It is a sunny winter’s day. Something that looks like gold trembles
on the leaves of the clusters of trees down below in the green level
of the meadow. The camelias at the foot of the gallery are glorious
in their abundant buds. Wanda is sitting in the loggia; she is
drawing. The German painter stands opposite her with his hands folded
as in adoration, and looks at her. No, he rather looks at her face,
and is entirely absorbed in it, enraptured.
But she does not see him, neither does she see me, who with the
spade in my hand am turning over the flower-bed, solely that I may
see her and feel her nearness, which produces an effect on me like
poetry, like music.