夜莺与玫瑰-第20部分

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“The　King’s　garden　is　not　the　world，　you　foolish　squib，”　said　a　big　Roman　Candle；　“the　world　is　an　enormous　place，　and　it　would　take　you　three　days　to　see　it　thoroughly。”
“Any　place　you　love　is　the　world　to　you，”　exclaimed　a　pensive　Catherine　Wheel，　who　had　been　attached　to　an　old　deal　box　in　early　life，　and　prided　herself　on　her　broken　heart；　“but　love　is　not　fashionable　any　more，　the　poets　have　killed　it。　They　wrote　so　much　about　it　that　nobody　believed　them，　and　I　am　not　surprised。　True　love　suffers，　and　is　silent。　I　remember　myself　once—But　it　is　no　matter　now。　Romance　is　a　thing　of　the　past。”
“Nonsense！”　said　the　Roman　Candle，　“Romance　never　dies。　It　is　like　the　moon，　and　lives　for　ever。　The　bride　and　bridegroom，　for　instance，　love　each　other　very　dearly。　I　heard　all　about　them　this　morning　from　a　brown…paper　cartridge，　who　happened　to　be　staying　in　the　same　drawer　as　myself，　and　knew　the　latest　Court　news。”
But　the　Catherine　Wheel　shook　her　head。　“Romance　is　dead，　Romance　is　dead，　Romance　is　dead，”　she　murmured。　She　was　one　of　those　people　who　think　that，　if　you　say　the　same　thing　over　and　over　a　great　many　times，　it　bees　true　in　the　end。
Suddenly，　a　sharp，　dry　cough　was　heard，　and　they　all　looked　round。
It　came　from　a　tall，　supercilious…looking　Rocket，　who　was　tied　to　the　end　of　a　long　stick。　He　always　coughed　before　he　made　any　observation，　so　as　to　attract　attention。
“Ahem！　ahem！”　he　said，　and　everybody　listened　except　the　poor　Catherine　Wheel，　who　was　still　shaking　her　head，　and　murmuring，　“Romance　is　dead。”
“Order！　order！”　cried　out　a　Cracker。　He　was　something　of　a　politician，　and　had　always　taken　a　prominent　part　in　the　local　elections，　so　he　knew　the　proper　Parliamentary　expressions　to　use。
“Quite　dead，”　whispered　the　Catherine　Wheel，　and　she　went　off　to　sleep。
As　soon　as　there　was　perfect　silence，　the　Rocket　coughed　a　third　time　and　began。　He　spoke　with　a　very　slow，　distinct　voice，　as　if　he　was　dictating　his　memoirs，　and　always　looked　over　the　shoulder　of　the　person　to　whom　he　was　talking。　In　fact，　he　had　a　most　distinguished　manner。
“How　fortunate　it　is　for　the　King’s　son，”　he　remarked，　“that　he　is　to　be　married　on　the　very　day　on　which　I　am　to　be　let　off。　Really，　if　it　had　been　arranged　beforehand，　it　could　not　have　turned　out　better　for　him；　but，　Princes　are　always　lucky。”
“Dear　me！”　said　the　little　Squib，　“I　thought　it　was　quite　the　other　way，　and　that　we　were　to　be　let　off　in　the　Prince’s　honour。”
“It　may　be　so　with　you，”　he　answered；　“indeed，　I　have　no　doubt　that　it　is，　but　with　me　it　is　different。　I　am　a　very　remarkable　Rocket，　and　e　of　remarkable　parents。　My　mother　was　the　most　celebrated　Catherine　Wheel　of　her　day，　and　was　renowned　for　her　graceful　dancing。　When　she　made　her　great　public　appearance　she　spun　round　nieen　times　before　she　went　out，　and　each　time　that　she　did　so　she　threw　into　the　air　seven　pink　stars。　She　was　three　feet　and　a　half　in　diameter，　and　made　of　the　very　best　gunpowder。　My　father　was　a　Rocket　like　myself，　and　of　French　extraction。　He　flew　so　high　that　the　people　were　afraid　that　he　would　never　e　down　again。　He　did，　though，　for　he　was　of　a　kindly　disposition，　and　he　made　a　most　brilliant　descent　in　a　shower　of　golden　rain。　The　newspapers　wrote　about　his　performance　in　very　flattering　terms。　Indeed，　the　Court　Gazette　called　him　a　triumph　of　Pylotechnic　art。”
“Pyrotechnic，　Pyrotechnic，　you　mean，”　said　a　Bengal　Light；　“I　know　it　is　Pyrotechnic，　for　I　saw　it　written　on　my　own　canister。”
“Well，　I　said　Pylotechnic，”　answered　the　Rocket，　in　a　severe　tone　of　voice，　and　the　Bengal　Light　felt　so　crushed　that　he　began　at　once　to　bully　the　little　squibs，　in　order　to　show　that　he　was　still　a　person　of　some　importance。
“I　was　saying，”　continued　the　Rocket，　“I　was　saying—What　was　I　saying？”
“You　were　talking　about　yourself，”　replied　the　Roman　Candle。
“Of　course；　I　knew　I　was　discussing　some　interesting　subject　when　I　was　so　rudely　interrupted。　I　hate　rudeness　and　bad　manners　of　every　kind，　for　I　am　extremely　sensitive。　No　one　in　the　whole　world　is　so　sensitive　as　I　am，　I　am　quite　sure　of　that。”
“What　is　a　sensitive　person？”　said　the　Cracker　to　the　Roman　Candle。
“A　person　who，　because　he　has　corns　himself，　always　treads　on　other　people’s　toes，”　answered　the　Roman　Candle　in　a　low　whisper；　and　the　Cracker　nearly　exploded　with　laughter。
“Pray，　what　are　you　laughing　at？”　inquired　the　Rocket；　“I　am　not　laughing。”
“I　am　laughing　because　I　am　happy，”　replied　the　Cracker。
“That　is　a　very　selfish　reason，”　said　the　Rocket　angrily。　“What　right　have　you　to　be　happy？　You　should　be　thinking　about　others。　In　fact，　you　should　be　thinking　about　me。　I　am　always　thinking　about　myself，　and　I　expect　everybody　else　to　do　the　same。　That　is　what　is　called　sympathy。　It　is　a　beautiful　virtue，　and　I　possess　it　in　a　high　degree。　Suppose，　for　instance，　anything　happened　to　me　to…night，　what　a　misfortune　that　would　be　for　every　one！　The　Prince　and　Princess　would　never　be　happy　again，　their　whole　married　life　would　be　spoiled；　and　as　for　the　King，　I　know　he　would　not　get　over　it。　Really，　when　I　begin　to　reflect　on　the　importance　of　my　position，　I　am　almost　moved　to　tears。”
“If　you　want　to　give　pleasure　to　others，”　cried　the　Roman　Candle，　“you　had　better　keep　yourself　dry。”
“Certainly，”　exclaimed　the　Bengal　Light，　who　was　now　in　better　spirits；　“that　is　only　mon　sense。”
“mon　sense，　indeed！”　said　the　Rocket　indignantly；　“you　forget　that　I　am　very　unmon，　and　very　remarkable。　Why，　anybody　can　have　mon　sense，　provided　that　they　have　no　imagination。　But　I　have　imagination，　for　I　never　think　of　things　as　they　really　are；　I　always　think　of　them　as　being　quite　different。　As　for　keeping　myself　dry，　there　is　evidently　no　one　here　who　can　at　all　appreciate　an　emotional　nature。　Fortunately　for　myself，　I　don’t　care。　The　only　thing　that　sustains　one　through　life　is　the　consciousness　of　the　immense　inferiority　of　everybody　else，　and　this　is　a　feeling　that　I　have　always　cultivated。　But　none　of　you　have　any　hearts。　Here　you　are　laughing　and　making　merry　just　as　if　the　Prince　and　Princess　had　not　just　been　married。”
“Well，　really，”　exclaimed　a　small　Fire…balloon，　“why　not？　It　is　a　most　joyful　occasion，　and　when　I　soar　up　into　the　air　I　intend　to　tell　the　stars　all　about　it。　You　will　see　them　twinkle　when　I　talk　to　them　about　the　pretty　bride。”
“Ah！　what　a　trivial　view　of　life！”　said　the　Rocket；　“but　it　is　only　what　I　expected。　There　is　nothing　in　you；　you　are　hollow　and　empty。　Why，　perhaps　the　Prince　and　Princess　may　go　to　live　in　a　country　where　there　is　a　deep　river，　and　perhaps　they　may　have　one　only　son，　a　little　fair…haired　boy　with　violet　eyes　like　the　Prince　himself；　and　perhaps　some　day　he　may　go　out　to　walk　with　his　nurse；　and　perhaps　the　nurse　may　go　to　sleep　under　a　great　elder…tree；　and　perhaps　the　little　boy　may　fall　into　the　deep　river　and　be　drowned。　What　a　terrible　misfortune！　Poor　people，　to　lose　their　only　son！　It　is　really　too　dreadful！　I　shall　never　get　over　it。”
“But　they　have　not　lost　their　only　son，”　said　the　Roman　Candle；　“no　misfortune　has　happened　to　them　at　all。”
“I　never　said　that　they　had，”　replied　the　Rocket；　“I　said　that　they　might。　If　they　had　lost　their　only　son　there　would　be　no　use　in　saying　anything　more　about　the　matter。　I　hate　people　who　cry　over　spilt　milk。　But　when　I　think　that　they　might　lose　their　only　son，　I　certainly　am　very　much　affected。”
“You　certainly　are！”　cried　the　Bengal　Light。　“In　fact，　you　are　the　most　affected　person　I　ever　met。”
“You　are　the　rudest　person　I　ever　met，”　said　the　Rocket，　“and　you　cannot　understand　my　friendship　for　the　Prince。”
“Why，　you　don’t　even　know　him，”　growled　the　Roman　Candle。
“I　never　said　I　knew　him，”　answered　the　Rocket。　“I　dare　say　that　if　I　knew　him　I　should　not　be　his　friend　at　all。　It　is　a　very　dangerous　thing　to　know　one’s　friends。”
“You　had　really　better　keep　yourself　dry，”　said　the　Fire…balloon。　“That　is　the　important　thing。”
“Very　important　for　you，　I　have　no　doubt，”　answered　the　Rocke