A Certain Village

Once in late summer, the road already deep in twilight, mixing colors with some straggly wildflowers, I came to a village I did not know was there until I stepped into its narrow street. Admiring the prim, white houses nestled among their veteran, lofty trees, I found myself in a tiny square with a little dawdl- ing fountain and a rickety tower, its owlish clock absentmindedly counting minutes now and then. And in the fountain the face of morning seemed to linger as though searching. The air was fresh, breathing out the fragrances of a recent shower. I luxuriated in my senses, like meeting unexpectedly a pack of friends years and years unthought of, laden with all kinds of gifts. Then as I stopped to knock at the door of a house that had seemed occupied with happy noises, a silence fell on it, the light went out— and was it instant eyes like flakes, ten thousand, thousand flakes, and all unknowing, flurried round me? Wherever I turned I was met by the unmistakable accusation, “Stranger!” I, who had, I thought, begun here and who now required lodgings for the night, was denied and from the start.