Our guide preceded us at quite a distance. Alone together we trod the
good old earth, flecked with bunches of purple heather and fallen
leaves. The air was perfumed with the breath of violets and
strawberries; slender ferns spread over the trunks of the trees. It was
warm; even the moss was hot. A cuckoo, hidden in the foliage, now and
then gave out its long cry, and gnats buzzed in the glades. We walked on
with a feeling of inward peace, and let our conversation touch on many
subjects; we spoke of sounds and colours, of the masters and their
works, and of the joys of the mind; we thought of different writings, of
familiar pictures and poses; we recited aloud some wonderful verses, the
beauty of which thrilled us so that we repeated the rhythm again and
again, accentuating the words and cadencing them so that they were
almost sung. Foreign landscapes and splendid figures rose before our
mind's eye, and we dwelt with rapture on soft Asiatic nights with the
moon shining on the cupolas; or our admiration was aroused by some
sonorous name; or we delighted in the artlessness of some sentence
standing out in relief in an ancient book.
Stretched out in the courtyard of Joyeuse-Garde, near the filled-up
subterranean vaults, beneath the semi-circle of its unique ivy-covered
arcade, we talked of Shakespeare and wondered whether the stars were
inhabited.
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