In the wood, in the autumn sun, Autumn was keeping festival.
The foliage shone resplendent in yellow, bronze, purple, golden-red,
and pink; the sulphur-coloured moss looked like antique velvet. With
gusts of wind, the branches, madly arrogant, shook off their exuberance
of sere and yellow leaves, as if they were strewing the paths with
silver and gold and rustling notes.
Loudly laughing danced the dryads through the whirling leaves.
Out of the foaming stream between moss-covered rocks, rose the white,
naked nymphs.
"Where is she? Where is she?" cried they inquisitively.
"There she comes! there she comes!" shouted the mad dryads, and in
handfuls they cast the leaves into the air, which whirled over the
nymphs and fell down on the water.
The dryads danced past, and the nymphs looked out inquisitively. They
stood, a naked group, in their rocky bath; their arms were
clasped round one another; green was their hair and white as
pearls were their bosoms. The sere and yellow leaves kept whirling
about. Trampling feet were approaching and were heard amongst the
rustling leaves. Merry-makers were drawing near; the golden foliage
quivered like a curtain of thin, fine, gold lace....
"There she comes! there she comes!" exclaimed the nymphs with joy.
The branches cracked, the leaves whirled about, the tender sprays
recoiled from the noisy merry-makers, who were advancing.
Nearer they came with the sound of pipe and cymbal. Drunken Bacchantes
danced before them, waving the thyrsus, hand in hand with fauns and
satyrs; they encircled a triumphal car, drawn by spotted lynxes.
High on the car sat a youth, beardless, with a wreath of vine-leaves
round his forehead, full of laughter and animal spirits, with blue
eyes that showed his love of pleasure. Naked were his godlike limbs,
chubbily formed like the tender flesh of a boy, and his legs were
long and slender, his arms rounded like those of a woman. He was the
prince of the wood, of divine origin: Prince Bacchus was his name.
And next to him on the triumphal car, sat little Psyche enthroned. She
too was naked, with nothing on but her veil, and her wings were
so strikingly beautiful, crimson and soft yellow and with four
peacock's-feather eyes. Round the car, close together as a bunch of
grapes, sported madly a number of wine-gods, tumbling over one another,
grape-drunken children.
In triumph the procession rushed on through the golden wood. The
Bacchantes and satyrs sang and danced; two satyrs drove the lynxes,
which, spiteful as cats, spat at them; the wine-gods entwined the
vine and bore great heavy bunches of grapes.
High up, like a butterfly, which was a goddess, sat Psyche, and
laughed with glistening eyes and glowing cheeks, waving to the nymphs.
"Live! long live Psyche--Psyche with the splendid wings!" shouted
the nymphs.
The wind blew, the leaves whirled about; the procession swept past as
though hurried along by the gale. A little wine-god had fallen and lay
in the yellow leaves, playing with his chubby legs, purple-red from
the juice of grapes; he was crying because he had been left behind;
then he succeeded in getting on to his feet, and tottered after the
procession....
The nymphs laughed loudly at the little wine-god; they dived under
and beneath the rocks.
The wind blew, the yellow leaves whirled about.
And the wood became still and lonely.