Latest / Hans Christian Andersen Fairytales & Short Stories Vol. 1 / 021 - What the Moon Saw Part 2

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021 - What the Moon Saw Part 2 · Hans Christian Andersen Fairytales & Short Stories Vol. 1

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  Speaker 1: Section twenty one of Hans Christian Andersen Fairy Tales and
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  Speaker 1: Short Stories, Volume one. This is a LibriVox recording. All
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  Speaker 1: LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information
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  Speaker 1: or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. Recording by
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  Speaker 1: Noel Batrian. Hans Christian Andersen Fairy Tales and Short Stories,
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  Speaker 1: Volume one, eighteen thirty five to eighteen forty two by
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  Speaker 1: Hans Christian Andersen, translated by H. P. Paul What the
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  Speaker 1: Moon Saw, Part two, eleventh evening. I will give you
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  Speaker 1: a picture of POMPEII, said the Moon. I was in
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  Speaker 1: the suburb, in the street of tombs, as they call it,
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  Speaker 1: where the fair monuments stand, in the spot where ages ago,
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  Speaker 1: the merry youths, their temples bound with rosy wreaths, danced
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  Speaker 1: with their fair sisters of lace. Now the stillness of
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  Speaker 1: death reigned around. German mercenaries in the Neapolitan service kept guard,
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  Speaker 1: played cards and diced, and a troop of strangers from
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  Speaker 1: beyond the mountains came into the town, accompanied by a sentry.
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  Speaker 1: They wanted to see the city that had risen from
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  Speaker 1: the grave, illuminated by my beams, and I showed them
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  Speaker 1: the wheel ruts in the streets, paved with broad lava slabs.
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  Speaker 1: I showed them the names on the doors and the
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  Speaker 1: signs that hung there. Yet they saw in the little
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  Speaker 1: courtyard the basins of the fountains ornamented with shells, But
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  Speaker 1: no jests of water gushed upward. No song sounded forth
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  Speaker 1: from the richly painted chambers, where the bronze dog kept
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  Speaker 1: the door. It was the city of the dead. Only
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  Speaker 1: Vesuvius thundered forth his everlasting hymn, each separate verse of
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  Speaker 1: which is called by men an erupt. We went to
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  Speaker 1: the temple of Venus, built of snow white marble, with
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  Speaker 1: its high altar in front of the broad steps, and
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  Speaker 1: the weeping willows sprouting freshly forth among the pillars. The
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  Speaker 1: air was transparent and blue and black. Vesuvius formed the background,
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  Speaker 1: with fire ever shooting forth from it like the stem
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  Speaker 1: of a pine tree. Above it stretched the smoky cloud
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  Speaker 1: in the silence of the night, like the crown of
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  Speaker 1: the pine, but in a blood red illumination. Among the
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  Speaker 1: company was a lady singer, a real and great singer.
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  Speaker 1: I have witnessed the homage paid to her in the
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  Speaker 1: greatest cities of Europe. When they came to the Tragic theater,
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  Speaker 1: they all sat down on the amphitheater steps, and thus
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  Speaker 1: a small part of the house was occupied by an audience,
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  Speaker 1: as it had been many centuries. Again, the stage still
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  Speaker 1: stood unchanged, with its walled side scenes and the two
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  Speaker 1: arches in the background, through which the beholders saw the
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  Speaker 1: same scene that had been exhibited in the olden times,
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  Speaker 1: a scene painted by nature herself, namely the mountains between
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  Speaker 1: Sorrento and Amalfi. The singer gaily mounted the ancient stage
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  Speaker 1: and sang. The place inspired her, and she reminded me
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  Speaker 1: of a wild Arab horse that Russia's headlong on were
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  Speaker 1: snorting nostrils and flying maine. Her song was so light
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  Speaker 1: and yet so firm. Anon I thought of the morning
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  Speaker 1: mother beneath the cross at Golgotha. So deep was the
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  Speaker 1: expression of pain, and just as it had done thousands
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  Speaker 1: of years ago, the sound of applause and delight now
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  Speaker 1: filled the theater. Happy gifted creature, all the hearers exclaimed.
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  Speaker 1: Five minutes more and the stage was empty. The company
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  Speaker 1: had vanished, and not a sound more was heard. All
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  Speaker 1: were gone, but the ruins stood unchanged as they will
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  Speaker 1: stand when centuries shall have gone by, and when none
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  Speaker 1: shall know of the momentary applause and of the triumph
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  Speaker 1: of the fair songstress, when all will be forgotten and gone,
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  Speaker 1: and even for me this hour will be but a
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  Speaker 1: dream of the past. Twelfth evening, I looked through the
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  Speaker 1: window of an editor's house, said the moon. It was
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  Speaker 1: somewhere in Germany. I saw handsome furniture, many books, and
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  Speaker 1: a chaos of newspapers. Several young men were present. The
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  Speaker 1: editor himself stood at his desk, and two little books,
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  Speaker 1: both by young authors, were to be noticed. This one
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  Speaker 1: has been sent to me, said he. I have not
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  Speaker 1: read it yet. What think you of the contents? Oh?
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  Speaker 1: Said the person addressed was a poet himself. It is
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  Speaker 1: good enough, a little broad, certainly, but you see the
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  Speaker 1: author is still young. The verses might be better, to
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  Speaker 1: be sure. The thoughts are sound, though there is certainly
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  Speaker 1: a good deal of commonplace among them. But what will
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  Speaker 1: you have? You can't be always getting something new. That
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  Speaker 1: he'll turn out anything great, I don't believe. But you
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  Speaker 1: may safely praise him. He is well read, a remarkable
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  Speaker 1: Oriental scholar, and has good judgment. It was he who
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  Speaker 1: wrote that nice review of my reflections on Domestic Life.
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  Speaker 1: We must be lenient towards the young man, but he
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  Speaker 1: is a complete hack, objected another of the gentlemen. Nothing
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  Speaker 1: worse in poetry than mediocrity, and he certainly does not
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  Speaker 1: go beyond this poor fellow, observed a third, And his
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  Speaker 1: aunt is so happy about him. It was she, mister editor,
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  Speaker 1: who got together so many any subscribers for your lost translation. Ah,
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  Speaker 1: the good woman. Well, I have noticed the book briefly,
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  Speaker 1: undoubted talent, a welcome offering, a flower in the garden
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  Speaker 1: of poetry, prettily brought out, and so on. But this
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  Speaker 1: other book, I suppose the author expects me to purchase it.
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  Speaker 1: I heard it is praised. He has genius, certainly, don't
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  Speaker 1: you think so? Yes, all the world declares as much,
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  Speaker 1: replied the poet. But it has turned out rather wildly.
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  Speaker 1: The punctuation of the book in particular is very eccentric.
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  Speaker 1: It'll be good for him if we pull him to
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  Speaker 1: pieces and anger him a little. Otherwise he will get
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  Speaker 1: too good an opinion of himself. But that would be unfair,
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  Speaker 1: objected the fourth. Let us not carpet little faults, but
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  Speaker 1: rejoice over the real and abundant good that we find here,
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  Speaker 1: he surpasses all the rest. Not so, if he is
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  Speaker 1: a true genius, he can bear the sharp voice of censure.
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  Speaker 1: There are people enough to praise him. Don't let us
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  Speaker 1: quite turn his head. Decided, talent, wrote the editor, with
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  Speaker 1: the usual carelessness, that he can write incorrect verses may
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  Speaker 1: be seen in page twenty five, where there are two
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  Speaker 1: false quantities. We recommend him to study the ancients, et cetera.
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  Speaker 1: I went away, continued the moon, and looked through the
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  Speaker 1: windows in the aunt's house. There sat the bepraised poet,
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  Speaker 1: the tame one. All the guests paid homage to him,
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  Speaker 1: and he was happy. I sought the other poet out,
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  Speaker 1: the wild one. Him also, I found in a great
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  Speaker 1: assembly at his patron's, where the tame poet's book was
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  Speaker 1: being discussed. I shall read yours, also said Makanos. But
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  Speaker 1: to speak honestly, you know I never hide my opinions
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  Speaker 1: from you. I don't expect much from it, for you
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  Speaker 1: are much too wild, too fantastic. But it must be
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  Speaker 1: allowed that as a man you are highly respectable. A
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  Speaker 1: young girl sat in a corner, and she read in
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  Speaker 1: a book these words in the dust lies genius and glory.
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  Speaker 1: But every day talent will pay. It's only the old
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  Speaker 1: old story, but the piece is repeated every day. Thirteenth evening,
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  Speaker 1: the moon said. Beside the woodland path there are two
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  Speaker 1: small farm houses. The doors are low, and some of
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  Speaker 1: the windows are placed quite high, and others close to
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  Speaker 1: the ground, and white thorn and barbery bushes grow around them.
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  Speaker 1: The roof of each house is overgrown with moss and
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  Speaker 1: with yellow flowers and house leak. Cabbage and potatoes are
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  Speaker 1: the only plants cultivated in the gardens. But out of
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  Speaker 1: the hedge there grows a willow tree. And under the
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  Speaker 1: willow tree sat a little girl, And she sat with
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  Speaker 1: her eyes fixed upon the old oak tree between the
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  Speaker 1: two huts. It was an old, withered stem. It had
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  Speaker 1: been thorn off at the top, and the stork had
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  Speaker 1: built his nest upon it. And he stood in his nest,
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  Speaker 1: clapping with his beak. A little boy came and stood
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  Speaker 1: by the girl's side. They were brother and sister. What
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  Speaker 1: are you looking at, he asked, I'm watching the stalk,
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  Speaker 1: She replied. Our neighbors told me that he would bring
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  Speaker 1: us a little brother or sister to day. Let us
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  Speaker 1: watch to see it. Come. The stork brings no such thing,
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  Speaker 1: the boy declared, You may be sure of that. Our
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  Speaker 1: neighbor told me the same thing. But she laughed when
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  Speaker 1: she said it, and so I asked her if she
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  Speaker 1: could say on my honor, and she could not. And
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  Speaker 1: I know by that the story about the stork is
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  Speaker 1: not true, and that they only tell it to us
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  Speaker 1: children for fun. But where do babies come from, then
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  Speaker 1: asked the girl. Why An angel from heaven brings them
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  Speaker 1: under his cloak, and no man can see him, and
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  Speaker 1: that's why we never know when he brings them. At
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  Speaker 1: that moment, there was a rustling in the branches of
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  Speaker 1: the willow tree, and the children folded their hands and
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  Speaker 1: looked at one another. It was certainly the angel coming
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  Speaker 1: with the baby. They took each other's hand, and at
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  Speaker 1: that moment the door of one of the houses opened
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  Speaker 1: and the neighbor appeared. Come in, you two, she said,
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  Speaker 1: see what the stalk is brought. It is a little brother.
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  Speaker 1: And the children nodded gravely at one another, for they
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  Speaker 1: had felt quite sure already that the baby was Come
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  Speaker 1: fourteenth evening, I was gliding over the Luneburg Heath, the moon, said.
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  Speaker 1: A lonely hut stood by the wayside. A few scanty
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  Speaker 1: bushes grew near it, and a nightingale who had lost
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  Speaker 1: his way, sang sweetly. He died in the coldness of
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  Speaker 1: the night. It was his farewell song that I heard.
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  Speaker 1: The morning dawn came glimmering red. I saw a caravan
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  Speaker 1: of emigrant peasant families who were bound to Hamburg, there
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  Speaker 1: to take ship for America, where fancied prosperity would bloom
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  Speaker 1: for them. The mothers carried their little children at their backs,
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  Speaker 1: the elder ones tottered by their sides, and a poor
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  Speaker 1: starved horse tugged at a cot that bore their scanty effects.
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  Speaker 1: The cold wind whistled, and therefore the little girl nestled
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  Speaker 1: closer to the mother, who, looking up at my decreasing disk,
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  Speaker 1: thought of the bitter want at home, and spoke of
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  Speaker 1: the heavy taxes they had not been able to raise.
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  Speaker 1: The whole caravan thought of the same thing. Therefore, the
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  Speaker 1: rising dawn seemed to them a message from the sun
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  Speaker 1: of fortune that was to gleam brightly upon them. They
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  Speaker 1: heard the dying nightingales sing. It was no false prophet,
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  Speaker 1: but a harbinger of fortune. The wind whistled. Therefore, they
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  Speaker 1: did not understand that the nightingale sung fair away over
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  Speaker 1: the sea. Thou hast paid the long passage with all
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  Speaker 1: that was thine and poor and helpless. Shalt thou enter Canaan.
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  Speaker 1: Thou must sell thyself, thy wife, and thy children. But
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  Speaker 1: your griefs shall not last long. Behind the broad fragrant
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  Speaker 1: leaves lurks, the goddess of death and her welcome kiss
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  Speaker 1: shall breathe fever into thy blood. Fair away, fair away
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  Speaker 1: over the heaving billows. And the caravan listened dwell, pleased
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  Speaker 1: to the song of the nightingale, which seemed to promise
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  Speaker 1: good fortune. Day broke through the light clouds. Country people
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  Speaker 1: went across the heath to church. The black gowned women
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  Speaker 1: with their white head dresses looked like ghosts that had
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  Speaker 1: stepped forth from the church pictures. All around lay a
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  Speaker 1: wide dead plain covered with faded brown heath and black
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  Speaker 1: charred spaces between the white sand hills. The woman carried
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  Speaker 1: hymn books and walked into the church. Oh pray, pray
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  Speaker 1: for those who are wondering to find graves beyond the
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  Speaker 1: foaming billows. Fifteenth evening I know a polchinella. The moon
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  Speaker 1: told me. The public applaud vociferously directly they see him.
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  Speaker 1: Every one of his movements is comic and is sure
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  Speaker 1: to throw the house into convulsions of laughter. And yet
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  Speaker 1: there is no art in it at all. It is
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  Speaker 1: completely nature. When he was yet a little boy playing
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  Speaker 1: about with other boys, he was already punch. Nature had
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  Speaker 1: intended him for it, and had provided him with a
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  Speaker 1: hump on his back and another on his breast. But
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  Speaker 1: his inward man, his mind, on the contrary, was richly furnished.
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  Speaker 1: No one could surpass him in depth of feeling or
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  Speaker 1: in readiness of intellect. The theater was his ideal world.
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  Speaker 1: If he had possessed a slender, well shaped figure, he
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  Speaker 1: might have been the first tragedian on any stage. The
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  Speaker 1: heroic the great filled his soul, and yet he had
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  Speaker 1: become a pulchinella. His very sorrow and melancholy did but
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  Speaker 1: increase the comic dryness of his sharply cut features, and
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  Speaker 1: increased the laughter of the audience, who showered plaudits on
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  Speaker 1: their favorite. The lovely Columbine was indeed kind and cordial
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  Speaker 1: to him, but she preferred to marry the harlequin. It
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  Speaker 1: would have been too ridiculous if beauty and ugliness had
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  Speaker 1: in reality paired together. When Pulchanella was in very bad spirits,
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  Speaker 1: she was the one who could force a hearty burst
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  Speaker 1: of laughter or even a smile from him. First she
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  Speaker 1: would be melancholy with him, then quieter, and at last
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  Speaker 1: quite cheerful and happy. I know very well what is
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  Speaker 1: the matter with you, she said, Yes, you are in love,
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  Speaker 1: and he could not help laughing. Aye, and love, he cried.
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  Speaker 1: That would have an absurd Look how the public would shout, Certainly,
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  Speaker 1: you are in love, she continued, and added with a
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  Speaker 1: comic pathos, and I am the person you are in
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  Speaker 1: love with. You see, such a thing may be said
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  Speaker 1: when it is quite out of the question. And indeed
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  Speaker 1: Pulchinella burst out laughing and gave a leap into the air,
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  Speaker 1: and his melancholy was forgotten. And yet she had only
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  Speaker 1: spoken the truth. He did love her, love her adoringly
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  Speaker 1: as he loved what was great and lofty in art.
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  Speaker 1: At her wedding he was the merriest among the guests,
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  Speaker 1: But in the stillness of night he wept. If the
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  Speaker 1: public had seen his distorted face then they would have
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  Speaker 1: applauded rapturously. And a few days ago Columbine died. On
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  Speaker 1: the day of the funeral, Harlequin was not required to
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  Speaker 1: show himself on the boards, for he was a disconsolate widower.
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  Speaker 1: The director had to give a very merry piece that
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  Speaker 1: the public might not too painfully miss the pretty Columbine
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  Speaker 1: and the agile Harlequin. Therefore, Palchinella had to be more
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  Speaker 1: boisterous and extravagant than ever, and he danced and capered
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  Speaker 1: with despair in his heart, and the audience yelled and shouted, Bravo, brabissimo.
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  Speaker 1: Polchinella was actually called before the curtain, he was pronounced Inimitable.
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  Speaker 1: But last night the hideous little fellow went out of
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  Speaker 1: the town quite alone, to the deserted churchyard. The wreath
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  Speaker 1: of flowers on Columbine's grave was already faded, and he
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  Speaker 1: sat down there. It was a study for a painter.
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  Speaker 1: As he sat with his chin on his hands, his
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  Speaker 1: eyes turned up towards me. He looked like a grotesque monument,
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  Speaker 1: a punch on a grave, peculiar and whimsical. If the
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  Speaker 1: people could have seen their favorite, they would have cried
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  Speaker 1: as usual. Bravo pulchinella, Bravo bra vissimo. Sixteenth evening. Here
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  Speaker 1: what the moon told me. I have seen the cadet
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  Speaker 1: who has just been made an officer, put on his
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  Speaker 1: handsome uniform for the first time. I have seen the
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  Speaker 1: young bride in her wedding dress, and the princess girl
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  Speaker 1: wife happy in her gorgeous robes. But never have I
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  Speaker 1: seen a felicity equal to that of a little girl
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  Speaker 1: of four years old, whom I watched this evening. She
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  Speaker 1: had received a new blue dress and a new pink hat.
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  Speaker 1: The splendid attire had just been put on, and all
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  Speaker 1: were calling for a candle, for my rays shining in
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  Speaker 1: through the window of the room were not bright enough
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  Speaker 1: for the occasion, and further in illumination was required. There
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  Speaker 1: stood the little maid, stiff and upright as a doll,
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  Speaker 1: her arms stretched painfully straight out away from the dress,
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  Speaker 1: and her fingers apart. And oh what happiness be from
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  Speaker 1: her eyes and from her whole countenance. To morrow you
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  Speaker 1: shall go out in your new clothes, said her mother.
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  Speaker 1: And the little one looked up at her hat and
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  Speaker 1: down at her frock, and smiled brightly. Mother. She cried,
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  Speaker 1: what will the little dogs think when they see me
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  Speaker 1: in these splendid new things? Seventeenth evening. I have spoken
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  Speaker 1: to you of Pompeii, said the moon, that corpse of
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  Speaker 1: a city exposed in the view of living towns. I
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  Speaker 1: know another sight, still more strange, And this is not
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  Speaker 1: the corpse, but the specter of a city. Whenever the
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  Speaker 1: jetty fountains splash into the marble basins, they seemed to
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  Speaker 1: me to be telling the story of the floating city. Yes,
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  Speaker 1: the spouting water may tell of her. The waves of
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  Speaker 1: the sea may sing of her fame. On the surface
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  Speaker 1: of the ocean, a mist often rests, and that is
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  Speaker 1: her widow's veil. The bridegroom of the sea is dead.
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  Speaker 1: His palace and his city are his mausoleum. Dost thou
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  Speaker 1: know the city she has never heard the rolling of
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  Speaker 1: wheels or the hoof treads of horses in her streets
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  Speaker 1: through which the fish swim. While the black gondola glides
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  Speaker 1: spectrally over the green water. I will show you the place,
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  Speaker 1: continued the moon, the larger square in it, and you
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  Speaker 1: will fancy yourself transported into the city of a fairy tale.
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  Speaker 1: The grass grows rank among the broad flagstones, and in
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  Speaker 1: the morning twilight thousands of tame pigeons flutter around the solitary,
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  Speaker 1: lofty tower. On three sides, you find yourself surrounded by
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  Speaker 1: cloistered walks. In these, the silent turks sits, smoking his
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  Speaker 1: long pipe. The handsome Greek leans against the pillar and
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  Speaker 1: gazes at the upraised trophies and lofty masts, memorials of
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  Speaker 1: power that is gone. The flags hang down like mourning scarves.
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  Speaker 1: A girl rests there. She has put down her heavy
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  Speaker 1: pails filled with water. The yoke with which she has
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  Speaker 1: carried them rests on one of her shoulders, and she
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  Speaker 1: leans against the masts of victory. That is not a
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  Speaker 1: fairy palace you see before you yonder, but a church.
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  Speaker 1: The gilded domes and shining orbs flash back my beams.
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  Speaker 1: The glorious bronze horses up yonder have made journeys, like
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  Speaker 1: the bronze horse in the fairy tale. They have come
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  Speaker 1: hither and gone hence, and have returned again. Do you
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  Speaker 1: notice the variegated splendor of the walls and windows. It
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  Speaker 1: looks as if genius has followed the caprices of a
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  Speaker 1: child in the adornment of these singular temples. Do you
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  Speaker 1: see the winged lion on the pillar? The gold glitters still,
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  Speaker 1: but his wings are tied. The lion is dead, for
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  Speaker 1: the king of the sea is dead. The Great Hall
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  Speaker 1: stands desolate, and where gorgeous paintings hung of yore, the
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  Speaker 1: naked wall now peers through the Lazarone sleeps under the arcade,
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  Speaker 1: whose pavement in olden times was to be trodden on
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  Speaker 1: only by the feet of high nobility. From the deep wells,
• 21:28
  Speaker 1: and perhaps from the prisons by the bridge of size,
• 21:31
  Speaker 1: rise the accents of woe, as at the time when
• 21:34
  Speaker 1: the tambourine was heard in the gay gondolas, and the
• 21:37
  Speaker 1: golden ring was cast from Bussentaur to Adria, the Queen
• 21:41
  Speaker 1: of the Seas, Adria, shroud thyselves in mist let the
• 21:46
  Speaker 1: veil of thy widowhood, shroud thy form, and clothe in
• 21:50
  Speaker 1: the weeds of woe, the mausoleum of thy bridegroom the
• 21:54
  Speaker 1: marble spectral Venice, eighteenth evening. I looked down upon a
• 22:02
  Speaker 1: great theater, said the moon. The house was crowded, for
• 22:06
  Speaker 1: a new actor was to make his first appearance that night.
• 22:09
  Speaker 1: My rays glided over a little window in the wall,
• 22:13
  Speaker 1: and I saw a painted face with the forehead pressed
• 22:16
  Speaker 1: against the panes. It was the Hero of the Evening,
• 22:20
  Speaker 1: the nightly beard curled crisply about the chin. But there
• 22:24
  Speaker 1: were tears in the man's eyes, for he had been
• 22:27
  Speaker 1: hissed off, and indeed with reason the poor incapable. But
• 22:32
  Speaker 1: incapables cannot be admitted into the empire of art. He
• 22:36
  Speaker 1: had deep feelings and loved his art enthusiastically, but the
• 22:41
  Speaker 1: art loved him not. The prompter's bell sounded. The hero
• 22:46
  Speaker 1: enters with a determined air, so ran the stage directions
• 22:50
  Speaker 1: in his part, and he had to appear before an
• 22:53
  Speaker 1: audience who turned him into ridicule. When the peace was over,
• 22:58
  Speaker 1: I saw a form wrapped in a man creeping down
• 23:01
  Speaker 1: the steps. It was the vanquished Night of the Evening.
• 23:05
  Speaker 1: The scene shifters whispered to one another, and I followed
• 23:09
  Speaker 1: the poor fellow home to his room. To hang one's
• 23:12
  Speaker 1: self is to die a mean death, and poison is
• 23:16
  Speaker 1: not always at hand, I know, but he thought of both.
• 23:20
  Speaker 1: I saw how he looked at his pale face in
• 23:22
  Speaker 1: the glass, with eyes half closed, to see if he
• 23:26
  Speaker 1: could look well as a corpse. A man may be
• 23:29
  Speaker 1: very unhappy and yet exceedingly affected. He thought of death,
• 23:35
  Speaker 1: of suicide. I believe he pitied himself, for he wept bitterly.
• 23:41
  Speaker 1: And when a man has had his cry out, he
• 23:43
  Speaker 1: doesn't kill himself. Since that time a year had rolled by.
• 23:49
  Speaker 1: Again a play was to be acted, but in a
• 23:52
  Speaker 1: little theater, and by a poor strolling company. Again I
• 23:56
  Speaker 1: saw the well remembered face, with the painted cheeks, the
• 24:00
  Speaker 1: crisp beard. He looked up at me and smiled. And
• 24:04
  Speaker 1: yet he had been hissed off only a minute before,
• 24:07
  Speaker 1: hissed off from a wretched theater by a miserable audience.
• 24:12
  Speaker 1: And to night a shabby hearse rolled out of the
• 24:14
  Speaker 1: town gate. It was a suicide, our painted despised hero.
• 24:20
  Speaker 1: The driver of the hearse was the only person present,
• 24:23
  Speaker 1: for no one followed except my beams. In a corner
• 24:27
  Speaker 1: of the churchyard, the corpse of the suicide was shoveled
• 24:30
  Speaker 1: into the earth, And nettles will soon be growing rank
• 24:33
  Speaker 1: over his grave, and the sexton will throw thorns and
• 24:37
  Speaker 1: weeds from the other graves upon it. Nineteenth evening, I
• 24:44
  Speaker 1: come from Rome, said the moon in the midst of
• 24:47
  Speaker 1: the city. Upon one of the Seven Hills lie the
• 24:50
  Speaker 1: ruins of the Imperial Palace. The wild fig tree grows
• 24:55
  Speaker 1: in the clefts of the wall and covers the nakedness
• 24:58
  Speaker 1: thereof with his broad g gray green leaves, trampling among
• 25:02
  Speaker 1: the heaps of rubbish. The astreads upon green laurels and
• 25:06
  Speaker 1: rejoices over the rank thistles from this spot. Whence the
• 25:11
  Speaker 1: eagles of Rome once flew abroad? Whence they came sore
• 25:15
  Speaker 1: and conquered. Out door leads into a little, mean house
• 25:20
  Speaker 1: built of clay between two pillars. The wild vine hangs
• 25:24
  Speaker 1: like a morning garland over the crooked window. An old
• 25:28
  Speaker 1: woman and her little granddaughter live there. They rule now
• 25:32
  Speaker 1: in the Palace of the Caesars, and show two strangers
• 25:35
  Speaker 1: the remains of its past glories. Of the splendid throne hall.
• 25:41
  Speaker 1: Only a naked wall yet stands, and a black cypress
• 25:45
  Speaker 1: throws its dark shadow on the spot where the throne
• 25:48
  Speaker 1: once stood. The dust lies several feet deep on the
• 25:52
  Speaker 1: broken pavement, and the little maiden, now the daughter of
• 25:56
  Speaker 1: the Imperial Palace, often sits there on her stool. When
• 26:00
  Speaker 1: the evening bells ring the keyhole of the door close by,
• 26:04
  Speaker 1: she calls her turret window. Through this she can see
• 26:08
  Speaker 1: half roam as far as the mighty cupola of Saint Peter's.
• 26:13
  Speaker 1: On this evening, as usual, stillness reigned around, and in
• 26:18
  Speaker 1: the full beams of my light came the little granddaughter.
• 26:22
  Speaker 1: On her head. She carried an earthen picture of antique shape,
• 26:25
  Speaker 1: filled with water. Her feet were bare, her short frock
• 26:29
  Speaker 1: and her white sleeves were torn. I kissed her pretty
• 26:33
  Speaker 1: round shoulders, her dark eyes and black shining hair. She
• 26:37
  Speaker 1: mounted the stairs. They were steep, having been made up
• 26:41
  Speaker 1: of rough blocks of broken marble, and the capital of
• 26:44
  Speaker 1: a fallen pillar. The colored lizard slipped away startled from
• 26:49
  Speaker 1: before her feet, but she was not frightened at them.
• 26:53
  Speaker 1: Already she lifted her hand to pull the door bell.
• 26:56
  Speaker 1: A hare's foot fastened to a string formed the bell
• 26:59
  Speaker 1: hand of the Imperial Palace. She paused for a moment
• 27:04
  Speaker 1: of what might she be thinking, perhaps of the beautiful
• 27:08
  Speaker 1: christ Child, dressed in gold and silver, which was down
• 27:11
  Speaker 1: below in the chapel, where the silver candlesticks gleamed so bright,
• 27:16
  Speaker 1: and where her little friends sung the hymns in which
• 27:19
  Speaker 1: she also could join. I know not. Presently she moved again.
• 27:25
  Speaker 1: She stumbled. The earthen vessel fell from her head and
• 27:29
  Speaker 1: broke on the marble steps. She burst into tears. The
• 27:34
  Speaker 1: beautiful daughter of the Imperial Palace wept over the worthless
• 27:38
  Speaker 1: broken pitcher with her bare feet. She stood there, weeping,
• 27:42
  Speaker 1: and dared not pull the string the bell rope of
• 27:46
  Speaker 1: the Imperial Palace. End of What the Moon Saw, Part two,