And, during this
long period, he had not seen Paris again. When he left it he intended
to return very soon and very often. But, as usually happens, life
morosely opposed this pleasant plan. He was bound by the fetters of
duty, and only imagination could allow itself to wander into the
alluring blue distance.
Whoever makes his first visit to Rome throws a piece of money into the
Fontana Trevi to be sure that he will see the eternal city again. We
need not bind ourselves to Paris by such little superstitious
practices. Its mysterious spell obtains the pledge without any
intervention, and lures and draws the absent one so that he cannot rest
until he returns. But why attribute this spell to Paris alone? Every
place where we have been young, dreamed, loved, and suffered, possesses
it. We feel the affection for it which the ploughman has for the field
to which he entrusted his seed. We have the desire to see whether we
shall still find traces of our wanderings, and are joyously surprised
when we discover that wherever we sowed our youth, the best part of
ourselves, invisible to others, but tangible to us, a rich harvest of
memories has sprung up.
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