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We will see one figure more the most dangerous of them all; he with the praise on his lips, like that of the stormy river's swell the blind enthusiast. The water in which Scherezade dipped her fingers, is for him a fountain of Castalia; the throne he erects to her apotheosis becomes her scaffold. But why none of the worthier figures the candid, the honest, and the beautiful?
It is not to be learned from the dressing gown, nor from that lordly look and the fine smile around the mouth, to what stem he belongs: his demands on Scherezade are just the same as the dress-maker's: he must be excited, he must be brought to shudder all down the vertebrae, through the very spine: he must be crammed with mysteries, such as those which Spriez knew how to connect and thicken.
"You remind me of the queen of a fairy palace. I shall not dare to call you my child or little girl again. Scherezade or Fatima will seem more appropriate." "Oh no, Mr. Regulus! I had rather hear you call me child, than any thing else in the world. It carries me back to the dear old academy, the village green, the elm trees' shade, and all the sweet memories of youth."
Mighty annihilator and elevator! the newspapers' Zeus thou weekly, monthly, and daily journals' Jupiter, shake not thy locks in anger! Cast not thy lightnings forth, if Scherezade sing otherwise than thou art accustomed to in thy family, or if she go without a suite of thine own clique. Do not behead her!
We will not place him in the stocks of misconstruction, for pity and lamentation; we merely paint his symbol, dip into the colours on the world's least attractive side, and obtain it most comprehensibly from See that is it! Do not behead Scherezade! Before Homer sang there were heroes; but they are not known; no poet celebrated their fame.
There sits a sallow, peevish, scholar; the tree of his life bears leaves impressed with long and learned words: diligence and perseverance crawl like snails on the hog's leather bark: the moths have got into the inside and that is bad, very bad! Pardon the rich fulness of the song, the inconsiderate enthusiasm, the fresh young, intellect. Do not behead Scherezade!
So the formless phrase is the introduction, the narrator, Märchen in an Oriental dress as Schérézade. The first number passes for the most part in a rocking of the motive of the sea, in various moods and movements: Largo e maestoso, Allegro non troppo, tranquillo. II. In the tale of the Prince Kalender Schérézade, of course, begins the story as usual.
He is happy, as Scherezade is; he is victorious, he is mighty. Imagination adorns his walls with tapestry, such as no land's ruler owns; feeling makes the beauteous chords sound to him from the human breast; understanding raises him, through the magnificence of creation, up to God, without his forgetting that he stands fast on the firm earth. He is mighty, he is happy, as few are.
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