Is she laughing at me?
It is full moon. It is already peering over the tops of the low
hemlocks that fringe the park. A silvery exhalation fills the terrace,
the groups of trees, all the landscape, as far as the eye can reach; in
the distance it gradually fades away, like trembling waters.
I cannot resist. I feel a strange urge and call within me. I put on my
clothes again and go out into the garden.
Some power draws me toward the meadow, toward her, who is my divinity
and my beloved.
The night is cool. I feel a slight chill. The atmosphere is heavy with
the odor of flowers and of the forest. It intoxicates.
What solemnity! What music round about! A nightingale sobs. The stars
quiver very faintly in the pale-blue glamour. The meadow seems smooth,
like a mirror, like a covering of ice on a pond.
The statue of Venus stands out august and luminous.
But—what has happened? From the marble shoulders of the goddess a large
dark fur flows down to her heels. I stand dumbfounded and stare at her
in amazement; again an indescribable fear seizes hold of me and I take
flight.
I hasten my steps, and notice that I have missed the main path. As I am
about to turn aside into one of the green walks I see Venus sitting
before me on a stone bench, not the beautiful woman of marble, but the
goddess of love herself with warm blood and throbbing pulses. She has
actually come to life for me, like the statue that began to breathe for
her creator. Indeed, the miracle is only half completed. Her white hair
seems still to be of stone, and her white gown shimmers like moonlight,
or is it satin? From her shoulders the dark fur flows. But her lips are
already reddening and her cheeks begin to take color. Two diabolical
green rays out of her eyes fall upon me, and now she laughs.
Her laughter is very mysterious, very—I don’t know. It cannot be
described, it takes my breath away. I flee further, and after every few
steps I have to pause to take breath. The mocking laughter pursues me
through the dark leafy paths, across light open spaces, through the
thicket where only single moonbeams can pierce. I can no longer find my
way, I wander about utterly confused, with cold drops of perspiration
on the forehead.
Finally I stand still, and engage in a short monologue.
It runs—well—one is either very polite to one’s self or very rude.