The apparition made a sign of acquiescence, and remounted to heaven. The next morning the old woman was seen wearing a gigantic, full beard. The goddess had not understood her gesture.
The moon is the patroness of poetry. Autumn, moreover, the most beautiful of seasons, with its wealth of chrysanthemums and oleas of sweet perfume in flower, furnishes also subjects dear to the poets. This fête is accordingly more aristocratic and more literary than the others, which have little to offer but popular pleasures. Thus, to celebrate it, pretence is made of transforming the terrestrial abodes into so many crystal palaces to harmonise with the splendours which are believed to exist in the celestial regions.
I have said that the moon is the patroness of poetry. It is she, indeed, who, from the earliest ages, has at all times known how to inspire poets—now with sad, now with joyous songs. It is she who unites in common contemplation the looks and the thoughts of lovers separated by long distances from each other; it is she who consoles the unhappy despairing in their solitudes. The most intimate secrets of the heart are confided to her, the softest and sweetest wishes are formed before her transparent mirror. Who shall then be astonished if poetry cherish this kindly queen of the night?
Here are some verses dedicated to this star by our poets:
“Raising my glass to drink with the moon, I notice that we are three— The moon, my shadow, and myself. The moonlight comes right up to my bed, Covering the floor with a dazzling surface, Which at first sight I take for ice; Then, noticing that it is the moon, I fall to thinking of my native land.”
The number of legends attaching to the moon is so large that it is impossible to relate them all. Some say that the goddess who inhabits the lunar palace is still unwedded. Others maintain that she is a tearful widow. The most original of these legends tells us that the goddess is the wife of a celebrated archer, of the reign of Han, named Haou-I. He had already shot down nine suns with his terrible bow, and was just going to fire at the tenth—the only one that remains to us—when the sun-god said to him, “Give me grace of this one, which I need for the light of the world. In return I will give you a magic draught which will give you the power to go and to dwell in the sun itself.” At the same time he told the archer the day and the hour on which he was to take the enchanted potion.