FullReads

There was a pond–no, rather a bowl–of water in the centre; hardly twenty yards across, yet the sky in it was so pure and far down that the circle of rocks and summer foliage inclosing it seemed like a little planetary ring, floating off alone through space. I can’t explain the charm of the spot, nor the selfishness which instantly suggested that I should keep the discovery to myself. Ten years earlier I should have looked around for some fair spirit to be my “minister,” but now–

One forenoon–I think it was the third or fourth time I had visited the place–I was startled to find the dent of a heel in the earth, half-way up the slope. There had been rain during the night and the earth was still moist and soft. It was the mark of a woman’s boot, only to be distinguished from that of a walking-stick by its semicircular form. A little higher, I found the outline of a foot, not so small as to awake an ecstasy, but with a suggestion of lightness, elasticity, and grace. If hands were thrust through holes in a board-fence, and nothing of the attached bodies seen, I can easily imagine that some would attract and others repel us: with footprints the impression is weaker, of course, but we cannot escape it. I am not sure whether I wanted to find the unknown wearer of the boot within my precious personal solitude: I was afraid I should see her, while passing through the rocky crevice, and yet was disappointed when I found no one.

But on the fiat, warm rock overhanging the tarn–my special throne–lay some withering wild-flowers and a book! I looked up and down, right and left: there was not the slightest sign of another human life than mine. Then I lay down for a quarter of an hour, and listened: there were only the noises of bird and squirrel, as before. At last, I took up the book, the fiat breadth of which suggested only sketches. There were, indeed, some tolerable studies of rocks and trees on the first pages; a few not very striking caricatures, which seemed to have been commenced as portraits, but recalled no faces I knew; then a number of fragmentary notes, written in pencil. I found no name, from first to last; only, under the sketches, a monogram so complicated and laborious that the initials could hardly be discovered unless one already knew them.

The writing was a woman’s, but it had surely taken its character from certain features of her own: it was clear, firm, individual. It had nothing of that air of general debility which usually marks the manuscript of young ladies, yet its firmness was far removed from the stiff, conventional slope which all Englishwomen seem to acquire in youth and retain through life, I don’t see how any man in my situation could have helped reading a few lines–if only for the sake of restoring lost property. But I was drawn on and on, and finished by reading all: thence, since no further harm could be done, I reread, pondering over certain passages until they stayed with me. Here they are, as I set them down, that evening, on the back of a legal blank:

“It makes a great deal of difference whether we wear social
forms as bracelets or handcuffs.”

“Can we not still be wholly our independent selves, even
while doing, in the main, as others do? I know two who are
so; but they are married.”

“The men who admire these bold, dashing young girls treat
them like weaker copies of themselves. And yet they boast of
what they call ‘experience’!”

“I wonder if any one felt the exquisite beauty of the noon
as I did to-day? A faint appreciation of sunsets and storms
is taught us in youth, and kept alive by novels and
flirtations; but the broad, imperial splendor of this
summer noon!–and myself standing alone in it–yes, utterly
alone!” “The men I seek must exist: where are they? How
make an acquaintance, when one obsequiously bows himself
away, as I advance? The fault is surely not all on my side.”