smile at the moss-grown hill and thick forest.
Mortally wounded with several bayonet thrusts, he sank down. This
happened in the throne-room. They laid the bleeding youth upon the
throne of France, wrapped the velvet around his wounds, and his
blood streamed forth upon the imperial purple. There was a picture!
The splendid hall, the fighting groups! A torn flag upon the ground,
the tricolor was waving above the bayonets, and on the throne lay
the poor lad with the pale glorified countenance, his eyes turned
towards the sky, his limbs writhing in the death agony, his breast
bare, and his poor tattered clothing half hidden by the rich velvet
embroidered with silver lilies. At the boy's cradle a prophecy had
been spoken: 'He will die on the throne of France!' The mother's heart
dreamt of a second Napoleon.
"My beams have kissed the wreath of immortelles on his grave,
and this night they kissed the forehead of the old grandame, while
in a dream the picture floated before her which thou mayest draw-
the poor boy on the throne of France."
SIXTH EVENING
"I've been in Upsala," said the Moon: "I looked down upon the
great plain covered with coarse grass, and upon the barren fields. I
mirrored my face in the Tyris river, while the steamboat drove the
fish into the rushes. Beneath me floated the waves, throwing long
shadows on the so-called graves of Odin, Thor, and Friga. In the
scanty turf that covers the hill-side names have been cut. There is no
monument here, no memorial on which the traveller can have his name
carved, no rocky wall on whose surface he can get it painted; so
visitors have the turf cut away for that purpose. The naked earth
peers through in the form of great letters and names; these form a
network over the whole hill. Here is an immortality, which lasts
till the fresh turf grows!
"Up on the hill stood a man, a poet. He emptied the mead horn with
the broad silver rim, and murmured a name. He begged the winds not
to betray him, but I heard the name. I knew it. A count's coronet
sparkles above it, and therefore he did not speak it out. I smiled,
for I knew that a poet's crown adorns his own name. The nobility of
Eleanora d'Este is attached to the name of Tasso. And I also know
where the Rose of Beauty blooms!"
Thus spake the Moon, and a cloud came between us. May no cloud
separate the poet from the rose!
SEVENTH EVENING
"Along the margin of the shore stretches a forest of firs and
beeches, and fresh and fragrant is this wood; hundreds of nightingales
visit it every spring. Close beside it is the sea, the ever-changing
sea, and between the two is placed the broad high-road. One carriage
after another rolls over it; but I did not follow them, for my eye
loves best to rest upon one point. A Hun's Grave lies there, and the
sloe and blackthorn grow luxuriantly among the stones. Here is true
poetry in nature.
"And how do you think men appreciate this poetry? I will tell
you what I heard there last evening and during the night.
"First, two rich landed proprietors came driving by. 'Those are
glorious trees!' said the first. 'Certainly; there are ten loads of
firewood in each,' observed the other: 'it will be a hard winter,
and last year we got fourteen dollars a load'- and they were gone.
'The road here is wretched,' observed another man who drove past.
'That's the fault of those horrible trees,' replied his neighbour;
'there is no free current of air; the wind can only come from the
sea'- and they were gone. The stage coach went rattling past. All
the passengers were asleep at this beautiful spot. The postillion blew
his horn, but he only thought, 'I can play capitally. It sounds well
here. I wonder if those in there like it?'- and the stage coach
vanished. Then two young fellows came gallopping up on horseback.
There's youth and spirit in the blood here! thought I; and, indeed,
they looked with a smile at the moss-grown hill and thick forest.