sea. Oh, Adria, wrap thyself in the mist! Let thy widow's veil cover thy bosom! Hang it over the mausoleum of the bridegroom, oh, Venice, thou city of ghostly, marble palaces."
NINETEENTH EVENING
"I was looking down on a large theatre," said the moon. "The whole house was crammed with spectators, for a new actor was to make his debut. My beams glided over a little window in the wall. A painted face was pressed against its panes; it was the hero of the evening. The knightly beard curled around his chin, but there were tears in the man's eyes, for he had been hissed off the stage, and rightly hissed off. Poor fellow! But a 'poor fellow' can't be tolerated in the Kingdom of Art. His feelings were deep, and he loved his art enthusiastically, but art did not love him. The call bell rang; the hero enters; 'boldly and gallantly' was the stage direction. He had to face an audience to whom he was a laughing-stock. When the piece came to an end, I saw a man, muffled in a cloak, creep downstairs. It was the crushed knight of the evening; the scene-shifters whispered to each other. I followed the poor wretch to his home. Hanging is an ugly death, and one has not always got poison at hand. I know he thought of both. I saw him look at his pale face in the glass, and half shut his eyes to see if he would be a handsome corpse. A man may be most unhappy and yet very affected. He thought of death, of suicide; I believe he wept over himself; he wept bitterly; and when a man has been able to shed tears he does not kill himself.
"A whole year has passed since then. There was a play being acted at a small theatre by a poor touring company. I saw a well-known face, the painted cheeks and curly beard. He looked up at me and smiled; and yet he had been hissed off the stage only a minute ago; hissed by a miserable, low-class audience in a wretched theatre!
