1

Rose's profile stands out in relief against the dark velvet¹ of the box. Her soft, fair hair parts into two waves that are like two streams of honey following the curve of her cheek. Her long neck is very white in the black gown that frames it; and her gloved hands rest near the fan that lies opened on her knees like a swan's wing. She is sitting straight up, with her eyes fixed² in front of her. Her attitude is as dignified³ and cold as a circlet of brilliants on a beautiful forehead.

I am alone, at the back of the box. I prefer to listen like that, in the shadow, unseen. Is not the attention of a woman who is anything of a coquette, that slight, fitful attention, always affected⁴ a little by the thought, however unconscious, of the effect which she is producing?
2

I am struck by the general attitude of reverence⁵. In the great silence through which the music swells⁶, the lives of all those present seem penetrated⁷ with harmony.

I look at them as at so many open temples, which their thoughts have deserted⁸ in order to join one another in an invisible communion. There is a kind of homage⁹ in the bent¹⁰ heads and lowered eyes of the men. The women are silent. The fans cease fluttering. The souls of the audience are uplifted like the silent instruments of a human symphony that mysteriously rises and rises till it mingles¹¹ with the other and is absorbed in it. If some part of us exists beyond words and forms, if our thought sometimes floats in regions of pure

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