March 1, 1925 (Paris)
Yesterday afternoon we caught the bois in one of its most unusual aspects. Just as we passed the gate, leaden clouds gathered over our heads and poured rain and hail on the startled promenaders. Mothers, children, nurses, lovers, old men and women, students and dogs, all suddenly disappeared. Automobiles rushed homeward and carriage drivers opened their umbrellas. Hugh [Guiler, her husband] and I did the same.
“I’m Scottish,” said Hugh. “I love to walk in the rain.”
“So do I.”
“Well then, let’s go.”
Suddenly the rain and hail stopped short, and gray-and-purple mist fell all around us and over the surface of the lake. We rented a boat, and Hugh rowed us to a little island, where we walked up a gravel hill to a chalet and sat on the porch before a white-top table and ordered chocolate and cakes. Behind us were a pair of lovers discreetly kissing. Before us stretched brilliant wet grass and mist-enveloped trees, from which came the cooing and twittering of birds. Beyond, the hill descended into the lake, and we would have thought ourselves miles away from Paris. We dreamed togther on that quiet and soft afternoon, sipping chocolate and nibbling cakes and turning now and then to look at our little white boat rocking on its chain. When Hugh rowed us homeward, the rain started again. The leaded sky turned the lake’s water black, and on this deep, black, undulating surface, swans languidly floated.
Anais Nin (I&AT)