Extract From The Post Office Girl, By Stefan Zweig

Hello,

It's Mandy here.

Thanks for joining me tonight.

I'm going to be reading an excerpt from The Post Office Girl by the writer Stefan Zweig.

The book is set in Austria just after World War One,

A country torn by financial ruin and unemployment.

Christine,

Who has fallen on hard times,

Receives a telegram from her rich American aunt inviting her to a resort in the Swiss Alps.

But before I go ahead,

Please feel free to make yourself really comfortable settling down into your chair or your bed,

Relaxing your hands,

Releasing your shoulders and just softening your jaw.

That's great.

So if you're ready,

Then I shall begin.

Christine finds her room already tinged by dusk.

The early infiltration of dusk is making everything in it seem vague and silent.

The sharp oblong of sky behind the open balcony door is still a deep,

Saturated blue,

But the colours inside are beginning to dim at the edges,

Fading into the velvety shadows.

Christine goes out onto the balcony,

Facing the immense landscape with its swiftly unfurling play of colours.

First,

The clouds lose their radiant white,

Gradually reddening,

Subtly at the beginning,

Then more and more deeply,

As if provoked despite themselves by the quickening sunset.

Then shadows well up from the mountain sides,

Shadows that were weak and isolated during the day,

Lurking behind the trees.

But now they're massing together,

Becoming dense and bold,

As though a black pool from the valley were rushing up to the peaks.

And for a moment,

It seems possible that darkness might inundate the mountain tops too,

And the whole vast sweep turns suddenly black and void.

In fact,

There's already a slight breath of frost,

An invisible wave of it rising out of the valleys.

But now the peaks are glowing in a colder,

Paler light.

The moon has appeared in the blue that's far from gone.

It floats like a streetlight,

High and round over the space between two of the mightiest peaks.

And what was just now a real scene,

With colours and details,

Is becoming a silhouette,

A solid black and white cutout,

Sprinkled with small,

Uncertainly flickering stars.

Unaccustomed to this dramatic transition,

This vast,

Unfolding palette,

Christine gazes at it numbly.

She's like someone used to nothing more than fiddle and pipes,

Hearing the roar of a full orchestra for the first time.

The sudden revelation of natural majesty is too much for her senses.

She clutches the rail in awe,

Gazing with such concentration and losing herself so much in the view that she forgets herself,

Forgets the time.

But luckily,

The ever considerate hotel has a timekeeper,

The relentless gong that reminds the guests of their responsibility to ready themselves for their extravagant meals.

The first metallic swell gives Christine a start.

Her aunt was quite clear that she was to be on time for dinner.

But which of these splendid new dresses should she choose?

She lays them out again side by side on the bed,

Glistening like dragonflies.

The dark one glints seductively from the shadows.

Finally,

She decides on the ivory coloured one for today,

On the grounds that it's the most modest of the three.

She picks it up carefully,

Amazed at how light it is in her hand,

No heavier than a handkerchief or a glove.

She quickly strips off the sweater,

The heavy,

Rusher leather shoes,

The thick socks,

Everything stiff and heavy,

Impatient for the new lightness.

It's all so delicate,

So soft and weightless.

Just handling these sumptuous new underthings makes her fingers tremble.

The feel of them is wonderful.

Quickly,

She takes off the stiff old linen underthings.

The yielding new fabric is a warm,

Delicate froth on her skin.

She has an impulse to turn on the light to look at herself,

But then takes her hand from the switch,

Better to put off the pleasure.

Perhaps this luxuriously sheer fabric only feels so filmy,

So delicate in the dark.

Under the light,

Its spell will evaporate.

After the underthings,

The stockings,

Then the dress.

Carefully,

It's her aunts after all,

She puts on the smooth silk.

And it's marvellous,

Streaming freely down from her shoulders,

Like a glittering cascade of warm water,

And clinging to her obediently.

You can't feel it on you.

It's like being dressed in the breeze.

But go on,

Go on,

Don't get lost in the delectation too soon.

Finish quickly,

So you can see.

The shoes now,

A few quick movements,

A couple of steps,

Done,

Thank goodness.

And now,

Her heart thumps,

The first look in the mirror.

Her hand flips the switch,

And the bulb lights up.

The room that had faded away is again dazzlingly bright.

The flowered wallpaper,

The carefully polished furniture is there again,

The elegant new world is back.

She's too nervous to bring herself within range of the mirror right away.

A side-long peek from a sharp angle shows only a strip of landscape beyond the balcony and a little of the room.

She lacks the final bit of courage for the real test.

Won't she look even more ridiculous in the borrowed dress?

Won't everyone,

Won't she herself,

See the fraud for what it is?

She edges toward the mirror as though humility might make the judge more lenient.

She's close now,

Eyes still downcast,

Still afraid to look.

Again,

The sound of the gong comes from downstairs,

No more time to waste.

She holds her breath with sudden courage,

Like someone about to take a leap,

Then determinedly lifts her eyes,

Lifts her eyes and is startled,

Even falls back a step.

Who is that?

Who is that slender,

Elegant woman,

Her upper body bent backward,

Her mouth open,

Her eyes searching,

Looking at her with an unmistakable expression of frank surprise.

Is that her?

Impossible.

She doesn't say it,

Doesn't pronounce the word consciously,

But it has made her lips move,

And amazingly,

The lips of the reflected figure move too.

She catches her breath in surprise,

Not even in a dream has she ever dared to imagine herself as so lovely,

So young,

So smart.

The red,

Sharply defined mouth,

The finely drawn eyebrows,

The bare and gleaming neck beneath the golden,

Curving helmet of hair are new.

Her own bare skin,

As framed by the glittering dress,

Is completely new.

She moves closer to the mirror,

Trying to recognise the woman that she knows is herself,

But her temples throb with fear that the exhilarating image might not last,

Might vanish if she came any closer,

Or made some sudden movement.

It can't be real,

She thinks.

A person can't suddenly change like that,

Because if it is real,

Then I'm.

.

.

She pauses,

Not daring to think the word,

But the woman in the mirror,

Guessing the thought,

Begins to smile to herself,

At first slightly,

Then more and more broadly.

Now the eyes are quite openly and proudly laughing at her,

And the parted red lips seem to acknowledge with amusement,

Yes,

I am beautiful.

It's a strange and wonderful feeling to admire her own body,

The breasts unconstrained beneath the close-fitting silk,

The slender yet rounded forms under the colours of the dress,

The relaxed bare shoulders.

Curious to see this slim new body in motion,

She slowly turns to one side as she watches the effect.

Again her eyes meet those of her reflection,

Proud and pleased.

Bolder now,

She takes three steps back,

Again the quick movement is lovely.

She ventures a rapid pirouette,

Making her skirts twirl,

And again the mirror smiles.

Excellent,

How slender,

How graceful you are.

She has a restless experimental feeling in her limbs,

She feels like dancing.

She races to the middle of the room,

Then comes back toward the mirror,

The image smiles,

And it's her own smile.

She tests and inspects the image from all sides,

Caressing it with her eyes,

Smitten with herself,

Unable to have enough of this alluring new self,

That smiles as it approaches from the mirror,

Beautifully dressed,

Young and remade.

She feels like throwing her arms around this new person that is herself.

She moves so close that the eyes almost touch the real ones and those of the reflection,

And her lips are so near their counterparts that for a moment her breath makes them disappear.

She strikes more poses to get different views of her new self,

Then the sound of the gong downstairs comes for a third time.

She gives a start,

My god I can't keep my aunt waiting,

She must be angry already.

Quickly,

On with the jacket,

The evening jacket,

Light,

Colourful,

Trimmed with exquisite fur.

Then,

Before her hand touches the switch to turn out the light,

An eager parting glance at the beneficent mirror,

One last look.

Again,

The shining eyes,

Again the happy smile that's yet not her own.

Excellent,

Excellent,

The mirror smiles at her.

She hurries down the hallway to her aunt's room,

The cool silky fluttering of the dress makes the quick movement a pleasure.

She feels borne along,

Carried by the wind.

She was a child the last time she flew like this.

This is the beginning of the delirium of transformation.

It fits you very well,

Like a glove,

Says her aunt.

It doesn't take a lot of tricks when you're young.

The dressmaker doesn't have problems unless the dress has to hide rather than reveal.

But seriously,

It's a perfect fit,

You're hardly the same person.

It's clear now what a good figure you have,

But you've got to hold your head up too.

Don't be mad at me for saying it,

But you're always so unsure of yourself,

So hunched over when you walk,

You cringe like a cat in the rain.

You've still got to learn how to walk the way Americans do,

Free and easy,

Chest out like a ship in the wind.

Lord,

I wish I were as young as you are.

Christine blushes,

So she's not really betraying anything.

She's not ridiculous,

Not provincial.

Meanwhile,

Her aunt has continued the inspection,

Looking her over appreciatively from head to toe.

Perfect,

But your neck needs something.

She rummages in her chest.

Here,

Put these pearls on.

No,

Silly,

Don't worry,

Get hold of yourself.

They're not real.

The real ones are in a safe back home.

Honestly,

We wouldn't bring them to Europe for your pickpockets to take.

The pearls feel cool and strange as they roll on her bare skin,

Making her shiver a little.

Then her aunt is back for a last once over.

Perfect,

It all looks fine.

It would make a man happy to buy you clothes,

But let's go.

We can't let Anthony wait any longer.

Will he be surprised?

They go together.

Negotiating the stairs in the revealing new dress is strange.

Christine feels as light as if she was naked.

She's floating,

Not walking,

And the steps seem to glide up toward her.

On the second landing,

They pass a gentleman in a smoking jacket,

An older man with a razor sharp part in his smooth white hair.

He greets Christine's aunt respectfully,

Pauses to let the two of them go by,

And in that moment,

Christine senses a special attention,

A masculine look of admiration,

And something close to awe.

She feels herself blushing.

Never in her life has a man of means,

A real gentleman,

Acknowledged her presence with such respectful distance and yet such knowing appreciation.

General Elkins,

I'm sure you know the name from the war,

President of the London Geographical Society,

Her aunt announces,

He made great discoveries in Tibet in between his years of service.

A famous man,

I'll have to introduce you,

The cream of the cream,

He mixes with royalty.

Her blood roars happily in her ears.

A genteel,

Travelled man like that,

And he didn't spot her right away as a gatecrasher or a pretender and turn up his nose.

No,

He bowed as though she were an aristocrat too,

An equal,

And then reinforcement from her uncle who gives a start as she approaches the table.

Oh,

This is a surprise.

Look what's happened to you.

You look damn good.

Sorry,

You look splendid.

Again,

Christine feels herself blushing with pleasure and a delicious shiver runs down her spine.

I guess you're trying to make a compliment,

She tries to joke.

Am I ever,

He says with a laugh,

Puffing himself up unconsciously.

The creased dickie suddenly tauntons.

The avuncular stolidity is gone and there's an interested,

Almost greedy light in the small red rimmed eyes nestled in flesh.

The unexpected pleasure of this lovely girl's presence puts him in an unusually merry and eloquent mood.

He delivers himself of so many thoughtful,

Expert opinions on her appearance,

Getting perhaps a little too analytical and personal,

That Christine's aunt good-naturedly reins in his enthusiasm,

Telling him not to let her turn his head.

Younger men know how to do it better and more tactfully too.

Meanwhile,

The waiters have approached and are standing respectfully by the table,

Like ministrants beside the altar,

Awaiting a nod.

Strange,

Christine thinks.

How could I have been so afraid of them at lunch?

These polite,

Discreet,

Wonderfully noiseless men who seem to want nothing but to be inconspicuous.

She boldly helps herself.

Her fear is gone now and she's starting to be ravenous after her long journey.

The light truffle pâtés,

The roast meats artfully arranged on beds of vegetables,

The delicate frothy desserts brought to her plate by silver serving knives,

As if anticipating her wishes,

All seem fantastically delicious.

Nothing requires any effort,

Any thought,

And in fact she's no longer even surprised.

It's all wonderful and the most wonderful thing of all is that she's allowed to be here,

Here in this bright,

Crowded,

Yet hushed room,

Full of exquisitely adorned and probably very important people who,

But no,

Don't think about that,

Stop thinking about that,

As long as you're allowed to be here.

But the best thing is the wine.

It must be made of golden grapes,

Ripened in the southern sun.

It must come from some happy faraway land.

It gives off a transparent amber glow and goes down unctuously like sweet chilled cream.

At first Christine takes shy,

Reverent sips,

But then,

Tempted by the constant kindnesses of her uncle,

Who's enjoying her obvious pleasure,

She allows him to refill her glass repeatedly.

Unconsciously she's becoming talkative.

Effervescent laughter is suddenly pouring from her throat like uncorked champagne.

She herself is amazed at the carefree bubbly swirl of it between her words.

It's as though a wall of anxiety has burst.

And why would anyone be anxious here?

They're all so nice,

Her aunt,

Her uncle,

These refined grand people around her everywhere are so fancy and good-looking.

The world is beautiful.

Life itself is beautiful.

Sitting across from her,

Broad,

Comfortable and complacent,

Her uncle is thoroughly enjoying her southern high spirits.

Ah,

He's thinking to be young again and have a vivacious glowing girl like that.

He feels exhilarated,

Stimulated,

Lively,

Almost reckless.

Normally he's phlegmatic and on the grumpy side,

But now he's dredging up droleries,

Even suggestive ones,

Unconsciously trying to stoke the fire that's doing his old bones so much good.

He's purring like a tomcat,

Feeling hot in his dinner jacket,

And there's a suspiciously high colour on his cheeks.

He looks like Jordan's bean king,

Flushed with drink and good cheer.

He toasts her repeatedly and is about to order champagne when his amused warden,

Christine's aunt,

Lays a warning hand on his arm and reminds him of the doctor's orders.

Meanwhile,

A rhythmic rumble of dance music has started up in the adjoining lounge.

Christine's uncle sets down the butt of his Brazilian cigar in the ashtray and twinkles at her.

So,

I can see it in your eyes,

You'd like to dance,

Wouldn't you?

Only with you,

Uncle,

She says,

Gaily laying it on thick.

My God,

I've gotten a little tipsy,

Haven't I?

She's close to laughing.

There's such a funny tickling in her throat.

She can't keep the happy trill out of her voice.

Don't kid me,

Growls her uncle.

These strapping boys here,

Three of them put together,

Wouldn't be as old as I am,

And they all dance seven times better than a gouty grey rhinoceros like me.

But it's on your head,

If you're brave enough,

By all means.

He offers his arm in the Baida Mea manner.

She takes it and chatters and laughs and doubles over and laughs.

Her aunt looks on with amusement.

The music roars,

The room glitters,

Full of bright colours.

Other guests watch with friendly curiosity.

Waiters move a table back.

Everything's friendly,

Happy and welcoming.

It doesn't take much courage to push off into the colourful swirl.

Uncle Anthony is not,

In fact,

A brilliant dancer.

The porch he's put on heaves with every step.

He leads clumsily and uncertainly,

But the diabolical music drives everything along.

Strongly syncopated,

Lurid,

Lively and spirited,

And yet rhythmically precise,

With a pleasantly slashing ride,

Cymbal,

A soothing fiddle,

And a jarring,

Kneading,

Pummeling beat,

Hard and propulsive.

The musicians are tawny Argentinians in brown jackets with gold buttons,

And they play like fiends.

In fact,

They look like fiends,

Like liveried and festooned demons,

And every one of them seemingly out of his head.

The thin saxophonist,

With glittering spectacles,

Gurgles and squeals drunkenly on his instrument.

The fat,

Curly-haired pianist next to him,

Even more frantic,

Seems to be hitting keys at random with a practice zeal,

While his neighbour,

The drummer,

Pounds furiously,

Mouth open.

All of them are jumping up and down as though electrified or bitten by something,

Fiercely laying about them with their instruments like maniacs.

But this demonic noise factory is actually as precise as a sewing machine.

Christine realises this.

All the extravagant behaviour,

The grinning,

The fluffed notes,

The gesticulations,

The showy fingering,

The shouts and jokes,

As the musicians urge one another on,

It's all been practised down to the last detail.

In front of the mirror and the music stand,

The entire frenzy is totally put on.

The leggy,

Narrow-waisted,

Pale,

Powdered women seem to know it too,

For they're not visibly distracted or excited by this simulated fervour,

Which is repeated every evening.

With their fixed,

Lipsticked smiles,

Their rouged,

Fluttering hands,

They lean slackly on their partner's arms,

Their cool,

Far-off gazes,

Seeming to indicate that they're thinking of something else,

Or,

Most likely,

Of nothing.

She's the only one who has to hide her excitement and lower her eyes,

Her blood stirred by this wickedly thrilling,

Brashly gripping music,

With its pose of passion.

And when it abruptly stops,

She takes a deep breath,

As though out of danger.

Her uncle is breathing hard too,

Wheezing heavily and with dignity.

At last,

He can mop his forehead and catch his breath.

He leads Christine back to the table in triumph,

And,

A nice surprise,

Her aunt has ordered sorbets for both of them.

Just now,

Christine was feeling in the mood for something cool,

Even if she hadn't quite realised it,

And here's a frosty silver dish,

Without her having to ask.

What a fantastic world,

Where unspoken wishes are granted.

How could anyone be anything but happy here?

All the world's sweetness might be in this one thin straw of scalding ice.

Heart thumping,

Fingers trembling avidly,

She looks about for someone or something to receive her overflowing gratitude.

There's her uncle,

That fine old fellow,

In the deep chair next to her,

Looking a little done in,

Still puffing and gasping,

And wiping the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief.

He tried hard to please her,

Maybe too hard.

Of course,

She appreciates it,

And she gently strokes the heavy lined hand resting on the back of his chair.

This gesture of a shy young creature,

So recently come to life,

Makes the old man brighten.

He takes a fatherly pleasure in the look of gratitude in her eyes.

But isn't it unfair to thank him alone,

And not her aunt too?

It was her aunt who brought her here,

Took her under her wing,

Dressed her in style,

And gave her a measure of blessed protection in this rich intoxicating atmosphere.

So she reaches for her aunt's hand too,

And sits between the two of them,

Her eyes shining in the light-filled room like a child under the Christmas tree.

The music starts up again on a darker note,

More romantic and quieter,

Black and silky,

A tango.

Her uncle makes a helpless face and excuses himself,

His 67-year-old legs are not up to this slinky dance.

No uncle,

I'm a thousand times happier to sit here with the two of you,

She says,

And really means it,

Continuing to hold their hands on both sides.

She feels good with these people,

Her blood relations completely protected by them.

But now a shadow looms,

A tall broad-shouldered man is bowing before her,

His clean-shaven,

Hawk-like face tanned like a climber's above the snowy expanse of his smoking jacket.

He clicks his heels in the Prussian manner,

And in a pure northern German,

Scrupulously asks her aunt's permission.

Of course,

Smiles her aunt,

Proud of her protégé's rapid success.

Christine gets to her feet awkwardly,

A little weak in the knees.

To be chosen by some unknown,

Elegant man from among all these beautiful,

Smart women,

It's a bit of a shock.

She takes a deep breath,

Then puts a trembling hand on the man's shoulder.

From the first step,

She feels herself being gently but authoritatively led by this impeccable dancer.

All she has to do is yield to the barely perceptible pressure,

And her body fits itself to his movements.

Once she submits to the insistent,

Coaxing rhythm,

Her feet magically know where to go.

Dancing was never so easy.

It's no effort to follow her partner's will.

It's as if she has a new body under the new dress,

Or has learned and practised the caressing movements in a forgotten dream.

A dreamy confidence has descended upon her.

Her head leans back as though pillowed,

Her eyes are half closed.

She's entirely detached,

No longer part of herself,

And to her own amazement,

She feels she's floating weightless through the room.

As she's being borne along,

She occasionally glances up at the hard-eyed face close to hers,

And thinks she sees a glimmer of a pleased and approving smile.

Then it seems to her she's grasping the leading hand with a more intimate pressure.

A small,

Tingly,

Almost voluptuous worry flickers within her.

How would she protect herself if hard,

Masculine hands like these grasped her more firmly?

If this strange man with a hard,

Arrogant face suddenly grabbed her and pulled her close,

Would she give in completely,

Submit the way she's doing now?

The sensuality of these half-conscious thoughts begins to spread throughout her increasingly relaxed and yielding limbs.

People in the crowd have begun to notice this perfect couple.

Again,

She has the strong,

Intoxicating feeling of being watched and admired.

Responding to the will of her partner,

She's increasingly sure of herself,

Moving and breathing with him,

And this new physical pleasure entering through her skin mounts within her.

She's never felt like this before.

When the dance is over,

The tall blonde man,

He's introduced himself as an engineer from Gladbach,

Politely escorts her back to her uncle's table.

The faint warmth of his touch vanishes,

And now she feels weaker and diminished,

As though the loss of contact has caused some of her new strength to ebb away.

As she sits down,

Still a little flustered,

She smiles weakly and happily at her amiable uncle,

Not noticing someone else at their table,

General Elkins.

He stands politely and bows.

He's come to ask her aunt to introduce him to this charming girl.

He's standing before her as though she were a fine lady,

His back straight,

His serious face bent forward respectfully.

Christine tries to collect herself.

My God,

What can I say to such a terribly distinguished and famous man,

Whose picture,

As she's learned from her aunt,

Has been in all the papers,

And who's even been in films?

But there's no getting around it.

General Elkins is asking her to forgive his poor German.

He did study at Heidelberg,

He says,

But that was more than 40 years ago.

Sad as it is to have to own up to a number like that,

And a magnificent dancer like her will have to show some forbearance if he ventures to ask her for the next dance.

He still has a piece of shrapnel in his left leg from Ypres,

But in the end one needs forbearance to get by in this world.

Christine is too embarrassed to reply,

But when she dances with him,

Slowly and carefully,

She's surprised to find that conversation comes easily.

Who am I anyway,

She thinks with a chill.

What's come over me?

How can I be doing this?

I was always so stiff and clumsy,

The dance teacher said so,

Yet now I'm leading him instead of the reverse.

And how easily I'm talking,

Perhaps even with some intelligence,

Because he is listening so graciously,

This eminent man.

Has this new dress,

This new world,

Made me so different?

Or was this inside me all along,

And I was just too faint-hearted,

Too timid?

That's what mother always said.

Maybe everything's not so hard,

Maybe life is so much easier than I thought.

You just need courage,

You need just to have a sense of yourself,

Then you'll discover your hidden resources.

When the dance is over,

General Elkins guides her back through the room at a leisurely pace.

She walks proudly on his arm,

Feeling her neck straighten as she looks ahead confidently,

Sensing that this makes her look younger and more beautiful.

She told General Elkins straight out that this was her first time here,

And that she didn't know the real Engadine.

But this revelation hasn't made him any less respectful.

Instead,

He seems pleased.

Won't she permit him to drive her to Maloja tomorrow morning?

Of course,

She says,

Awed and happy,

And presses the distinguished old man's hand with a kind of comradely gratitude.

Where is she getting the nerve?

In this room,

So unfriendly even that morning,

She feels increasingly at home and sure of herself,

Now that all these people are practically fighting each other off to please her,

Now that she sees how a little contact can create an easy sociability,

While down in her own narrow world,

People envy each other the butter on their bread and the rings on their fingers.

She gives her uncle and aunt an enraptured report of the General's gracious invitation,

But she's not allowed much time for conversation.

The German engineer crosses the room for the next dance.

Through him,

She meets a French doctor,

Also an American friend of her uncle's,

And a parade of other people whose names she's too excited and happy to catch.

In the last 10 years,

She hasn't met as many gracious,

Polite,

Elegant people as she has in these two hours.

She's being asked to dance,

Offered cigarettes and liqueurs,

Invited on drives and a climbing expedition.

Everyone seems curious to meet her,

And everyone treats her with the respect that apparently comes naturally to all of them.

You're a sensation,

Child,

Her aunt whispers,

Pleased by the stir her charge is creating.

Her uncle stifles a tired yawn.

He denies the obvious,

Out of vanity,

But gives in finally.

Yes,

Perhaps that's the best thing.

We'll all have a good rest,

Not too much at once.

Tomorrow's another day,

And we'll make a good job of it.

Christine takes a last look at the enchanting room,

Luminous with candelabras and electric lights,

Pulsating with music and dancing.

She feels she's stepped out of a bath,

Renewed and refreshed,

Every nerve quivering.

She takes the old man's arm and impulsively bends to kiss his hand in gratitude.

And then she's alone in her room,

Stunned,

Confused,

Overwhelmed by her own self,

By the sudden silence all around.

Her skin burns under the loose dress.

She's tense with excitement.

Now the room seems confining.

She pushes the balcony door open.

Snow showers onto her bare shoulders.

She goes out onto the balcony,

Where,

Shivering happily and breathing easily now,

She looks out,

Full to bursting,

Over the empty landscape,

Her small heart beating under the great dome of night.

There's silence here too,

But a bigger,

More elemental silence than the one inside,

A soothing silence instead of an oppressive one.

The mountains that were glittering earlier are now in their own shadow,

Crouched like massive black cats with glinting snowy eyes.

The air is thin under the almost full moon,

Like an irregular yellow pearl amid a spray of brilliant stars,

Its one cool light faintly illuminating the misty contours of the valley.

An inhuman landscape,

Divinely silent,

Gently overwhelming,

Unlike anything she knows,

But her excitement seems to flow out into the bottomless calm,

As she gradually loses herself in the silence.

Suddenly,

A bronze mass of sound rolls through the frozen air.

It's the church bell down in the valley,

Echoing off rock faces to left and right.

Christine gives a start,

As though she were the bell being struck.

She listens to the bronze notes rumbling into the sea of mist.

With bated breath she counts,

Nine,

Ten,

Eleven,

Twelve.

Midnight,

Is it possible?

Only midnight,

Only twelve hours since she arrived,

Shy,

Inhibited and panicky,

With a dried up,

Paltry little soul,

Really just one day,

Half a day.

In this instant,

Shaken to her very depths,

This ecstatic human being has a first inkling that the soul is made of stuff so mysteriously elastic that a single event can make it big enough to contain the infinite.