The morning dawned sullen, dragging lazy, gray wings on the earth and
taking flight only at the furious onslaught of the wind.

To comb my hair I seated myself close to the window with my face to the
mirror on the wall.

Outside, the downpour and incessant sharp rattle, the blue-lacquered
roofs, the wan drift of the clouds. In front of me, an image which had
my name.

The more eager a woman is to please, the less she sees _herself_ in the
mirror. What she sees is the idea others have of her, a sort of
consciousness of her power, the irrepressible desire to attract.

When I sat down before the glass just now, I must have seen _myself_;
suddenly I felt afraid.

I had raised the tumble of ringlets from my forehead and saw a gleam--my
first white hair. Then I scanned my face closely, pitilessly. At the
outer corners of my eyes a place was preparing for a fine meshwork which
would close up when I laughed.

A mad need fell upon me--to see myself again and again. Around each
corner of my mouth an invisible line had chosen its pathway; the
perfect oval of my face slipped slightly from its frame; under the chin
there was an imperceptible mass which would never yield to any amount of
massage.

I wanted to run away, I wanted to look, I wanted.... I tell you my heart
was leaping from between my ribs, so that you could have taken it in
your hand.

How many years are there left?... Ten years?... Eight years?... Perhaps
only six in which to continue to be the very same woman I am.

A day will come immersed in the other days, similar to the other days,
when this woman will be dead while I shall live.

I try to question space. I turn in every direction. The storm has
increased. The rain is coming down in sheets and rebounding in mist. The
polished pavements are cracked by quivering little ripples. The tempest
drives the people ahead like leaves.

Whence this dread which blows like a typhoon from the future, breathing
on my youth and freezing my blood? Whence these two words which gnaw at
my breast like a canker? Six years....

No, no, it is impossible. I believe in the deluge, in the thunder, in
misfortune, in oblivion. Not in that. Why should this face of mine with
its curves, its marble purity and its color change? Why? I have always
had a fair amount of courage, I have always done what I had to do, but
this renunciation, this hideous acquiescence. I haven't got the courage
for that, no, I haven't.

I am prepared to