1

it is typical autumn weather, a dull, dark day which seems never to have fully dawned. beneath the burden of the weary, oppressive clouds, the grass is greener and the roads more distinct. the light seems to rise to the sky instead of falling from it.

i have been in the kitchen-garden for an hour. there all the plants are beaten down by the wind and the rain; the asparagus-fronds lie across the paths like tangled hair; but the broad-bottomed cabbages are a joy to the eye, with their air of comfortable middle-class prosperity. looking at their closely enfolded hearts, i seemed to recover the illusion of my childhood, of the days when my eyes pictured mystery in their depths....

how amazed we are when one of our senses happens to receive a sudden impression, in the same way as when we were children! we behold the same object simultaneously in the present and the past; and between those two points, identical and yet different

to our eyes, our memory tries to stretch a thread that can help it to follow the thousand and one intermediate transformations which have led us from the false to the true, from the wonderful to the simple, from dreams to reality. we should, no doubt, discover here, in the subtle history of our sensations and the different ways in which we received them, the gradual forming of our character, the pathetic progress of our little knowledge, all the frail elements of our personal life; in a word, the plastic substance of our joys and sorrows....

i think of the little girl that i was, but between her and me there stands a long array of children, girls and women. and i can do nothing but inwardly repeat:

"how soon we lose our traces!..."

i smile at the memory of myself as we smile at the unknown child that brushes against us in passing; and i leave myself to return to rose....

2

she is a never-failing source of satisfaction to me. my dreams glory in having discovered so much hidden virtue here, at my door; and i am surprised at the new pleasures which i am constantly finding in her.

in certain natures predisposed to happiness, such happy surprises are prolonged and constantly renewed; and this may be one of the innocent secrets of the intellect. are there not a thousand ways of interpreting a feeling, even as there are a thousand ways of considering an object? our mind observes it daily under a different aspect, turns and turns it again, sees it from above and below, sees it near and from afar and loves to show it off and place it in the most favourable light. the mind of every woman, especially of a woman with an artistic bias, is not without a secret harmony of colour, line and proportion. something intentional even enters into it; and the caprices of her soul are often but an outcome of her desire to please. her natural instinct, which is always inclined to give form to the most subtle of her sensations, enables her to find in goodness the same clinging grace which she loves in her clothes. she likes her happiness to be obvious and highly coloured, that it may rejoice the eyes of those around her; and, so as not to sadden their eyes, she paints the bitterness of her heart in neutral shades of drab and grey. by thinking herself better, she appears prettier in her own sight; and it seems to her, as she consults her mirror,

that she is replying to her own destiny. the soft waves of her hair teach her how frail is her will by the side of her life. she learns to bestow her own reward on the sympathy of her heart by crowning her forehead with her two bare arms; and, when she sees the long folds of her dress winding around her body, she recognises the sinuous, slow, but determined bent of her feminine power.

i remember once being present at a meeting between two women who gave me a charming proof of our natural inclination to lend shape and substance to our thoughts and feelings. they were of different nationalities and neither of them could speak the other's language. both were of a warm and sensitive nature, endowed with an analytical and artistic temperament; and, as soon as they came together amidst the boredom of a fashionable crowd, they sat down in a corner and, with the aid of a few ordinary words, of facial expression, of vocal intonation, but above all by means of gesticulation, they succeeded, in a few moments, in explaining themselves and knowing each other better than many do after months of intercourse.

i was interested in this strange conversation, this dialogue without a sentence, but so vivid and expressive,

in the same breath childish and profound; for they wished to show each other the inmost recesses of their souls and they had nothing to do it with but two or three elementary words. how pretty they were, the fair one dressed in red and the other, who was dark, all in white, with camellias in the dusk of her hair. they were not at all afraid of being frivolous and would linger now and then to examine the filmy muslins and laces in which they were arrayed.

the elder had already chosen her path, the younger was still seeking hers; but the characters of both were alike matured and their minds completely formed. both of them in love and happy in their love, they tried above all to express their tastes and ideas.

to understand each other, they employed a thousand ingenious means. their mobile faces eagerly questioned each other with the unconscious boldness of children who meet for the first time. they took each other's hands, looked at each other, read each other's features. at times, they would make use of things around them: a light here, a shadow there, people, objects. once i saw the fair-haired one take up a gallé cup that stood near. for a minute, she held

her white arm up to the light; and through her fingers the lovely thing seemed like a flash of crystallised mist in which precious stones were shedding their last lustre.

i forget the various images, childish and subtle, by which she was able to show her friend all her sensitive soul in that fragile cup. a little later, there was some music; and the dark one sang while the fair one accompanied her on the piano. through the sounds and harmonies i heard the perfect concord of those two lives, which had known nothing of each other an hour or two before....

it was an exquisite lesson for me, a wonderful proof that women's souls are able to love and unite more easily than men's, if they wish. and i once again regretted the unhappy distrust that severs and disunites us, whereas all our weaknesses interwoven might be garlands of strength and love crowning the life of men.

3

by a natural trend of thought, rose appeared to me contrasted with those two rare creatures....

rose is not sensitive and is not artistic. no doubt,

when she left school, she could play the piano correctly and likewise draw those still-life studies and little landscapes by means of which the principles of art and beauty are carefully instilled into the young mind. but she did not suspect that there could be anything else. she saw nothing beyond the ruined mill which she drew religiously in charcoal; twenty times over, she set an orange, a ball of worsted and a pair of scissors together on the window-sill without seeing any of the wonders which the garden offered her.

later, when every sunday she played the young savoyard's prayer on the organ, her placid soul conceived no other harmonies. she never felt, within the convent-walls, that divine curiosity, that blessed insubordination of the artist-child which obtains its first understanding of beauty from its hatred of the ugliness around it and which turns towards pretty things as flowers and plants turn towards the light.

ah, my poor rose, how i should like to see you more eager and alive! in the close attention which you give me, in the absolute faith which you place in me, my least words are invested with a precision of meaning that invites me to go on speaking; but how weary i am at heart! oh, let us pass on to

other things: it is high time! let us not sink into slumber and call it prudence: up to now i have been content to see you sitting patiently at my feet; but i no longer want you there. enough of this! i dream of roaming with you at random in the open fields, i dream of making you laugh and cry, of feeling your young soul fresh and sensitive as your cheeks. i dream of stirring your heart and rousing your imagination. we will go far across the countryside; together we shall see the light wane and the darkness begin; and, since you love me, you must needs admire with me the rare beauty of all these things!...