In the Cascine where the main roadway turns into a leafy path, Wanda
got out. It was night, only occasional stars shone through the gray
clouds that fled across the sky. By the bank of the Arno stood a man in
a dark cloak, with a brigand’s hat, and looked at the yellow waves.
Wanda rapidly walked through the shrubbery, and tapped him on the
shoulder. I saw him turn and seize her hand, and then they disappeared
behind the green wall.
An hour full of torments. Finally there was a rustling in the bushes to
one side, and they returned.
The man accompanied her to the carriage. The light of the lamp fell
full and glaringly upon an infinitely young, soft and dreamy face which
I had never before seen, and played in his long, blond curls.
She held out her hand which he kissed with deep respect, then she
signaled to me, and immediately the carriage flew along the leafy wall
which follows the river like a long green screen.
* * * * *
The bell at the garden-gate rings. It is a familiar face. The man from
the Cascine.
“Whom shall I announce?” I ask him in French. He timidly shakes his
head.
“Do you, perhaps, understand some German?” he asks shyly.
“Yes. Your name, please.”
“Oh! I haven’t any yet,” he replies, embarrassed—“Tell your mistress
the German painter from the Cascine is here and would like—but there
she is herself.”
Wanda had stepped out on the balcony, and nodded toward the stranger.
“Gregor, show the gentleman in!” she called to me.