I passed my days in my room with no other company than some books which
my friend had sent me from Chambéry. In the afternoon, I used to ramble
alone amid the wild mountains which, on the Italian side, form the
boundary of the valley of Aix; and returning home in the evening,
harassed and fatigued, would sit down to supper, and then retire to my
room and spend whole hours seated at my window. I gazed at the blue
firmament above, which, like the abyss attracting him who leans over
it, ever attracts the thoughts of men as though it had secrets to
reveal. Sleep found me still wandering on a sea of thoughts, and
seeking no shore. When morning came, I was awaked by the rays of the
sun and by the murmur of the hot springs; and I would plunge into my
bath, and after breakfast recommence the same rambles and the same
melancholy musings as the day before. Sometimes in the evening, when I
looked out of my window into the garden, I saw another lighted window
not far from my own and the face of a female, who, with one hand
throwing back the long black tresses from her brow, gazed like myself
on the mountains, the sky, and moonlit garden. I could only distinguish
the pale, pure, and almost transparent profile and the long, dark waves
of the hair, which was smoothed down at the temples. I used to see this
face standing out on the brilliant background of the window, which was
lighted from a lamp in the bedroom. At times, too, I had heard a
woman's voice saying a few words or giving some orders in the
apartment. The slightly foreign, though pure accent, the vibrations of
that soft, languid, and yet marvellously sonorous voice, of which I
heard the harmony without understanding the words had interested me.
Long after my window was closed that voice remained in my ear like the
prolonged sound of an echo. I had never heard any like it, even in
Italy; it sounded through the half-closed teeth like those small
metallic lyres that the children of the Islands of the Archipelago use
when they play on the seashore. It was more like a ringing sound than
like a voice; I had noticed it, little dreaming that that voice would
ring loud and deep forever through my life. The next day I thought no
more of it.
One day, however, on returning home earlier, and entering by the little
garden-door near the arbor, I had a nearer view of the stranger, who
was seated on a bench under the southern wall, enjoying the warm rays
of the sun. She thought herself alone, for she had not heard the sound
of the door as I closed it behind me, and I could contemplate her
unobserved. We were within twenty paces of each other, and were only
separated by a vine, which was half-stripped of its leaves. The shade
of the vine-leaves and the rays of the sun played and chased each other
alternately over her face. She appeared larger than life, as she sat
like one of those marble statues enveloped in drapery, of which we
admire the beauty without distinguishing the form. The folds of her
dress were loose and flowing, and the drapery of a white shawl, folded
closely round her, showed only her slender and rather attenuated hands,
which were crossed on her lap. In one, she carelessly held one of those
red flowers which grow in the mountains beneath the snow, and are
called, I know not why, "poets' flowers." One end of her shawl was
thrown over her head like a hood, to protect her from the damp evening
air. She was bent languidly forward, her head inclined upon her left
shoulder; and the eyelids, with their long dark lashes, were closed
against the dazzling rays of the sun. Her complexion was pale, her
features motionless, and her countenance so expressive of profound and
silent meditation, that she resembled a statue of Death; but of that
Death which bears away the soul beyond the reach of human woes to the
regions of eternal light and love. The sound of my footsteps on the dry
leaves made her look up. Her large half-closed eyes were of that
peculiar tint resembling the color of lapis lazuli, streaked with
brown, and the drooping lid had that natural fringe of long dark
lashes, which Eastern women strive by art to imitate, in order to
impart a voluptuous wildness to their look and energy even to their
languor. The light of those eyes seemed to come from a distance which I
have never measured in any other mortal eye. It was as the rays of the
stars, which seem to seek us out, and to approach us as we gaze, and
yet have travelled millions of miles through the heavens. The high and
narrow forehead seemed as if compressed by intense thought, and joined
the nose by an almost straight and Grecian line. The lips were thin and
slightly depressed at the corners with an habitual expression of
sadness; the teeth of pearl, rather than of ivory, as is the case with
the daughters of the sea or islands. The face was oval, slightly
emaciated in the lower part and at the temples, and, on the whole she
seemed rather an embodying of thought than a human being. Besides this
general expression of revery there was a languid look of suffering and
passion, which made it impossible to gaze once on that face without
bearing its ineffaceable image stamped forever in the memory. In a
word, hers was a contagious sickness of the soul, veiled in a shape of
beauty the most majestic and attractive that the dreams of mortal man
ever embodied.
I passed rapidly before her, bowing respectfully, and my deferential
air and downcast eyes seemed to ask forgiveness for having disturbed
her. A slight blush tinged her pale cheeks at my approach. I returned
to my room trembling and wondering that the evening air should thus
have chilled me. A few minutes later I saw her re-enter the house, and
cast one indifferent look at my window. I saw her again on the
following days, at the same hour, both in the garden and in the court,
but never dared to think of accosting her. I even met her sometimes
near the châlets, with the little girls who drove her donkey or picked
strawberries for her, at other times, in her boat on the lake; but I
never showed any sign of recognition or interest, beyond a grave and
respectful bow; she would return it with an air of melancholy
abstraction, and we each went our separate ways, on the hills or on the
waters.