I was sitting at the open window ... in the morning, early in the
morning, on the first of May.
The flush of dawn had not yet begun; but the dark, warm night was
already paling, already growing chill.
No fog had risen, no breeze was straying, everything was of one hue and
silent ... but one could scent the approach of the awakening, and in the
rarefied air the scent of the dew's harsh dampness was abroad.
Suddenly, into my chamber, through the open window, flew a large bird,
lightly tinkling and rustling.
I started, looked more intently.... It was not a bird: it was a tiny,
winged woman, clad in a long, close-fitting robe which billowed out at
the bottom.
She was all grey, the hue of mother-of-pearl; only the inner side of her
wings glowed with a tender flush of scarlet, like a rose bursting into
blossom; a garland of lilies-of-the-valley confined the scattered curls
of her small, round head,--and two peacock feathers quivered amusingly,
like the feelers of a butterfly, above the fair, rounded little
forehead.
She floated past a couple of times close to the ceiling: her tiny face
was laughing; laughing also were her huge, black, luminous eyes. The
merry playfulness of her capricious flight shivered their diamond rays.
She held in her hand a long frond of a steppe flower--"Imperial
sceptre"[72] the Russian folk call it; and it does, indeed, resemble a
sceptre.
As she flew rapidly above me she touched my head with that flower.
I darted toward her.... But she had already fluttered through the
window, and away she flew headlong....
In the garden, in the wilderness of the lilac-bushes, a turtle-dove
greeted her with its first cooing; and at the spot where she had
vanished the milky-white sky flushed a soft crimson.
I recognised thee, goddess of fancy! Thou hast visited me by
accident--thou hast flown in to young poets.
O poetry! O youth! O virginal beauty of woman! Only for an instant can
ye gleam before me,--in the early morning of the early spring!
May, 1878.