You know, my friend, who found me the next morning, wandering among
precipices, in the mists of the Rhône; who raised me up, supported me,
and brought me back to my poor mother's arms....
Now fifteen years have rolled by without sweeping away in their course
a single memory of that one great year of my youth. According to
Julie's promise to send me from above one who should comfort me, God
has exchanged his gift for another; he has not withdrawn it. I often
return to visit the valley of Chambéry and the lake of Aix, with her
who has made my hopes patient and tranquil as felicity. When I sit on
the heights of the hill of Tresserves, at the foot of those
chestnut-trees that have felt her heart beat against their bark; when I
look at the lake, the mountains, snows and meadows, trees and jagged
rocks, swimming in a warm atmosphere which seems to bathe all nature in
one perfumed liquid; when I hear the sighing breeze, the humming
insects, and the quivering leaves, the waves of the lake breaking on
the shore, with the gentle rustling sound of silken folds unrolling one
by one; when I see the shadow of her whom God has made my companion
until my life's end cast beside mine upon the grass or sand; when I
feel within me a plenitude that desires nothing before death, and
peace, untroubled by a single sigh; methinks I see the blessed soul of
her who appeared to me in this spot rise, dazzling and immortal, from
every point of the horizon, fill of herself alone the sky and waters,
shine in that splendor, float in that ether, bum in all those flames. I
see it penetrate those waves, breathe in their murmurs; pray, and laud,
and sing in that one hymn of life that streams with these cascades from
glacier unto lake, and shed upon the valley and on those who keep her
memory a blessing that the eye seems to see, the ear to hear, the heart
to feel!...
Here ended Raphael's first manuscript.