* * * * *
Bam! Bam! It is evening now—the sun is setting. I didn't know the close of the day could be so beautiful—I thought the morning was the time.
But it is not just right—the sun is setting in an explosion of yellow, of orange, of rouge-feu, of cherry, of purple.
Ah! it is pretentious, vulgar. Nature wants me to admire her—I will not. I'll wait—the sylphs of the evening will soon come and sprinkle the thirsty flowers with their vapors of dew.
I like sylphs—I'll wait.
Boom! The sun sinks out of sight, and leaves behind a tinge of purple, of modest gray touched with topaz—ah! that is better. I paint and I paint and I paint.
Oh, Good Lord, how beautiful it is—how beautiful! The sun has disappeared and left behind a soft, luminous, gauzy tint of lemon— lemons half-ripe. The light melts and blends into the blue of the night.
How beautiful! I must catch that—even now it fades—but I have it: tones of deepening green, pallid turquoise, infinitely fine, delicate, fluid and ethereal.
Night draws on. The dark waters reflect the mysteries of the sky— the landscape fades, vanishes, disappears—we can not see it now, we only feel it is there.
But that is enough for one day—Nature is going to sleep, and so will we, soon. Let us just sit silent a space and enjoy the stillness.