This eBook was produced by Martin Fong.
As one approaches my little city from the sea on a summer's day, onesees only the tall, round clump of trees on the ramparts and,overtopping it, the old bell-tower with its fantastically shaped andornamented stories and dome-top of deep cobalt blue. The land to eitherside is barely visible, and the green foliage flooded with palesunshine seems to drift in the sun-mist on the grayish yellow waters.It is a dreamy little town, that once in Holland's prime had ashort-lived illusion of worldly grandeur. Then gaily-rigged vesselsembellished with gilded carvings and flaunting flags entered the littleharbor, fishing boats, merchant vessels and battleships. Theinhabitants built fine houses with crow-stepped gables and sculpturedfaçades and collected in them exotic treasures, furniture, plate andchina. Cannon stood on the ramparts and the citizens were filled with asense of their importance and power as people of some authority in theworld. They bore an escutcheon and were proud of it, they had theirportraits painted in gorgeous attire, they gave the things their terseand pretty names, and they spoke picturesquely and gallantly as befitspeople leading a flourishing elemental life.
Now all this is long past. The little city no longer lives a life ofits own, but quietly follows in the wake of the great world-ship. Inthe harbor a few fishing smacks, a market ship, a couple of sailingyachts and the steamboat are still anchored. The fine houses arecuriosities for the strangers, and the china, the furniture andpaintings may be viewed in the museum for a fee.
There is order, and peace, and prosperity too; the streets and houseslook clean and well kept. But it is no longer a vigorous personal life;the color and the bloom have faded, the splendor and pageant are gone.It still lives, but as an unimportant part of a greater life. Its charmlies only in the memory of former days. It is lovely through its dreamlife, through the unreal phantasy of its past. All that constitutes itscharm - the dark shadowy canals reflecting the light drawbridges, thepretty quaintly-lighted streets with the red brick gables, bluish graystoops, chains and palings, the harbor with the little old tar and ropeshops, the tall sombre elm trees on the ramparts - it all possessesonly the accidental beauty of the faded. It can no longer, like a youngand blooming creature, will to be beautiful. It is beautifulinvoluntarily, no longer as a piece of human life, but as a piece ofnature. And its loveliness is pathetic through the afterglow of a briefblazing up of individual vivid splendor of life.
In this quiet sphere, where life now flows on but lazily andreflectively as in a small tributary stream of, the great river, - Ilive, an old man, for the accomplishment of my last task.
I live obscurely amid the obscure. I do my best to escape notice, andhave no notoriety whatsoever, not even as an eccentric.
I associate with the doctor and the notary is expected of me, and Ialso go to the club. It is known that I have an income and, besides,earn some money from a small nursery on the outskirts of the town, andby giving Italian lessons.
The rumors regarding my past have all quieted down, and people havegrown accustomed to my foreign name - Muralto. They see me regularlytaking the same walk along the sea dike to my nursery, and my gray felthat and my white coat in summery weather are known as pec