He was obsessed by these ideas and avoided the company present: and he withdrew into a little room apart: he stood leaning against the wall in a recess that was half in darkness, behind a curtain of evergreens and flowers, listening to Philomela’s lovely voice, with its elegiac warmth, singing “The Lime-Tree” of Schubert: and the pure music called up sad memories. Facing him on the wall was a large mirror which reflected the lights and the life of the next room. He did not see it: he was gazing in upon himself: and the mist of tears swam before his eyes. … Suddenly, like Schubert’s rustling tree, he began to tremble for no reason. He stood so for a few seconds, very pale, unable to move. Then the veil fell from before his eyes, and he saw in the mirror in front of him his “friend,” gazing at him. … His “friend”? Who was she? He knew nothing save that she was his friend and that he knew her: and he stood leaning against the wall, his eyes meeting hers, and he trembled. She smiled. He could not see the lines of her face or her body, nor the expression in her eyes, nor whether she was tall or short, nor how she was dressed. Only one thing he saw: the divine goodness of her smile of compassion.
And suddenly her smile conjured up in Christophe an old forgotten memory of his early childhood. … He was six or seven, at school, unhappy: he had just been humiliated and bullied by some older, stronger boys, and they were all jeering at him, and the master had punished him unjustly: he was crouching in a corner, utterly forlorn, while the others were playing: and he wept softly. There was a sad-faced little girl who was not playing with the others—(he could see her now, though he had never thought of her since then; she was short, and had a big head, fair, almost white hair and eyebrows, very pale blue eyes, broad white cheeks, thick lips, a rather puffy face, and small red hands)—and she came close up to him, then stopped, with her thumb in her mouth and stood watching him cry: then she laid her little hand on Christophe’s head and said hurriedly and shyly, with just the same smile of compassion:
“Don’t cry! Don’t cry!”
Then Christophe could not control himself any longer, and he burst into sobs, and buried his face in the little girl’s pinafore, while, in a quavering, tender voice, she went on saying:
“Don’t cry. …”
She died soon afterwards, a few weeks perhaps: the hand of death must have been upon her at the time of that little scene. … Why should he think of her now? There was no connection between the child who was dead and forgotten, the humble daughter of the people in a distant German town, and the aristocratic young lady who was gazing at him now. But there is only one soul for all: and although millions of human beings seem to be all different one from another, different as the worlds moving in the heavens, it is the same flash of thought or love which lights up the hearts of men and women though centuries divide them. Christophe had just seen once more the light that he had seen shining upon the pale lips of the little comforter. …
It was all over in a second. A throng of people filled the door and shut out Christophe’s view of the other room. He stepped back quickly into the shade, out of sight of the mirror: he was afraid lest his emotion should be noticed. But when he was calm again he wanted to see her once more. He was afraid she would be gone. He went into the room and he found her at once in the crowd, although she did not look in the least like what he had seen in the mirror. Now he saw her in profile sitting in a group of finely dressed ladies: her elbow was resting on the arm of her chair, she was leaning forward a little, with her head in her hand, and listening to what they were saying with an intelligent absent smile: she had the expression and features of the young St. John, listening and looking through half-closed eyes, and smiling at his own thoughts, of The Dispute of Raphael. … Then she raised her eyes, saw him, and showed no surprise. And he saw that her smile was for himself. He was much moved, and bowed, and went up to her.
“You don’t recognize me?” she said.
He knew her again that very moment.
“Grazia” … he said.9
At the same moment the ambassador’s wife passed by, and smiled with pleasure to see that the long-sought meeting had at last come about: and she introduced Christophe to “Countess Berény.” But Christophe was so moved that he did not even hear her, and he did not notice, the new name. She was still his little Grazia to him.
Grazia was twenty-two. She had been married for a year
