Part 5 (1/2)

And once more given to inaction, Empty in spirit and alone, He settled down a to the distraction Of making other minds his own; Collecting books, he stacked a shelfful, Read, read, not even one was helpful: Here, there was dullness, there pretence; This one lacked conscience, that one sense; All were by different shackles fettered; And, past times having lost their hold, The new still raved about the old.

Like women, books he now deserted, And mourning taffeta he drew Across the bookshelf's dusty crew.

45.

Disburdened of the world's opinions, Like him, disdaining vanity, At that time we became companions.

I liked his personality, The dreams to which he was addicted, The oddness not to be depicted, The sharp, chilled mind and gloomy bent That rivalled my embitterment.

We both had known the play of pa.s.sions, By life we both had been oppressed; In each the heart had lost its zest; Each waited for the machinations Of men, and blind Fortuna's gaze, Blighting the morning of our days.

46.

He who has lived and thought can never Help in his soul despising men, He who has felt will be forever Haunted by days he can't regain.

For him there are no more enchantments, Him does the serpent of remembrance, Him does repentance always gnaw.

All this will frequently afford A great delight to conversations.

Initially, I was confused By Eugene's speech, but I grew used To his abrasive disputations, His humour halfway mixed with bile And epigrams in sombre style.

47.

How often did the summer court us, When skies at night are limpid, bright57 And when the cheerful, gla.s.s-like waters Do not reflect Diana's light; Recalling former years' romances, Recalling love that time enhances, With tenderness, with not a care, Alive, at liberty once more, We drank, in mute intoxication, The breath of the indulgent night!

Just as a sleepy convict might Be carried from incarceration Into a greenwood, so were we Borne to our youth by reverie.

48.

Leaning upon a ledge of granite, His soul full of regrets and woes, Eugene stood pensively (the Poet58 Himself appears in such a pose).

All round was silent, save a sentry Hailing another, or the entry, With sudden clip-clop from afar, Of droshkies in Millionaya.59 Upon the sleeping river, gliding, Sailed one lone boat with waving oars, Bold song and horn from distant sh.o.r.es Charmed us... but what is more delighting Than on a merry night to hear Toquato's octaves drawing near!

49.

O Adriatic waves, o Brenta!60 Nay, I shall see you and rejoice, With inspiration new I'll enter And hearken to your magic voice!

To grandsons of Apollo sacred, I know it well, to me it's kindred From Albion's proud poetry.61 The nights of golden Italy I'll spend with a Venetian daughter, Now talkative, now mute; with her In a mysterious gondola Voluptuously through the water My lips will study how to move In Petrarch's62 tongue, the tongue of love.

50.

My hour of freedom, is it coming?

I call to it: it's time, it's time!

Above the sea, forever roaming,63 I beckon every sail and clime.

Mantled by storms, with waves contending, Upon the sea's free crossway wending, When shall I start my freedom's flight?