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The sun streams through the immense, wide-open windows; and the harmony of the ancient park mingles with that of the silk hangings and the old furniture. The fallen leaves sprinkle tears of gold upon the deep green of the lawns. The soft-flowing river welcomes with a quiver the perfect beauty of the skies; rare shrubs and delicate flowers set here and there sheaves and garlands of joy; and the golden sand of the paths accentuates the variety of the colours. On the hill opposite, a wood gilded by the autumn seems to be lying down like some huge animal; in the distance, the tree-tops are so close together that one could imagine a giant hand stroking its tawny fur. On either side of the tall bow-windows, the scarlet satin of the curtains falls in long, straight folds.
Let us be in a palace or a hovel, in a museum or an hotel: is not our attention always first claimed by the window? However little it reveals, that little still means light and life, amid our admiration of the rare or our indifference to the ordinary. The windows represent all the independence, hope and strength of the little souls behind them; and I believe that I love them chiefly because they were the confidants and friends of my early years, when, as an idle, questioning little girl, I would stand with my hands clasped in front of me and my forehead glued to the panes. My childhood spent at those windows was a picture of patient waiting.
Often they come back to me, the windows of that big house in a provincial town, on one side lighted up and beautiful with the beauty of the gay garden on which their lace-veiled casements opened, on the other a little dark and lone, as though listening to the voice and the dreary illusion of the church which they enframe....