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WHAT THE MOON SAW.
INTRODUCTION.
I am a poor lad, and live in one of the narrowest of lanes; but I have plenty of light: my room is high up in the house, and there is a good prospect over the roofs of the opposite houses. During the first few days I lived in the town, I felt very lonely and low-spirited. Instead of the forest and the green hills of the country, I had nothing but black chimney-pots on the horizon of my view. And then I had not a single friend, nor one familiar face to greet me.
One evening, as I stood at the window, feeling very sorrowful, I opened it, and looked out. Oh, what joy filled my heart! I saw a well-known face, the round, friendly countenance of my best friend from home,—the face of the moon! The dear old moon was quite unchanged, and looked as she used to do when she peered down upon me through the willow-trees on the moor. I kissed my hand to her over and over again, as her light shone far into my room; and then she promised me that every evening, when she came out, she would look in upon me for a few moments. This promise she has faithfully kept. It is a pity she can only stay such a short time when she comes; yet on each visit she relates to me one thing or another that she has seen on the previous night, or on that same evening. “Just paint the scenes I describe to you,” said she, “and you will soon possess a very pretty picture book.” I have obeyed her injunction, and written what she told me on several evenings. I could make up another “Thousand and One Nights” stories in pictures. The number would have been too great, but that the moon did not come to me every night; sometimes a cloud hid her face from me.
THE LITTLE GIRL AND THE CHICKENS.
“I was looking down, yesterday,” said the moon, “on a small court-yard, sheltered on all sides by houses. There I saw a clucking hen with eleven chickens running about the yard, and a pretty little girl springing and jumping after them. The hen clucked, and spread her wings in terror over her little brood. Then the child’s father came out and scolded her, and I glided away, and thought no more of the matter. But this evening, only a few minutes ago, I looked again into the court-yard. Everything was quiet. But presently the little girl came out again, stepped lightly across to the hen-house, pushed back the bolt, and slipped in among the hens and chickens. They cried out loudly, and came fluttering down from their perches, as the little one ran after them; I saw it all plainly through a hole in the wall. I was angry with the naughty child, and felt quite glad when her father came and scolded her more severely than he did yesterday, as he held her fast by the arm; she hung down her head, and her blue eyes were full of large tears. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.”
“She wept, and said, ‘I wanted to kiss the hen, and beg her pardon for frightening her yesterday, but I did not like to tell you so.’ Then the father kissed the innocent child’s forehead, and I kissed her on the mouth and eyes.”
THE BABY AND THE STORK.
“By the path through the woodland,” said the moon, ‘‘there are two small farmhouses. They have low doors; some of the windows are high, and others close to the ground. Mulberry bushes and the whitethorn grow around them. The roof of each house is overgrown with moss, yellow flowers, and lichen. The only plants that grow in the gardens are cabbages and potatoes; but near the hedge stands a large willow-tree, and under it sat a little girl, with her eyes fixed upon an old oak between the two houses. It was only an old withered trunk, which had been sawn off at the top, and on it a stork had built his nest. He stood in it, snapping with his beak. A little boy came and stood by the girl’s side; they were brother and sister. ‘What are you looking at?’ he asked.
“‘I’m watching the stork,’ she replied. ‘Our neighbours told me that he would bring us a little brother or sister to-day; let us stay and see it come.’”
“‘The stork will not bring any such thing,’ said the boy. ‘Our neighbour told me the same story: she laughed when she said it; so I asked her if she could say, “upon my honour,” and she could not; so I know by that that the tale about the stork is not true, and they only say it to us children for fun.’”
“‘But where do the babies come from, then?’ asked the girl.”
“‘Why an angel from heaven brings them under his cloak; but no one can see him, and that’s why we never know when he brings them.’”
“At that moment there was a rustling in the branches of the willow-tree, and the children folded their hands and looked at each other. It must certainly be the angel coming with the baby. They took each other’s hand; and at that moment the door of one of the houses opened, and a neighbour appeared. ‘Come in, you two,’ she said, ‘and see what the stork has brought; it is a little brother.’”
“Then the children nodded gravely at each other; they knew already that the baby was come.”
THE NEW FROCK.
This is another of the moon’s pictures.
“I have seen the young cadet, who has just been made an officer, put on his new uniform for the first time. I have seen a young bride in her wedding dress, and the young princess girl-wife look happy in her gorgeous robes; but never have I seen such perfect delight as that of a little girl, whom I saw dressed this evening in a new frock. The dress was blue, and she had a hat trimmed with pink. There was a great calling out for a candle; for my rays shining in through the windows of the room were not bright enough for the occasion, and further light was necessary. There stood the little maid, stiff and upright as a doll, her arms stretched out painfully straight from the stiffness of the dress, and her fingers apart; and what happiness beamed from her eyes, and from her whole countenance! ‘Tomorrow 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 said, with a bright smile, ‘Mother, what will the little dogs think, when they see me in all these beautiful new things?’”
THE NAUGHTY BROTHERS.
“I saw a little girl,” said the moon, “who was weeping over the wickedness of the world. She had been presented with a most beautiful doll as a present. It certainly was a very pretty doll, so fair and delicate, and not made to bear the rough usage of the world. But the brothers of this little girl, those great, naughty boys, had set the doll up high in the branches of a tree, and had run away. The little girl could not reach up to the doll to help her down, and that is why she was crying. The doll seemed to be crying too, for she stretched out her arms among the green branches, and looked quite mournful. Yes, these were some of the troubles of life which the little girl had often heard of. Alas, poor dolly! it was already beginning to grow dark, and what would become of her when the night came on? Was she to be left sitting there alone on the bough all night? No, the little maiden could not allow such a thing. ‘I’ll stay with you,’ she said, though she did not feel quite comfortable at the thought. She almost fancied she saw a lot of little ugly fairies, with their high-crowned hats, sitting among the bushes; and farther back, in the long walk, there seemed to be music and dancing. Then they came nearer, and stretched out their hands towards the tree on which the doll sat, and pointed at her with their fingers, and laughed and made fun of her. Oh, how frightened the little girl felt! and then she said to herself, ‘I needn’t be afraid; no one can do me any harm if I have not been naughty. I wonder if I have done anything wrong;’ and then she remembered, ‘Oh, yes, I laughed at the poor duck who had a piece of red rag on her leg, because she limped along so funnily; I could not help laughing, but it’s naughty to laugh at animals, and make fun of them. Then she looked up at the doll, and said, ‘Did you laugh at the duck too?’ and it seemed as if the doll shook er head.”
THE BEAR WHO PLAYED AT SOLDIERS.
“In the inn parlour of a little provincial town,” said the moon, “sat a man who was travelling about with a bear. He was eating his supper. The bear was tied up outside against the palings. Poor Bruin! he would do no one any harm, though he looked grim enough. Up in the garret three little children were playing together by the light of my rays: the eldest might be six years old, the youngest not more than two. ‘Stump, stump;’ somebody was coming upstairs; who could it be? The door flew open; it was Bruin—great shaggy Bruin. He had got tired of waiting outside in the court, and had found his way to the stairs. I saw it all,” said the moon.
“The children were very much frightened at the great shaggy beast; each of them crept into a corner, but he found them all out and smelt them; but he did not hurt them. ‘This must be a great dog,’ they said, and began to stroke him. When he laid himself down on the ground, the youngest boy climbed on his back, hid his head, with its golden curls, in the beast’s shaggy fur, and played at hide-and-seek. Presently the eldest boy took his drum, and began to beat upon it till it rattled again. Then the bear rose up on his hind legs and began to dance. Oh, it was most charming to see. After that each boy took his gun, and gave the bear one also, which he held quite properly; this was indeed a splendid playfellow that they had found. Then they began to march, ‘One, two. One, two.’ Suddenly some one came to the door. It was the mother of the children. You should have seen her as she stood in dumb terror, with a face as white as chalk, her mouth half open, and her eyes fixed in a horrified stare. The youngest boy nodded to her joyfully, and said, ‘See, we are playing at soldiers.’ Then the bear’s master came running up.”
THE LITTLE CHIMNEY-SWEEP.
“Yesterday, in the morning twilight,” said the moon, “no chimneys were smoking in the great city; yet it was at the chimneys that I was looking. Suddenly, from one of them a little head popped out, and then half the body, the arms resting on the rim of the chimney-pot. ‘Sw-ee-p, sw-ee-p,’ cried a voice. It was a little chimney-sweeper, who for the first time in his life had climbed a chimney, and put his head out at the top. ‘Sw-ee-p, sw-ee-p!’ Yes, this was quite another thing than creeping through a dark, narrow chimney. The air blew so fresh, and he could look over the whole city to the green wood. Just then the sun rose round and large, and shone full in his face, which beamed with pleasure, though it was very handsomely smeared with black soot. ‘Now I can see the whole world,’ cried he. ‘The moon sees me, and the sun. Sw-ee-p, sw-ee-p,’ cried he, flourishing his broom in triumph.”
BREAD AND BUTTER.
“I love children,” said the moon, “especially the very little ones; they are so droll. Many times I peep into the room between the curtain and the window-frame, when they are not thinking of me. It gives me pleasure to see them dress and undress. First, a little white round shoulder comes creeping out of the frock, then an arm; or a stocking is drawn off, and a plump little white leg appears, and a little foot fit to be kissed, and I kiss it too. But about what I was going to tell you. This evening I looked through a window before which no curtain was drawn, for no one lives opposite. I saw a whole troop of little ones, all of one family: among them was a little sister only four years old, who had been taught to say ‘Our Father,’ as well as the rest. The mother sits by her bedside every night to hear her say her prayers; and after she has said them she gives her a kiss, and stays by her till she is asleep, which is generally as soon as ever her eyes are closed. This evening the two elder children were rather inclined for play. One of them hopped about the room on one leg, and the other stood on a chair, surrounded by the clothes of all the other children, and said he was a living statue. The third and fourth were placing the clean linen from the wash in the drawers, which is a thing that must be done; and the mother sat by the bed of the youngest, and desired the others to be quiet, as their little sister was going to say her prayers. I looked in over the lamp on to the little maiden’s bed, where she lay under the white quilt, her little hands folded, and her face quite grave and serious. Then she repeated the Lord’s Prayer aloud. ‘What is it you say to yourself?’ asked her mother, when she got into the middle of the prayer. ‘When you say, “give us this day our daily bread,” you always add something which I cannot understand; you must tell me what it is.’ The little one lay silent, and looked at her mother rather confused. ‘What is it you say after, “Give us our daily bread,”—tell me.’ ‘Don’t be angry, dear mother,’ said the child; ‘I only say, “and plenty of butter on it!”’”
THE MOTHER OF THE ROTHSCHILDS.
“I will now give you a picture from Frankfort,” said the moon, “I noticed one building there especially. It was not the house in which Goethe was born, nor the old council chamber, through the grated windows of which there peers forth the horns of the oxen which were roasted and distributed among the people at the crowning of an emperor. No; this was a private house, plain in appearance, and painted green. It stood near the old Jews’ quarter, and it was Rothschild’s house. I looked through the open door. The staircase was brilliantly lighted—servants bearing wax tapers in heavy silver candlesticks stood by, and bowed low before an old woman, who was being brought downstairs in a litter. The master of the house stood bareheaded, and respectfully kissed the old woman’s hand: she was his mother. She nodded in a friendly way to him, and to the servants; and then they carried her through a narrow, dark street into a small house, which was her dwelling. Here her children had been born, and from this house they had gone forth to fortune. If she deserted the despised street, and the little forsaken house, then fortune would also desert her family: such was her firm belief.”
The moon told me no more, her visit this evening was too short; but I continued to think of the old woman in a narrow, despised street. Only one word, and a noble house would have been raised for her on the banks of the Thames; only one word, and a villa would have stood for her on the bay of Naples. “If I deserted the lonely house, where the fortunes of my sons first began to flourish, fortune would desert them.” It was a superstition, but of such a sort that he who knows the story, and sees this picture, needs only two words to make him understand it; and those two words are “A mother.”
THE CLOWN AND THE COLUMBINE.
“I knew a clown once,” said the moon, “whom the public applauded uproariously the moment he appeared. His movements were so comic that they threw the house into fits of laughter; and yet his acting had little art in it; it was all natural. His ordinary appearance was so grotesque that when quite a little boy, he was called Punch by his playfellows. Nature had intended him for it, as it seemed, for he had a hump on his back, and another on his chest; but his inner man, his mind, had no deformity. No one could surpass him in deep feeling or ready wit. 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. His soul was full of the great and the heroic, and yet he had become a Punchinello. His serious and melancholy feelings increased the comic dryness of his strongly marked features, and excited the laughter of the audience, who overwhelmed their favourite with applause. The lovely columbine was indeed always kind to him, but she preferred to marry the harlequin. It would have been ridiculous for such beauty and such ugliness to be mated together. When Punchinello was in bad spirits, she was the only one who could force him to laugh heartily, or even bring a smile. At first she would be melancholy with him, then she would be quiet, and at last cheerful and happy. ‘I know very well what is the matter with you,’ she said; ‘you are in love.’ He could not help laughing then. ‘I in love!’ he cried; ‘that would look absurd. How the public would shout!’ ‘Certainly you are in love,’ she went on, and added, with a comic smile, ‘and I am the person you are in love with.’ You see, such things can be said when it is quite out of the question to think they are true. But Punchinello burst out laughing, gave a leap in the air, and seemed to forget his melancholy. And yet she had but spoken the truth. He did love her—loved her to adoration, as he loved everything that was great and lofty in art. At her wedding, he was the merriest among the guests; but in the still night he wept, and if the public had seen his poor distorted face then, they would have applauded rapturously.
“A few days ago, columbine died. On the day of the funeral, harlequin was not required to appear on the boards; for he was a disconsolate widower. The manager had to choose a lively piece, that the public might not too painfully miss the pretty columbine and the clever harlequin. Therefore Punchinello had to be more boisterous and extravagant than ever; and he danced and capered, while despair was in his heart. The audience roared, and shouted, ‘Bravo, bravissimo!’ and Punchinello was actually called to appear before the curtain. He was pronounced inimitable. But at night the ugly little fellow went out of the town quite alone to the deserted churchyard. The wreath of flowers on columbine’s grave was already faded. He seated himself on the grave. As he sat there in his clown’s dress, with his chin resting on his hands, and his eyes turned up towards me, he was a study for a painter. He looked like a grotesque monument, a Punch on a grave, singular and whimsical. If the people could have seen their favourite then, they would have cried, as usual, ‘Bravo, Punchinello! bravo, bravissimo!’”