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.Above the park rose a rounded hill, and on its top was an eye ofcrystal.This did not startle her by now, not even when it moved, scanning over the sky.The eye wasbeautiful, like a great clear jewel.I am almost there now, she thought.But where?Behind the park, rising up the hill where the observing eye tilted and quested on its axis, was a darkwood.She went into its nocturnal velvet and fragrance.And in the wood, deep inside, was a light thatwas not the moon.And even in the dream, she pictured to herself a shape, a kind of being, there in thelight.She could not be certain of anything about it, save that its hair moved and was alive, and that it waswinged.Jausande felt then the feeling that had come to her since adolescence, at dawn, or with the westeringsunfall.She felt that beckoning enticement.It was now so fierce, so heady, poignant to the edge of pain.For here the promise, whatever it was, was terrifyingly at hand, here the wish could come true.I shall have to leave everything behind, she thought, and left her robe behind her on the bushes.Andin an agony of excitement and abandon, a radiance of hungry fear, she began to run toward the burningcenter of the wood.And woke.Woke.The shock had been horrible.Like a fall, a faint.But she fainted into consciousness.She was in her bed.And that had been a dream.Which in a few moments more was nothing but a mistupon her, vague, not urgent, until now.Now, in the Labonne house, when it had returned with suchpower.Jausande got up and looked about at the few books teetering on the Labonne shelves.Would the libraryof her father furnish her the poem from the dream? The spider moonOutside the window, the light ravished, darker and more lush, more blatant than before.The spider moonwould not rise until eleven o'clock&.The door opened, and Madame Labonne bustled through."My dear, how pale you are!""I'm unwell," said Jausande Marguerite."I must go home.""But Paul " exclaimed Madame Labonne.And being a fool, amiably misinterpreted the violent toss Jausande gave with her head, like that of astarving lioness distracted a moment from her kill.Because she had always been amenable, Jausande had her way.She was sent home in the carriage, andPaul, arriving ten minutes later, was vexed.He hoped aloud Jausande would not turn out after all to beone of those women given to "vapours." She would not.He would never see her again.None of themwould.Those that did see her the last, they were an assorted crew.Her own father was the first of them.He found her in his library, and was mildly surprised, thinking shehad been going to dine with her fiancé.All about Jausande on the table were her father's precious booksof poetry.She glanced up at him, like a stranger.And that was usual enough, for they would meet in thehouse rather than dwell there together. "Papa," she said, "I can't find my poem about the moon.""There are so many," he said.He smiled, and quoted parts of them.Jausande interrupted him.She spokethe lines from her dream.He frowned, at the interruption which was unlike her and at the words."Now, let me see.No, Jausande, it isn't a poem.What you have is a peculiar doggerel& from Pliny, Ibelieve, the other Pliny.Aranea luna plena.As I recall: The full moon, like a spider, lets down herlight that covers the earth, as with a web, and there we mortals helplessly struggle, we flies offate, until the night devours each one of us " His daughter rose.He said, with mild disapproval, "Avery poor translation.Where can you have discovered it?""I forget," she said.Then she bade him good night and went away.And this was the last he saw of her, the pretty, unimportant girl who lodged in his home.In the dead of the dark, that was not dark at all, for the high round moon stood over Paradys at one inthe morning, Jausande had let herself from the house.None of the servants witnessed this, but on thefashionable street outside, a flower seller wandering homeward from her post by the theater beheld ayoung woman with her hair undone, clad in a satin robe, and under this nothing, it would seem, but herpetticoats and corset.The flower seller had, in her time, been shown many things.Jausande Marguerite inher robe was not the most amazing of these.Yet, she was odd, and the flower seller did not like herlooks, and hurried away toward her burrow.The City was not empty, nor especially quiet, even at that hour.In three more the sun would rise again,and the turmoil of the markets would begin; even now wagons were passing in from the country, while atthe taverns and less salubrious hotels an all-night noise went on and the lights roared.Near the Revolutionary Monument, two whores saw Jausande Marguerite and almost took her for oneof their own.But as she went by, they thought otherwise."Why, she's had some fright," said one.Theystole up after her and asked what had happened to the lady, could they help her.But Jausandeapparently did not hear or see them, and they fell back.Perhaps through sheer accident, no police of the City happened on Jausande.Or maybe she directedherself away from the areas they frequented.In a small park, near the Observatory, once a graveyard and still stuck here and there with an awkwardblackened slab, a thief, resting from his night's ingenuities, jumped up as Jausande moved by him.Heassessed her fine robe and the sparkle of a gem on her finger.A somnambulist, he reckoned her, for soshe looked to him.No one was near.He caught her up and walked at her side."Sleeping, are you?" he said."You shouldn't be out alone in the dark.You need Pierre to see you safe.Now, where is it you're going? You can tell me," he wheedled after a moment.His knowledge of thosetranced was limited to an act he had once seen performed in the street, when a fellow hypnotized a girlfrom the crowd, whereat she would answer all types of lewd questions with a fascinating honesty.Thesleepwalker, though, did not reply.Pierre the thief dogged her.She seemed about to go up into thecluttered streets above the park, where all manner of ruffians might be lurking."Now, now, lovely," saidPierre, "you'd be better off with me [ Pobierz caÅ‚ość w formacie PDF ]
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.Above the park rose a rounded hill, and on its top was an eye ofcrystal.This did not startle her by now, not even when it moved, scanning over the sky.The eye wasbeautiful, like a great clear jewel.I am almost there now, she thought.But where?Behind the park, rising up the hill where the observing eye tilted and quested on its axis, was a darkwood.She went into its nocturnal velvet and fragrance.And in the wood, deep inside, was a light thatwas not the moon.And even in the dream, she pictured to herself a shape, a kind of being, there in thelight.She could not be certain of anything about it, save that its hair moved and was alive, and that it waswinged.Jausande felt then the feeling that had come to her since adolescence, at dawn, or with the westeringsunfall.She felt that beckoning enticement.It was now so fierce, so heady, poignant to the edge of pain.For here the promise, whatever it was, was terrifyingly at hand, here the wish could come true.I shall have to leave everything behind, she thought, and left her robe behind her on the bushes.Andin an agony of excitement and abandon, a radiance of hungry fear, she began to run toward the burningcenter of the wood.And woke.Woke.The shock had been horrible.Like a fall, a faint.But she fainted into consciousness.She was in her bed.And that had been a dream.Which in a few moments more was nothing but a mistupon her, vague, not urgent, until now.Now, in the Labonne house, when it had returned with suchpower.Jausande got up and looked about at the few books teetering on the Labonne shelves.Would the libraryof her father furnish her the poem from the dream? The spider moonOutside the window, the light ravished, darker and more lush, more blatant than before.The spider moonwould not rise until eleven o'clock&.The door opened, and Madame Labonne bustled through."My dear, how pale you are!""I'm unwell," said Jausande Marguerite."I must go home.""But Paul " exclaimed Madame Labonne.And being a fool, amiably misinterpreted the violent toss Jausande gave with her head, like that of astarving lioness distracted a moment from her kill.Because she had always been amenable, Jausande had her way.She was sent home in the carriage, andPaul, arriving ten minutes later, was vexed.He hoped aloud Jausande would not turn out after all to beone of those women given to "vapours." She would not.He would never see her again.None of themwould.Those that did see her the last, they were an assorted crew.Her own father was the first of them.He found her in his library, and was mildly surprised, thinking shehad been going to dine with her fiancé.All about Jausande on the table were her father's precious booksof poetry.She glanced up at him, like a stranger.And that was usual enough, for they would meet in thehouse rather than dwell there together. "Papa," she said, "I can't find my poem about the moon.""There are so many," he said.He smiled, and quoted parts of them.Jausande interrupted him.She spokethe lines from her dream.He frowned, at the interruption which was unlike her and at the words."Now, let me see.No, Jausande, it isn't a poem.What you have is a peculiar doggerel& from Pliny, Ibelieve, the other Pliny.Aranea luna plena.As I recall: The full moon, like a spider, lets down herlight that covers the earth, as with a web, and there we mortals helplessly struggle, we flies offate, until the night devours each one of us " His daughter rose.He said, with mild disapproval, "Avery poor translation.Where can you have discovered it?""I forget," she said.Then she bade him good night and went away.And this was the last he saw of her, the pretty, unimportant girl who lodged in his home.In the dead of the dark, that was not dark at all, for the high round moon stood over Paradys at one inthe morning, Jausande had let herself from the house.None of the servants witnessed this, but on thefashionable street outside, a flower seller wandering homeward from her post by the theater beheld ayoung woman with her hair undone, clad in a satin robe, and under this nothing, it would seem, but herpetticoats and corset.The flower seller had, in her time, been shown many things.Jausande Marguerite inher robe was not the most amazing of these.Yet, she was odd, and the flower seller did not like herlooks, and hurried away toward her burrow.The City was not empty, nor especially quiet, even at that hour.In three more the sun would rise again,and the turmoil of the markets would begin; even now wagons were passing in from the country, while atthe taverns and less salubrious hotels an all-night noise went on and the lights roared.Near the Revolutionary Monument, two whores saw Jausande Marguerite and almost took her for oneof their own.But as she went by, they thought otherwise."Why, she's had some fright," said one.Theystole up after her and asked what had happened to the lady, could they help her.But Jausandeapparently did not hear or see them, and they fell back.Perhaps through sheer accident, no police of the City happened on Jausande.Or maybe she directedherself away from the areas they frequented.In a small park, near the Observatory, once a graveyard and still stuck here and there with an awkwardblackened slab, a thief, resting from his night's ingenuities, jumped up as Jausande moved by him.Heassessed her fine robe and the sparkle of a gem on her finger.A somnambulist, he reckoned her, for soshe looked to him.No one was near.He caught her up and walked at her side."Sleeping, are you?" he said."You shouldn't be out alone in the dark.You need Pierre to see you safe.Now, where is it you're going? You can tell me," he wheedled after a moment.His knowledge of thosetranced was limited to an act he had once seen performed in the street, when a fellow hypnotized a girlfrom the crowd, whereat she would answer all types of lewd questions with a fascinating honesty.Thesleepwalker, though, did not reply.Pierre the thief dogged her.She seemed about to go up into thecluttered streets above the park, where all manner of ruffians might be lurking."Now, now, lovely," saidPierre, "you'd be better off with me [ Pobierz caÅ‚ość w formacie PDF ]