Illusion 1915

1928. The story begins: The French house I sought was seen, as I turned a corner, remote in a diminishing avenue of noble trees. Below the hush of midsummer was the vibration of many wings. The bees were in the limes. I could smell the nectar of that tree; it is full summer when the limes are flowering and the bees get drunk. I found that a pleasant confirmation of the season, for to me that summer was hardly authentic. The house was set deeply in a long perspective of foliage, as though I stood in the June of one year and saw distantly the pale ghost of the old chateau in a silent June of the past. I wanted to reach that house, but it looked as though I could get not nearer to it than the murmuring summer in which I stood. I could only look back to where it was secluded in the silence of a forgotten year. See other titles by this author available from Kessinger Publishing.