Tioka in his nightdress followed by Tania sucking the head of her favorite rubber doll have run gaily in and embrace me.
“Are we going to Switzerland?” cries Tioka, who has overheard what we were saying. “How nice! When do we start?”
“How nice! When do we start?” says Tania, who always echoes everything her brother says.
“I like to be always going away,” adds Tioka.
And Tania repeats, “I like to be always going away.”
I marvel at finding in these two children of mine, my own unrest already stirring, like a butterfly poised with quivering wings on the dawning flower of their souls.
I went down alone into the garden and entered the grove, where the sunshine only penetrates with mild rays of almost lunar whiteness. The grass under my feet was studded with periwinkles, their prim, pert faces lifted to the sky; tenuous ferns unfolded their embroidered scrolls, and masses of gentle wild violets, conscious of their pallor and their scentlessness, drooped shyly in the shade.
In the branches overhead wild hidden birds tried their new springtide voices in soft modulations and trills, or in long-drawn contralto notes of liquescent sweetness. Thus April spoke to me in gentle voices. With a sudden overwhelming longing to be nearer to the very soul of spring, I knelt on the grass and buried my face in the cool leaves and blossoms, bidding my heart be pure and cool as they.
On my homeward way I passed the targets. The servants had put everything in order—pistols, rifles and cartridges; and a fresh row of bottles seemed to await with glassy eye the shots of the amateur marksmen. With a deep sense of humiliation I remembered the feverish agitations of the previous day, and once more I said to myself: “Henceforward may my life be serene and pure.”
A gay voice rang out close behind me, and startled me from my reverie.