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keeps staring at us from afar with her sleepless,
cold glittering eyes and her mocking smile.
The Count did not mind the moon, as long as
he was allowed to sit in peace in his
smoking-room with his after-dinner cigar and his ‘Figaro.’
The Countess loved the moon. She loved its
mysterious twilight, she loved its haunting
dreams. She loved to lie silent in the boat and
look up at the stars while I rowed her slowly
across the shining lake. She loved to wander
about under the old lime-trees in the park, now
flooded with silvery light, now shaded in a
darkness so deep that she had to take my arm
to find the way. She loved to sit on a lonely
bench and stare with her big eyes into the
silent night. Now and then she spoke, but not
often, and I liked her silence just as much as
her words.
“Why don’t you like the moon?”
“I don’t know. I believe I am afraid of
it.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“I don’t know. It is so light that I can see
your eyes like two luminous stars and yet it is
so dark that I fear I might lose my way. I am
a stranger in this land of dreams.”
“Give me your hand and I will show you the
way. I thought your hand was so strong, why
does it tremble so? Yes, you are right, it is
only a dream, don’t speak or it will fly away!
Listen! do you hear, it is the nightingale.”
“No, it is the garden warbler.”
“I am sure it is the nightingale, don’t speak!
Listen! Listen!”
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