In post carriages, beneath blue silk blinds, one climbs at a walking pace along steep roads, listening to the postilion’s song echoing through the mountains, mingling with the tinkling of goats’ bells and the dull roar of waterfalls.
When the sun sets, one breathes in, by the edge of the gulfs, the scent of lemon trees; then, in the evening, on the terraces of villas, alone with fingers entwined, one gazes at the stars while making plans.
It seemed to her that certain places on earth must produce happiness, like a plant particular to a given soil that grows poorly anywhere else. Why could she not lean on the balcony of Swiss chalets, or enclose her sadness within a Scottish cottage, with a husband dressed in a black velvet coat with long tails, wearing soft boots, a pointed hat, and cuffs?
Perhaps she would have liked to confide all these things to someone. But how could she express an elusive unease, changing shape like clouds, swirling like the wind? Words failed her—along with the opportunity and the courage.

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