from stories of the traveler

J. J. Winckelmann is a secondary character in my historical fiction A Handful of Blossoms. On the way to Rome, he is on a visit to Constantine-Leopold, Prince of Askanier-Hortz, who is Consort of my main character Constance-Otilia-Alexandrine, Princess of Anhalt-Welf, whose Diary the reader has a chance to read. After the supper party, the group of table-mates began story telling. One of two stories told by Mr Winckelmann is a part of the following excerpt :
* * * Author’s name is Marcus Valerius Martial, “Epigrams.” Martial. Beautiful name. Perhaps, born in March? Reading the poem, I said to myself, “Love? Nice.” Meanwhile, the guest said, “Apropos, did you hear the news? The identification of the Antinous Admirandus has been disproved.” My Consort said, “That whose head you admired, calling one of the most beautiful heads of a young man from Antiquity?” “Yes, and whose feet, stomach and legs I criticized. The statue is now interpreted instead as a Meleager, hero of the hunt for the C… (Unfortunately, writing down his words, I can’t recall the geographical name.--C.) …Boar.”I could not to keep up the conversation but luckily it changed to talking of our read of choice. I said that of the recently read books, I love “L’ile de la lune” most, and now I’m afraid that I was the one who began the talk of love, amity, tender passion and all that. Silly, but I could not refrain from talking of it. “Too many sentimental novels?” my Consort said ironically. Mr Winckelmann said that he would like to tell a story. “About love and something else.” We asked him to do it, and now I’ll try to write down his narration as far as I could remember it, only partly, I’m afraid, which could be entitled “Tale of the Dead Planet”--
We were alone on the top of the rock. Torn from a wondrous island by an underground fire, the rock was thrown to the sea in times out of mind. The sun was sinking in the western waters, and at the same time, the white waxing half-moon was visible in the sky, ready for shining as soon as the last red sunray left the bald heights beyond the strait and the gold and purple tinted horizon grew dark. And now, the dark blue night rose from the cool water realm. The long golden pillar of the moonlight began rhythmically swinging over the calm waters, trembling and glittering, stretching from our rock like a mysterious road of the dead for walking from the earth to the dwelling place of eternal bliss. Peering at the distant pale mist, I searched for the line of white shades walking over the fiery water, blind and nervous, hand in hand, obeying a Psychopomp, and it seemed to me that I can see the Psychopomp. Pale and lovely, smiling at them and beckoning with the hand he lifted from his hip, pointing outwards and in another instant turning into the Thracian Rider that began hovering above the mist and moving towards an unknown immensity. So, we were alone, me and my companion, and as usual he was unseen and impalpable--only his cool breathing behind my shoulders--but I knew he was light like a cloud, translucent like a flame, unsteady like the mist. As always, he was pensive and quiet, mighty and great, and I as always did not know whether he was a demon, who regretted of his fall, or an angel, who made doubt about his perfection. His shapely hand was on my shoulder like a cold marble, and while the calm sea whispered, his sad measured Voice whispered in my ear, “Look at the sky. Search the place where there is the sword of Orion trembling like a green sparkle. There, at this hour, one planet used to drift by. The planet has burnt out, and time has powdered out its fragments over the world. How beautiful the planet was! Its people were like light gods whose marble statues were procreations of your creative dreams. How wise, how meek they were! It was the Eden, the legend of our Earth. The people were immortal. They did not know of death, evil, grief or shame. Neither husbands nor wives, only brothers and sisters.” (The history of the Planet is long, and I can’t remember it entirely. In short, the people of the Planet have known Love, carnal Love, like the scriptural people of the Earth in olden times, and then disasters begin…--C.)“Love as strong as death brought the death,” the Voice went on, “The Planet’s people lost the bliss of the eternal life. They began to procreate and die. Their lives got shorter and shorter. The people got smaller in stature and strength. They have known gold, luxury, wars, treachery, all the evil of our Earth.”(The history of the dying is long too, and I can remember only the final part…--C.)The voice said, “The Planet died. Like a giant brilliant, it drifted in the silent Space for ages, till a stray comet stumbled upon it and smashed it to brilliant hail. The pieces scattered around the Universe. There was not a planet that had not got a piece of the Dead World, but most of the pieces got to the Earth. Do you hear the songs? Do you smell the air, filled with love? Dear, this island, the sea, the shores, all this fell from the heaven as an enormous piece of ice that day when the love-poisoned Planet died. The ice melted, and the poisoned piece poured the poison out over the earth. Dear, we are in the homeland of love, so, run away! Save yourself, for there is not worse evil than love.” I asked, “Teacher, who are you? Why should I believe you?” He replied, “I am he who is the first to know the word Love on that Planet. I am the one who was the first to fall in love there and to become beloved. The first who was poisoned with Love and who poisoned his people.” Crying, he began moaning and invoking, “Don’t love!.. Don’t love!.. Don’t love!..” Meanwhile, the night grew lighter, and pink spots wandered around the eastern waters.
Mr Winckelmann became silent and then he said, “The End.” The scholarly man proved to be an excellent story-teller, but the ending of the story and conclusion was so unexpected… suggestive that I did not find a right thing to say. “Wonderful story!” my Consort said. Sylvian and I said, “Wonderful!” My Consort looked inspired, he obviously enjoyed his learned friend’s company, and he said he would like to tell a tale. “It’s a local legend,” he said, “Do my companions mind a long narration?” Nobody of us had anything against that. Then my Consort told Sylvian to take the lute (from the wall) and his narration was accompanied with quiet touching the strings. This tale I’ve remembered better, moreover, it seems to me that his voice and the music sounds to me now--
* * *[the end of the excerpt] Read more at :https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/168036