They hated the magnificent old villa, which is said to be within, with
its marble stair-cases and its tapestries of coarse weave; and the
ancient trees with their proud large crowns, pines and laurels, ashes,
cypresses, and oaks. During all the period of their growth they were
hated with the hatred which restless hearts feel for that which is
commonplace, trivial, uneventful, for that which stands still and
therefore seems hostile.
But from the balcony one could at least range outside with one's eyes,
and that is why they stood there, one generation after the other, and
all stared into the distance, each one with pro and each one with his
con. Arms adorned with golden bracelets have lain on the edge of the
iron railing and many a silk-covered knee has pressed against the
black arabesques, the while colored ribbons waved from all its points
as signals of love and rendezvous. Heavy, pregnant housewives have
also stood here and sent impossible messages out into the distance.
Large, opulent, deserted women, pale as hatred . . . could one but
kill with a thought or open hell with a wish! . . . Women and men! It
is always women and men, even these emaciated white virgin souls which
press against the black latticework like a flock of lost doves and cry
out, "Take us!" to imagined, noble birds of prey.
One might imagine a _proverbe_ here.
The scenery would be very suitable for a _proverbe_.
The wall there, just as it is; only the road would have to be wider
and expand into a circular space.
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