We two young frequenters of the Pagella salon, felt powerfully drawn to
one another. We understood one another at once. Of course, it was only I
who was fascinated. When, in an evening, I drove across Paris in the
expectation of seeing her, I sometimes murmured to myself Henrik Hertz's
verse:
"My beloved is like the dazzling day,
Brazilia's Summer!"
My feelings, however, were much more admiration than love or desire. I
did not really want to possess her. I never felt myself quite on a level
with her even when she made decided advances to me. I rejoiced over her
as over something perfect, and there was the rich, foreign colouring
about her that there had been about the birds of paradise in my nursery.
She seldom disturbed my peace of mind, but I said to myself that if I
were to go away then, I should in all probability never see her again,
as her father would be taking her the next year to Brazil or Madrid, and
I sometimes felt as though I should be going away from my happiness
forever. She often asked me to stay with such expressions and with such
an expression that I was quite bewildered. And then she monopolised my
thoughts altogether, like the queenly being she was.
A Danish poet had once called the beautiful women of the South "Large,
showy flowers without fragrance.
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