y hair, my forehead, my
mouth, my eyes are so new that I close my eyes so as to see them ...
And I did not know....

The garden has changed. Pale ochre reflections. Little shivers damp and
creeping. Heavy black pockets on the parasol tops of the trees. The
mournful andante of a swaying cypress. As though it were the first time,
my beloved, that we were alone and had only found each other this
evening under the narrow sky.

The shadows spread haphazard piling up in ridges, drawing after them dim
white trails. Unknown thoughts escape from everywhere. They are too
swift for me. The breeze carries them away. His face at my right,
blurred except for the prominent features, is silvered over and turned
into a medallion....

Am I quite sure that he is still close to me? I tighten my hand in his.
The true, regular pulse at his wrist assures me all is well and down
here everything is fair and _true_. The garden and the leaves, the
multiplying lights of the town, the gloaming are all real.

The air is stirring and freshening up. Let us walk. Straight ahead of us
as far as the last terrace with its ornamental balustrade; then we will
follow the Broad Walk at the entrance of the garden.

He takes my arm gently. I do not dare to lean on it, though the weight
of his presence bears me to the ground. I feel I am alone in upholding
his life. Who will tell him, who will ever tell him the whole drama that
this means? Will he ever know how I see him, how he lives for me? Other
people and he himself see his huge figure, always a little bowed as if
he never dared to be altogether tall, the steel of his eyes, and the
slope of his forehead, which every shadow exaggerates, and his gaze
bemired in clouds. They may see his simplicity and transparent
kindliness; but at this they stop.

I am caught in what is inexpressible in him. I assume all the questions
a man may put to himself without being able to solve them, all the vague
poignant evils. And when he appears, I feel that a word has been
fashioned to express everything, but not a single word to express his
face. It is too outside of everything, too mysterious, perhaps too like
my own.

We are at the Broad Walk, a solemn pile in which the trees go two by
two, close together, erect--a cathedral. A chilly silence lays a sheet
on your shoulders, the nave boldly thrusts its black pillars upwards,
and the branches topping the vault wed in the sky.

In spite of yourself you say something in