PICTURE BOOK WITHOUT PICTURES
1839
It’s strange! when I feel at my warmest and best, it’s as if my hands and tongue were tied, I can’t represent, can’t express this in the way I experience it inside me; despite the fact I am a painter, that is what my eye tells me, and what all those who have seen my sketches and pictures have acknowledged.
I am a poor fellow, I live in one of the narrowest streets, but I do not lack light, for I live high up, with a view out over all the rooftops. During the first few days after I had moved into the town here, everything seemed so constricted and lonely to me; instead of the woods and the green hillsides I now only had grey chimneys as my horizon. Not a single friend did I own, no well-known face greeted me.
One evening I was standing at my window feeling rather sad, I opened it and looked out. Oh, how happy I became! I saw a face I knew, a round, friendly face, that of my best friend from back home: it was the moon, the dear old moon, the same as ever, precisely as he looked when he peeped down on me between the willow trees beside the bog. I blew him a kiss, and he shone directly into my small room, and promised that every evening when he was out and about, he would pay me a brief visit; he has also faithfully done so since, what a shame that he can only stay such a short time. Each time he comes, he tells me something or other that he has seen the previous night, or the same evening. ‘Just paint what I relate,’ he said to me during his first visit, ‘and you will acquire a quite respectable picture book.’ This I have now done for many evenings. I could, in my own way, compile a new ‘The Arabian Nights’ in pictures, but that would probably be too many; those I offer have not been selected, but follow the sequence in which I heard them; a great, brilliant painter, a poet, or a composer may make more of them if he so desires; what I am showing are only rough outlines on paper, and occasionally my own thoughts, for the moon did not come every evening, often there was a cloud or two that got in the way.
The first evening
‘Last night,’ these are the moon’s own words, ‘I was gliding through the clear Indian air, mirroring myself in the Ganges; my rays were attempting to penetrate the dense barrier woven by the old plane trees that arch up so tightly – like the shell of a tortoise. Then out of the thicket came a Hindu girl, as light as a gazelle, as beautiful as Eve; there was something so ethereal and yet so physically solid about this daughter of India, I could see her thoughts through the delicate skin; the prickly lianas tore her sandals to pieces, but she moved swiftly forwards; the wild beast that came from the river where it had quenched its thirst hurried timidly past, for the girl was holding a lit lamp in her hand; I could see the fresh blood in the delicate fingers that formed a protective shield for the flame. She approached the river, placed her lamp on the water and the current made it sail off downstream; the flame fluttered, as if it would go out, but it continued to burn and the girl’s black, sparkling eyes followed it with a soulful gaze behind the long silken lashes of her eyelids; she knew that if the lamp continued to burn for as long as she could see it, her lover was still alive, but if it went out, he was dead; and the lamp burnt and quivered, and her heart burnt and quivered, she sank to her knees and prayed; beside her a wet snake lay in the grass, but all she thought of was Brahma and her bridegroom. ‘He lives!’ she cried out triumphantly, and from the mountains came the echo: ‘he lives!’
The second evening
‘Yesterday,’ the moon told me, ‘when I was looking down into a small courtyard surrounded by houses, I saw a hen lying there with eleven chicks; a lovely little girl was skipping around them, the hen clucked and spread its wings out over its young. Then the girl’s father came out, he scolded her, and I glided off without giving it another thought; but this evening, only a few minutes ago, I gazed down once more into the same courtyard. It was completely silent, but soon the little girl came out, she crept quietly over to the henhouse, lifted the latch and slipped inside to the hen and the chicks; they shrieked and flapped their wings, the little girl ran after them, I could see it all clearly, for I was looking through a hole in the wall. I felt very angry with the wicked child and was pleased when her father came out and gave her an even greater scolding, grabbing her by the arm; she tilted her head back, there were large tears in her blue eyes. ‘What are you doing here!’ he asked. She was crying: ‘I wanted,’ she said, ‘ to go in and kiss the hen and beg its forgiveness for yesterday, but I didn’t dare tell you that!’ And the father kissed the sweet innocent child on the forehead; I kissed both her eyes and mouth.’
The third evening
‘In the narrow street close by here – it is so hemmed in that I can only let my rays slide down the wall of the house for one minute, but during that minute I can see enough to know the world that stirs here – I saw a woman. Sixteen years earlier she had been a child; she used to play out in the country in the garden of the old vicarage; that year the rose hedgerows had completely finished flowering, they grew wild out across the path and long stems were growing up into the apple trees, only here and there was there a rose, and not a beautiful one like the queen of flowers can be; although the colours were there, the scent was there; the vicar’s young daughter seem to me to be a far lovelier rose; she sat on her stool under the hedgerows that grew wild and kissed the doll with the crushed pasteboard cheeks. Ten years later I saw her again; I saw her in the magnificent ballroom, she was the beautiful bride of the rich merchant; I was pleased at her good fortune, I sought her out in the quiet evenings; ah, no one stops to think about my bright eye, my sure gaze! my rose also grew suckers, like the roses in the vicarage garden! Everyday life also has its tragedies, this evening I saw the last act. In the narrow street, dying, she lay in her bed, and the wicked host, roughly and coldly, her sole protector, pulled the blanket aside: ‘get up!’ he said, ‘your cheeks frighten people, pretty yourself! procure some money, or I’ll throw you out onto the street! get up at once!’ – ‘Death lies in my breast!’ she said, ‘oh, let me rest!’ and he heaved her out of bed, painted her cheeks, plaited roses in her hair, placed her by the window, the lit candle close by, and went away. I stared at her; she sat there motionless, her hands fell into her lap, the window blew open so that one of the panes cracked, but she sat still, the curtain fluttered around her like a flame, she was dead. From the open window the deceased preached the moral: my rose from the vicarage garden!’
The fourth evening
‘This evening I saw a German play,’ the moon said, ‘it was in a small town; a stable had been converted into a theatre, by which I mean that the stalls had been retained and refurbished as boxes, all the woodwork had been covered with brightly coloured paper; beneath the low ceiling there hung a small iron candelabrum, and so that it, as at big theatres, could be hoisted up when the prompter’s bell said ‘Dingaling!’, an up-ended vessel had been built in above it. ‘Dingaling!’ and the small iron candelabrum jerked up a foot or so; then people knew the play was about to begin. A young prince with his consort, who were travelling through the town, attended the performance, so the theatre was packed; all the hatches in the wall had had to be opened, and from the outside all the girls and young men peered in, although the police sat inside and threatened them with their truncheons. The young royal couple could be seen close to the orchestra, sitting in old arm chairs in which the mayor and his wife normally used to sit, but this evening they had to sit on wooden benches like all the other ordinary citizens. ‘That goes to show that above the hawk there’s a higher hawk!’ was the ladies’ quiet comment, and that made everything a little bit more festive; the candelabrum jerked, the common folk got rapped over the knuckles, and I – well, the moon was there throughout the performance.’ –
The fifth evening
‘Yesterday,’ the moon said, ‘ I looked down on the busy life of Paris, my gaze penetrated the fine chambers of the Louvre. An old grandmother, poorly dressed, she belonged to the common people, was following one of the lowly attendants into the large, empty throne room; this she wanted to see, she simply had to see; it had cost her many small sacrifices, much eloquence, before she had managed to get here. She folded her bony hands and looked solemnly about her, as if she was standing in a church. ‘It was here!’ she said, ‘here!’ and she approached the throne, from where rich, gold-fringed velvet hung. ‘There!’ she said, ‘there!’ and she bent her knees and kissed the purple carpet – I believe she wept. ‘It was not this velvet,’ the attendant said, a smile playing round his lips. ‘But it was here!’ the old woman said, ‘this is what it looked like!’ – ‘More or less,’ he replied, ‘and yet not quite; the windows were all broken, the doors pulled off their hinges, and there was blood on the floor! – Though she can say: my grandson died on the throne of France!’ ‘Died!’ the old woman repeated; – I do not think any more words were exchanged, the left the room soon after, the twilight died away, and my light gleamed twice as brightly on the rich velvet around the throne of France. Who do you think the old woman was – ? I will tell you a story. It was during the July Revolution, towards evening, on the most glittering day of victory, when every house was a fortress, every window a redoubt; the people stormed the Tuileries. Even women and children fought among the combatants; they forced their way into the palace apartments and halls. A poor, half-grown youth in rags fought courageously among the older warriors; mortally wounded by several bayonet stabs, he sank to the ground, this took place in the throne room, and the bleeding youth was laid on the throne of France, velvet was wrapped round his wounds, his blood streamed over the royal purple, it was a painting! the magnificent hall, the fighting groups! a broken banner lay on the floor, the tricolore waved above the bayonets, and on the throne the poor boy, with the pale transfigured face, his eyes fixed heavenward while the rest of his limbs succumbed to death; his naked breast, his poor clothing, and half-covering it the rich velvet drapery with its silver fleurs de lis. Had it been predicted at the boy’s cradle: ‘He shall die on the throne of France!’ The mother’s heart had dreamt of a new Napoleon. My beam has kissed the wreath of immortelle on his grave, my beam this night has kissed the grandmother’s brow when she dreamt and saw the picture that you can draw here: ‘The Poor Boy on the Throne of France’!’
The sixth evening
‘I have been in Uppsala!’ the moon said. ‘I gazed down on the large plain with its meagre grass, the downtrodden fields. I mirrored myself in the Fyris river while the steamboat frightened the fish into the reeds. The clouds scudded beneath me and cast long shadows over the graves of Odin, Thor and Freja, as they are called. In the sparse grass over the barrows their names are carved. Here there is no monolith where the traveller could have his name carved, no rock face on which he could have it painted, for that reason the visitor has had the turf cut away, the naked earth looks out in large letters and names, they form a complete net, stretched out over the large barrows. An immortality that a new sward covers. A man was standing up there, a singer, he emptied the horn of mead with a broad ring of silver and whispered a name, asked the wind not to betray it, but I heard the name, I knew it, a Duke’s crown sparkled above it and therefore he did not say it out loud; I smiled, a poet’s crown glitters above his! Eleonore of Este’s nobility hangs at the name of Tasso. I also know where beauty’s rose grows –!’
So said the moon, a cloud passed in front of it. – May no clouds pass between the poet and the rose!
The seventh evening
‘Bordering the shore is an expanse of woodland with oak and beech trees, so fresh and fragrant it is visited every spring by hundreds of nightingales; close by is the sea, the ever-changing sea, and between both runs a broad highway. One carriage after the other rolls past, I do not follow each one, my eye is mainly fixed on one point: here there is a barrow; brambles and blackthorn grow up between the stones. Here there is poetry in nature. How do you think humans erected it? Well, I will tell you what I heard there, only the final evening and night. First, two rich farmers came driving past. ‘Those are fine-looking trees!’ one of them said. ‘There are ten loads of firewood in each!’ the other replied! ‘It’s going to be a severe winter, last year we got fourteen Thalers a cord!’ and then they were gone. ‘The road is bad here!’ said another driving past. ‘It is those damned trees!’ his neighbour replied, it can’t air properly here, only from the sea side!’ and off they rolled. The stagecoach also came past; every one of them was asleep at this most lovely location; the coachman blew his horn, but only thought: I’m a good blower and it sounds good, I wonder what they think of it?’ And then the stagecoach was gone. Two young lads out hunting on horseback rode past. Here there’s youth and champagne in the blood, I thought; they also looked with a smile on their lips at the moss-clad barrow and the dark scrub. ‘I wouldn’t mind walking here with the miller’s daughter Christine!’ the one of them said and they were off. The flowers had such a strong scent, every light breeze dozed, as if the sea was part of the sky that was stretched out over the deep valley; a carriage drove past, there were six people in it, four of them were asleep, the fifth was thinking of his new summer coat that would suit him well, the sixth was leaning over to the coachman asking if they was anything remarkable about the heap of stones. ‘No,’ he man replied, ‘it is a heap of stones, but the trees there are remarkable!’ – ‘Tell me!’ – ‘Yes, they’re very remarkable! you know, when there is deep snow in the winter and everything becomes a single blur, the trees serve as a mark for me that I can keep an eye on and not drive into the sea; so, you see, in that way they are remarkable!’ – and off he drove. Now a painter came along, his eyes gleamed, he said not a word, he whistled, the nightingales sang, the one louder than the other. ‘Halt’s Maul!’ he exclaimed and noted exactly all the colours and shades: ‘Blue, mauve, dark-brown!’ It would be a wonderful picture! He perceived things as a mirror does an image, and all the time he whistled a march by Rossini. The last person to pass by was a poor girl, she rested by the barrow, put down her burden, she tilted her lovely, pale face towards the wood and listened, her eyes gleamed when she looked at the sky over the sea, she folded her hand, I think she was saying the Lord’s Prayer. She did not understand herself the feeling that was coursing through her body, but I know that over the years this minute, with nature around her, far more beautiful, indeed, far more faithful that anything the painter can record with his particular colours, will stand out many times in her memory. My beams followed her, until the glow of dawn kissed her forehead!’
The eighth evening
There were heavy clouds in the sky, the moon did not come out at all, I stood doubly alone in my small room, gazing out into the air from where its gleam should come. My thoughts flew far and wide, up to the large friend who so beautifully told me stories every evening, showed me pictures. Yes indeed, what had he not experienced! He sailed over the waters of the Flood and smiled down on the ark, as he now does with me, and brought consolation of a new world that would come to flourish. When the people of Israel stood weeping by the waters of Babylon, he gazed sadly down between the willow trees where the harps hung. When Romeo climbed up onto the balcony, and the kisses of love were exchanged, like the thoughts of a cherub from earth the round moon stood half-concealed among the black cypresses in the transparent air. He has seen the hero on St. Helena when, from the lonely rock he looked out over the mighty ocean while great thoughts stirred within his breast. Yes, what stories can the moon not tell! The life of the world is a fairytale to him. This evening I cannot see you, old friend! can draw no picture as a memory of your visit! – and as I gazed dreamily up into the clouds, a light shone there; it was a ray from the moon, but it was extinguished again, black clouds drifted past, but even so it was a greeting, a friendly evening greeting the moon brought me.
The ninth evening
The air was clear once again; several evening had passed, the moon was in the first quarter; once again I got the idea for a sketch – listen to what the moon related.
‘I followed the arctic bird and the swimming whale to the east coast of Greenland; naked mountains with ice and clouds surround a valley where osier and bilberry bushes were in full bloom; the fragrant lychnis spread out its sweet scent; my light was dim; my disc as pale as the leaf of a water lily that had drifted for weeks on the surface of the water, torn off from its stem; the crown of the northern lights was on fire, its ring was vast and the rays that emitted from it went like whirling columns of fire out across the entire sky, shimmering green and red. Those living in the area gathered for dancing and gaiety, but they did not look in amazement at the natural splendour around them to which they were so accustomed: ‘Let the souls of the dead just play ball with the walrus’s head!’ they thought, in accordance with their beliefs – they were only interested in their singing and dancing. In the middle of the circle, without furs, stood the Greenlander with his hand-drum and he struck up a song about seal hunting and the chorus answered him with an ‘eya, eya, ah!’ and leapt around in a circle in their white furs, it looked like a bear ball; eyes and heads made the boldest movements. Now the hearings and judgments began. Those who had quarrelled came forward, and the offended party improvised the faults of his opponent, spiritedly and mockingly, all of this while dancing to the drum, the accused replied just as ingeniously, while the gathering laughed and reached their judgment. From the mountains came rumblings, the glaciers calved, the great tumbling masses were pulverised as they crashed down – it was a lovely Greenland summer night. A hundred paces away, under the open skin tent, a sick man lay, life still flowed through his warm blood, but even so he had to die, for he believed it, and so did all those around him, so his wife was already busy sewing the skin covering around him so as not to have to touch the dead man later, and she inquired: ‘do you want to be buried in the mountain in the solid snow? Shall I decorate the spot with your kayak and your arrows! the Angekok shall dance over it! or would you rather be lowered into the sea!’ – ‘Into the sea!’ he whispered and nodded with a sad smile. ‘It is a warm summer tent!’ his wife said, ‘there thousands of seals will leap, there the walrus will sleep at your feet, and the hunting is sure and a delight!’ And the children, howling, tore the stretched skin from the window, so that the dying man could be taken to the sea, the swelling sea that gave him nourishment in life and now rest in death. His sepulchral monument was the swimming icebergs that change night and day. The seal sleeps on the piece of ice; the fulmar flies over it.’
The tenth evening
‘I knew an old maid,’ the moon said, every winter she wore a yellow satin fur coat, it was always new, it was always her sole fashion; every summer she wore the same straw hat, and I think it was the same blue-grey dress. She only went to a female friend on the other side of the street; but during her final years she did not do so, for the friend was dead. Alone, my old maid used to busy herself inside her window, where throughout the summer lovely flowers stood and during the winter lovely cress on top of hat felt. During her final month she no longer sat at the window, but she was still alive, I knew that, for I had not seen her make the great journey that she and her friend so often talked about. ‘Yes,’ she then said, ‘when I die some day, I will come to travel much more than I did in my entire life; almost thirty miles from here is the family burial place, that is where I will be taken, and where I will sleep with the others of my kith and kin.’ Yesterday night a cart was standing outside the house, they bore out a coffin, then I knew that she was dead; they placed straw round the coffin and drove off. There the quiet, old maid slept who had not been outside the house for years; and the cart rolled out of the town, quickly, as if it was a pleasure trip. Out on the highway the pace was even quickened; the man look back several times over his shoulder, I think he was afraid he might see her sitting in her yellow satin fur coat back there on the coffin; this caused him to whip the horses so inconsiderately, to hold the reins so tightly than they foamed at the bit; they were young and swift, a hare scuttled across the round and they bolted. The quiet old maid, who year in and year out had only slowly moved in circles back home, now, as a corpse, rushed off post-haste along the open highway. The coffin, which was wrapped in mats, was jolted off and lay there in the road, while the horses, driver and cart shot off at a headlong pace. A lark rose chirping from the fields, piping their morning song above the coffin, settled on it and picked away at the mats with its beak, as if it wanted to pull the cocoon to pieces. It then rose singing into the air once more, and I retired behind the rose-coloured clouds of the early morning.’
The eleventh evening
‘There was a wedding!’ the moon related. ‘Songs were sung, toasts were proposed, everything was lavish and splendid; the guests left, it was past midnight; the mothers kissed the bridegroom and bride; I alone saw them, but the curtains were almost completely drawn; the lamp lit up the cosy room. ‘Thank God they are all gone!’ he said and kissed her hands and lips; she smiled and cried, rested on his breast, quivering like the lotus flower resting on the moving water; and they spoke gentle, blissful words. ‘Sleep tight!’ he exclaimed, and drew back the window curtains. ‘How beautifully the moon shines!’ she said, look how quiet, how clear it is!’ and she put out the lamp, it grew dark in the cosy room, and yet my light gleamed, as did his eyes too. Spirit of womanhood, may you kiss the poet’s harp when he sings of the mysteries of life!’
The twelfth evening
‘I will give you a picture of Pompeii,’ the moon said, ‘I was at the outer edge of the city, the street of graves as it is called, where the beautiful monuments stand, where once the rejoicing young men, with roses round their foreheads, danced with the lovely sisters of Lais; now it was deathly quiet here; German soldiers in the pay of the Neapolitans kept watch and were playing cards and throwing dice; a group of strangers from the far side of the mountains entered the town, accompanied by a guard; in the clear gleam of my light they would see the city that had risen from the grave, and I showed them the ruts from the wagon wheels in the streets paced with broad slabs of lava, I showed them the names of the doors and the signs still hanging outside the houses; in the small courtyards they saw the basins for the fountains, decorated with mussels and seashells; but no jet of water rose up, no songs could be heard from the richly painted rooms where the bronze dog guarded the door. It was the city of the dead, only Vesuvius still thundered its eternal anthem, whose single verses are referred to as eruptions by mankind. We went over to the Temple of Venus; it has been built of marble, shining white, with its high altar in front of the broad flight of steps, and with fresh weeping willows that have sprouted among the columns; the air was so transparent and blue, and as a backdrop stood jet-black Vesuvius, where the fire rose, like the stone pine’s trunk; the illuminated cloud of smoke lay in the stillness of the night, like the crown of the pine tree, though red as blood. Among the party was a female singer, a great and famous one, I have seen her praised in the leading cities of Europe; when they approached the theatre of tragedy, they all sat down on the stone tiers of the amphitheatre, this one spot was filled up once more, as it had been thousands of years earlier. The stage still stood there as before with its walled wings, the two arches in the background through which one sees the same decoration as back then – nature itself: the mountains between Sorrento and Amalfi. The female singer, just for the fun of it, went up onto the ancient stage and sang; the place inspired her, I had to think of wild horses of Arabia, when they snort, raise their mane and set off at a gallop, it was the same lightness and sureness; I had to think of the suffering mother beneath the cross at Golgotha, it was this felt, deep pain. And all around, as thousands of years ago, there was applause and praise: “Oh happy one! Divinely gifted!” they all cried out. Three minutes later the stage was empty, everyone was gone, no more music was to be heard; the party had moved on, but the ruins still stood there, unchanged, as they will continue to be standing centuries from now, and no one will know of this moment of applause, of the beautiful singer, of her singing and smile, past and forgotten, even to me this moment will be a vanished memory.’
The thirteenth evening
‘I looked in through an editor’s window,’ the moon said, ‘it was somewhere in Germany. Here there was fine furniture, there were many books and a chaos of sheets of paper. There were several young men in there; the editor himself stood at his desk, two slim books, both by young writers, were to be reviewed.! – “One of them has been sent to me,” he said, “I haven’t read it yet, but it is beautiful in appearance, what do you say about its contents?” – “Oh!” one of them, who was a poet, said, “it is extremely good, slightly long drawn out, but, good heavens, the writer is a young man, the verses could also be a little better! The thoughts are very sound, although they are admittedly common thoughts! but what is one to say? One cannot always find something new. You are welcome to praise him! though I don’t think anything great will become of him as a poet. But he is well-read, is an excellent Orientalist, judges himself in a well-considered way. He is the man who wrote that lovely review of my ‘Fantasies concerning domestic life.’ One ought to treat a young man mildly.”
“But he is no more than a plodder!” the other man in the room said, “nothing is worse in poetry than mediocrity, and higher than that he will never attain!”
“Poor chap!” a third person said, “and his aunt is so pleased with him. She is the one, Mr Editor, who has collected so many subscribers for your latest translation – – ”
“The good woman! yes, I have briefly reviewed the book. An unmistakable talent! a welcome gift! A flower in the garden of poetry; well presented, etc. But the other book! he is certain to want me to purchase it! I hear it will be praised! He has genius! don’t you think?”
“Yes, everyone’s raving about him,” the poet said, “but he is a trifle wild at times! His use of the comma is particularly brilliant.”
“It would perhaps do him good to be hauled over the coals, to be slightly vexed, otherwise he might get too big for his boots!”
“But that is unfair!” a fourth man exclaimed, “let us not dwell on tiny faults but rejoice in what is good, and here there is a great deal! he outclasses all the others!”
“Saints preserve us, if he is such a real genius, he ought to be able to put up with being savaged! they are plenty of people who praise him privately! just let’s not make him really mad!”
“Unmistakable talent!” the editor wrote, “the usual traces of carelessness: that he can sometime also write unfortunate lines of poetry can be seen from page twenty-five, where there are two hiatuses. A study of older writers is recommended, etc.” – ‘I left,’ the moon said, ‘peeped in through the window of the aunt’s house, there the honoured poet said, the tame individual, praised by all the invited guests, and was happy.’
‘I sought out the other poet, the wild one; he too was at a large party being held at a patron’s, where they were discussing the other poet’s book – “I shall also read yours!” the patron said, “but, quite honestly, you know I never beat about the bush with you, I do not expect great things of it. You are too wild for me! too over-imaginative – but I acknowledge that as a person you are most respectable!” A young girl sat in a corner and read in a book:
– Besmirched is great wit’s glory
While drudgery’s praised high –!
It is an old, old story,
But one that will not die!
The fourteenth evening
The moon related: ‘Two peasant dwellings lie beside the woodland road; the doors are low, the windows skewed, but around them grow boxthorn and barberry, the roofs are covered with moss and there yellow flowers and houseleek grow; there is only curly kale and potatoes in the small gardens, but on the fences an elder blossoms and beneath it a little girl sat; her brown eyes were fixed on the old oak tree between the houses. This tree has a tall, withered trunk that has been sawn off at the top, and there the stork has built its nest; he stood up there, clacking his bill. A young boy came out, he went and stood beside the girl – they were brother and sister. “What are you looking at?” he asked. “I’m looking at the stork!” she said, “the neighbour’s wife has told me that this evening it will be bringing us a younger brother or sister; now I’m going to keep a look-out, to make sure I see them when they come!” – “The stork doesn’t bring anyone!” the boy said, “believe you me, she has told me the same story, but she laughed when she said it, and then I asked her if she dared swear ‘by God’ to the truth of it! – she didn’t dare, and so I know all that about the stork is only something people try to make us children believe in.” – “But where does the little baby come from then?” the girl asked.” “The Lord God comes with it;” the boy said, ‘God has it under his robe, but no human beings can see God and therefore we can’t see that he brings it!” – At that moment the breeze passed through the branches of the elder tree, the children folded their hands and looked at each other: that must surely be God coming with the little child. – And they held each other’s hand; the door of the house opened; it was the neighbour’s wife: “Come in now,” she said, “just see what the stork has brought; it’s a younger brother!” – And the children nodded; for they well knew that he had arrived.’
The fifteenth evening
‘I was gliding over Lüneburg Heath,’ the moon said, ‘a lonely hut lay by the roadside; some naked bushes stood close by it, and here a nightingale that had got lost was singing. It was going to die in the coldness of the night; I was listening to its swansong. Dawn was breaking, there came a caravan of peasant families who wanted to reach Bremen or Hamburg, board a ship to get to America, where good fortune, their dreamt-of good fortune would blossom forth. The women bore their youngest children on their backs, the older ones skipped alongside them; a wretched horse pulled a cart with a few household utensils. A cold wind was blowing; so the little girl clung closer to her mother, who looked up at my round, waning disc and thought of the great distress they suffered here at home, thought of the heavy taxes they were unable to pay. Her thoughts were those of the entire caravan; so the red light of dawn gleamed like the gospel of a sun of light that would arise again; they heard the dying nightingale singing, it was no false prophet, but a herald of happiness. The wind whistled, they did not understand its song: “Sail safely over the ocean! The long journey you have paid for with everything that you owned; poor and helpless you will enter your Land of Canaan. You must sell yourself, your wife and your children. But you will not have to suffer for long! Behind the broad, scented leaf sits the goddess of death; her welcoming kiss will breathe a deadly fever into your blood, set out! set out over the heaving waters!” – And the caravan listened happily to the nightingale’s song, for it augured good fortune. The day gleamed out of the light clouds; the peasant folk walked over the heath to church; the black-clad women with their close-fitting white linen around their heads looked like figures that had emerged from the old paintings in the church; around them as only the vast, dead heathland, the withered, brown heather, the blighted expanses between white sandbanks. The women carried their hymn books and walked towards the church. Oh, pray! Pray for those who are walking to their graves, beyond the heaving waters.’
The sixteenth evening
‘I know a Pulcinella,’ the moon said, ‘the audience cry out joyously when they see him; every movement he makes becomes comical, causes the house to roar with laughter, and yet none of it is studied in advance, it is his own particular nature. When he was small and used to romp around with the other boys he was already a Pulcinella, nature had fashioned him as such, given him a hump on his back and one on his chest; inside, on the other hand, when it came to his mental capacities, he was well equipped; no one had a deeper feeling, a greater elasticity of the spirit than he had. The theatre was his ideal world. If he had been slim and well-fashioned, he would have been a tragic hero on every stage; the heroic, the great filled his soul, and despite this he was obliged to become a Pulcinella. Even his pain, his melancholy heightened the comical dryness of his sharply etched face, and arouse laughed in a grateful audience, who clapped their favourite. The attractive Columbine was friendly and kind towards him, but would rather marry Archelino; it would have become too comical in reality if “Beauty and the Beast” had been united. When Pulcinella was at his most despondent, she was the only one who could get him to smile, yes, to roar with laughter; she began by being melancholy with him, then a little calmer, but finally full of fun. “I know what’s wrong with you!” she said, “yes, it’s this love!” – and then he had to laugh. “Me and love!” he exclaimed, “now that would be a comical sight! how the audience would applaud!” – “It is love,” she persisted, and added with comic pathos: “It is me you love!” – Yes, one dares say such things when one knows that love is not there! and Pulcinella leapt high in the air with laughter; now his melancholy was gone. And yet she had spoken the truth, he did love her, he loved her as much as he did what is elevated and great in art. On her wedding day he was the cheeriest person there, but at night he wept; if the audience had seen his contorted face, it would have clapped. – Just now Columbine has died; on the day of her funeral Archelino was spared having to tread the boards; after all, he was a bereaved widower; the manager had to come up with something quite amusing, so that the audience would not miss the beautiful Columbine and the light Archelino; so Pulcinella had to be twice as cheerful; he danced and leapt around with despair in his heart, and there was much clapping and shouting: “bravo, bravissimo!”Pulcinella was called out; oh, he was priceless! – – Yesterday night, after the performance, the little monster walked out of the town on his own, over to the lonely graveyard. The wreath of flowers had already wilted on Columbine’s grave; there he sat down; it was just right for a painting: his hand under his chin, his eyes towards me; it was like a monument, a Pulchinella at the graveside, strange and comical. If the audience had seen their favourite, they would have applauded: “bravo, Pulcinella, bravo, bravissimo!”
The seventeenth evening
Listen to what the moon related: ‘I have seen the cadet become an officer and put on his magnificent uniform for the first time, I have seen the young girl in her fine ball gown, the prince’s young bride radiant in her gala dress, but nobody’s bliss can be compared with what I saw this evening in a child, a small four-year-old girl; she had been given a new blue frock, a new pink hat; she had just donned this finery, and all of them called out for more light, for the moonbeams through the window were too weak, much more light was needed. There the little girl stood, as stiff as a doll, her arms anxiously held away from her frock, her fingers splayed out, oh! how her eyes, her whole countenance shone with bliss. “Tomorrow you shall go out in the street!” her mother said, and the little girl looked up at her hat, looked down at her frock and smiled happily: “Mother!” she said, “I wonder what the dogs will think when they see me in all this finery!”’
The eighteenth evening
‘I have told you,’ the moon said, about Pompeii, that corpse of a city, presented among the ranks of the living cities, I know of another, even more strange one, it is not a corpse but the ghost of a city – Everywhere where the fountains plash in their marble basins I seem to hear the fairytale of the swimming city. Yes, the jet of water must tell its story! The waves on the shore sing of it! Over the surface of the sea there often hovers a mist, it is a widow’s veil: the bridegroom of the sea is dead, his palace and city are not a mausoleum! Do you know this city? It has never heard the rolling of carriage wheels or hoofbeats of horses in its streets, there fish swim and gondolas flit ghostlike over the green water. I will,’ – the moon went on – ‘show you its forum, its largest square, and you will believe yourself to be in the city of fairytales; the grass grows between the broad flagstones, and at dawn thousands of tame pigeons fly around the lone tall tower. On three sides you are surrounded by arcades. The Turk with his long pipe sits quietly in there, the handsome Greek lad leans against a pillar and looks at the raised trophies: the high columns, the memory of former power. The flags hang like black mourning crape; a girl is resting there, she has put down the heavy buckets full of water, the yoke on which she carried them lies on her shoulders, she supports herself against the column of victory. It is not a fairy castle but a church you see in front of you! the gilded cupolas, the golden globes around you everywhere gleam in my light; the magnificent bronze horses up there must have undertaken journeys like the copper horse in the fairytale, they have journeyed here, away from here and returned once more. Can you see the multicoloured splendour in the wall and on the panes? It is as if genius had indulged a child’s desire by decorating this strange temple. Can you see the winged lion on the column? The gold still gleams, but the wings are bound, the lion is dead, for the King of the Sea is dead, it is empty in the great halls, and where once costly pictures hung the naked wall now gleams. The vagabond now sleeps under the arch, the floor of which only high nobility once dared walk on. From the deep well, or is it from the leaden chambers close to the Bridge of Sighs, a sigh is heard, as when the tambourine once rang out on the many-coloured gondolas, when the wedding ring flew from the glittering bucentaur to Adria, Queen of the Sea. Adria, wrap yourself in mist! let the widow’s veil hide your breast, drape it over the mausoleum of your bridegroom: the marble-built, ghostlike Venice!’
The nineteenth evening
‘I gazed down on a large theatre,’ the moon said, ‘the whole house was full of spectators; for a new actor was making his debut; my rays glided over the small window in the wall, a made-up face pressed its forehead against the pane: it was the evening’s hero. The knightly beard curled around his chin, but there were tears in the man’s eyes, for he had been booed off stage, and with good reason. Poor fellow! but such a poor figure cannot be tolerated in the realm of art. He felt deeply and loved art with enthusiasm, but it did not love him. – – The stage manager’s bell rang’ – spiritedly and boldly, it stated in the description of his role – the hero steps forward, – he had to stand in front of an audience that found him ridiculous. – – When the play was over, I saw a man, wrapped in a cloak, sneak down the staircase; it was him, the evening’s crushed knight; the stagehands whispered to each other; I followed the sinner up to his small room back home. To hang oneself is an unsightly death and one doesn’t always have poison about one’s person. I know that he considered both. I saw him gaze at his pale face in the mirror, half-close his eyes, to see if he would be handsome, as a corpse. A person can be terribly unhappy and yet terribly affected. He considered death, suicide, I think he was weeping for himself – he wept deeply, and once one has wept all one’s tears, one simply doesn’t kill oneself. A whole year had passed since then. There was a play, but at a small theatre, it was a poor, itinerant troupe; I saw once more the well-known face, the made-up cheeks, the curly beard. He looked up at me once more, smiled – and even so he was booed off, just a minute ago, booed off a wretched stage, booed off by a wretched audience! – That evening a poor hearse drove out through the city gate, not a single person accompanied it. It was a suicide, our made-up, booed-off hero. The driver of the hearse was his only companion, no one else came along, no one except the moon. In the corner by the cemetery wall the suicide has been laid, there the nettles will soon spring up, there the gravedigger will throw out hawthorn and weeds from other people’s graves.
The twentieth evening
‘I’ve just come from Rome!’ the moon said, ‘there, in the heart of the city on one of the seven hills lie the ruins of the imperial palace; the wild fig trees grow in the cracks of the walls and cover its nakedness with their broad, grey-green leaves; among the rubble the donkeys tread on the green laurel bushes and rejoice in the barren thistles. From here, where once the Roman eagle flew out, came saw and conquered, the entrance is now through a small, poor house, built of clay between two broken marble columns; the vines hang like a funeral garland over the lopsided window. An old woman with her young granddaughter live inside, they know reign in the imperial palaces and shows the hidden treasures to strangers. Of the sumptuous throne room there is but a naked wall, the black cypress points with its long shadow to the spot where the throne stood. Several feet of earth lie over the shattered floor, the little girl, now the daughter of the imperial palace, often sits there on her stool when the evening bells ring. The keyhole in the door close by she calls her balcony, through it she can see half of Rome, out to the huge dome of St Peter’s Church. As always, it was quiet that evening, and below, in the bright fullness of my light, the little girl came. On her head she carried an antique-shaped earthenware jar of water, she was bare-footed, her short skirt and small shift sleeves were ragged, I kissed the child’s fine, round shoulders, her black eyes and her dark, glossy hair; she went up the flight of steps to the house, it was steep, formed out of rubble and a shattered capital. A mottled lizard darted shyly past her feet, but she was unafraid, she was already raising her hand to ring at the door, there a hare’s foot hung on a loop of twine – this is now the bell-pull at the imperial palace. She paused for a moment, what was she thinking of: perhaps of a lovely infant Jesus, clad in silver and gold, down there in the chapel where the silver lamps gleamed, where her small girl friends struck up the song that she also knew; I do not know! she made another movement, and stumbled, the earthenware jar slipped off her head and smashed against the fluted marble pavestone. She burst into tears, the lovely daughter of the imperial palace wept because of the poor, broken earthenware jar; with bare feet she stood and wept, did not dare pull the loop of twine, the bell-pull of the imperial palace.’
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