In a garden of spacious grounds, ever since the year 1880, there had stood the statue of a beautiful nymph... She remained in her place from that time on — not because she loved gardens; had they given her the choice she would have preferred a more important post, some square or a great street where she could have watched the shop-fronts and the automobiles and the people in their comings and goings..
Few were those who came her way in the garden, and even they never noticed her existence.. She was no famous hero of history nor a precious work of art, and so she drew no one's attention. The gardeners were kept from her by the cleaning of the garden paths, the watchmen had their own thoughts and musings, and the lovers were taken with lounging on the grass or writing their names on the trunks of the trees.
The sparrows would come to rest on her bare shoulders... and the ants would hide and wander among the folds of her stone gown.. But for years past no human being had stood before her in admiration or in mockery... Once it was said of her that she was forward, even immodest, and perhaps that was the reason for her banishment to that quiet, secluded corner of the garden.
She had grown weary of the sight
of the grass and the trees before her, and wished she could see what lay beyond them, even were it only more grass and trees. She was tired of her long standing and would have liked to be allowed to sit down from time to time.. if only she could strike a dramatic pose like the goddess "Diana."
She was bored with the doves of the wood, bored with the monotony of their murmuring, and would have preferred any other noise... She was oppressed by her thick cold days and her long dark nights, and it seemed to her that her oppression would stay with her forever..
Then spring came, and with it came that young man.
He was poor, wearing a threadbare coat patched with pieces of leather at the elbows... his face pale as marble, deep shadows leaving their traces beneath his brows and on the bones of his cheeks. He was sad and lonely and of the kind that keeps to itself.. so thought the girl — the "statue" — and grieved for his sake.. He must have possessed a very small store of money and of friends, to think of spending his evenings in the garden..
He would stand with his hands in the pockets of his jacket and stare at the trees, or at her — though she could not be certain whether he truly saw her or not.. Sometimes he stared in silence, and at other times he would chant verses!
His poems were modern in their fashioning, in the opinion of the "statue," who had been born in the days of the poet "Tennyson"; but the young man was taken with them and recited them with a moving warmth.. Sometimes he would address the statue, or address himself, on various subjects.. on art, for instance, or the cost of living, or the weather..
The "statue" surrendered to this new situation and awaited his visits with longing and eagerness.. She wondered who he might be, where he lived, and what he ate. She cared about everything that concerned him.. noticing his shoes after he had them mended, and his face when he neglected his shaving.. She listened to his talk with all her heart and understood, without his knowing anything of it.. and the more she contemplated him and watched him and listened to him, the greater grew her love for him.
The young man's visit to the garden never lasted beyond an hour, and yet the statue's waiting for it filled her whole day; she would repeat to herself the words of the evening before, and so, day by day, her waiting for him bred in her a restlessness she had never felt before.
One day, when the children's kites of colored paper were flying above the garden... and the green leaves of the trees, faintly steeped in yellow, were rustling in agitation... and the sun kept appearing and disappearing behind the clouds.. the statue stood troubled on her gray stone pedestal.. yearning more than ever to move, to speak, to breathe the breezes of spring... The young man too was agitated, pacing back and forth before her, his hands clasped behind his back... talking to himself with a stammer, as though his mind were charged with thoughts and he lacked
the courage to give voice to them...
The "statue" wished she could help him, but beyond her listening and her steadfast standing there was nothing she could do.. and even then she was not sure he had noticed her existence.. so surprise shook her when he turned to her and