Together she and Vladimir had strolled among the wonders of the Louvre,
he critical and unmoved, but indulgent and gratified at her pleasure as
at the pleasure of a child.
Pauline had never been able to express what she felt. She could only
worship dumbly before the changeless unfading beauty of these relics of
the fairy-cities, of Athens, and Rome, and Alexandria. She had loved
the Greek marbles best. The weird shapes in the Corridor of Pan, the
glorious torso of the Venus Accroupie with the two deep lines in her
side that make her more human and alive than any other Venus, more
divine even than the Milo, faultless in her "serpentining beauty rounds
on rounds," serene and gracious in the shadow of her crimson-hung
alcove.
And Vladimir was wise, for he allowed her to dream, and did not show
her more than he could help of modern Paris.
From there they had gone to Brussels, then to Vienna, and last, and
most beautiful of all, Buda-Pesth, the city among the hills. They had
seen it first of all as Buda-Pesth should be seen, at night, hanging
between earth and sky, and with her million lights sparkling against
the soft darkness of the surrounding hills.
Pages:
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191