I fancy to
myself how the wind whistles at Ploszow; the sudden changes from mild
spring weather to wintry blasts; the darkness, sleet, and hail, with
intermittent gleams of sunshine. Here the sky is transparent and
serene; the soft breeze which even now caresses my face comes through
the open window together with the scent of heliotropes, roses, and
mignonette. It is the enchanted land, where the orange blossoms, and
also an enchanted palace; because everything that millions can buy,
combined with the exquisite taste of Mrs. Davis, is to be found in
this villa. I am surrounded by masterworks of art,--statues, pictures,
matchless specimens of ceramics, chased works by Benvenuto. Eyes
feast on nature, feast on art, and do not know where to dwell
longest,--unless it be on the splendid pagan, the mistress of all
these splendors, and whose only religion is beauty.
But is it quite just to call her a pagan? because, I say again,
whether sincere or not, she shares my sorrows and tries to soothe
them. We talk for hours about my father, and I have often seen tears
in her eyes. Since she found out that music acts soothingly upon my
mind, she plays for hours, and often until late at night. Sometimes
I sit in my room in the dark, look absently at the sea riddled by a
silver network, and listen to the sounds of her music mingling with
the splashing of the waves.
Pages:
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129