SHE GREW up in a town lying between pretty hills, where she went gaily to school in order to acquire knowledge and where it turned out she possessed a talent for counting correctly and writing legibly. Because of her industriousness, the teacher praised her and, at the same time, felt induced to severely admonish her for a certain willful wittiness she seemed to have been born with. Her companions coddled her, and perhaps that’s why she adopted a somewhat smug smile she relished as if it were a kind of sweet she had bought at the pastry shop and smacked up. Gradually turning into a beauty, an imperceptible event in that it happened naturally, her situation allowed her to meet other young people, among whom one lad distinguished himself by obtaining her permission to effect an adolescent kiss. With a daintily embroidered handkerchief in her hand, she wiped away the kiss, as if it was something worthy of disposal. Demonstrations of tenderness she found amusing. Her wish to accomplish something, to become somebody, left a deeper impression than being loved. The latter she figured she could appreciate later. Meanwhile, on a terrace, she helped secure the laundry on a line. The days passed her by like brightly costumed cavaliers, or ones less beautifully dressed; the nights she compared to an old, cackling crone. She was given the opportunity to learn the household thoroughly, which in no way disinterested her. The kitchen held unmistakable significance. To clean up a room or set a table was an occupation that afforded the body a pleasant amount of movement, which appeared to make her want to sing. To her, to serve was something enchanting. There was something regal in punctually, happily fulfilling commands. For a long time she had believed she was allowed the observation that nature had made to her a beautiful gift of her hands. She adored them, like one adores poets whose words delight and fortify. On her head a little hat sat that looked as if it were twittering, and she felt as though she had been destined to be borne by something dancing. She herself she thought too stately to flirt and dance. One day in church she heard a woman singing joyfully and timidly, bravely and beseechingly. Being beautiful is still a profession, she told herself, and after thinking about it for a while, devoted herself to riding. At first others found her riding droll, then elegant, even impressive, and under her, the horse, clopping with his legs the sand-strewn ground, was admired, just as she was, she who relayed to it, with an unparalleled gentleness, commands as to how it was to behave: The eyes of the one leading resembled those of the one obeying. Each complemented the other, made a commonality. Being their own respective masters, each was there for the other.
(1930)