Chapter II · 9

The Prince of Wales goes hunting through forests and across hills, with his grand retinue and his hounds of the finest breed.

Hushing the clamor of the vassals, halting leashes and steeds, with restless gaze he contemplates the two tigers at the cave’s entrance. He levels his rifle, and advances, undaunted.

The beasts fondle each other. They have not heard the hunters’ trampling herd. Those terrible beings, drunken with love, with chains of blossoms might have been yoked to the snowy shell of Cythera or to Cupid’s chariot.

The bold prince steps forward, draws near, now halts; now takes aim and closes one eye; now fires; now the crash of the weapon has resounded through the dense wood. The male tiger flees, and the female remains, her belly torn asunder. Oh, she is dying!... But first, faint, stiffening, bleeding profusely from the open wound, with piteous eye she looked upon that hunter, uttered a moan like a woman’s cry of grief... and fell dead.

That male who fled, wild and untamed beneath the burning rays of the sun, in his lair later slept. Then he dreamed a dream: that he sank claws and teeth into rosy bellies and breasts of women; and that he swallowed for delicate dainties of dinners and feasts, like a greedy tiger among the greedy, a good few dozen tender, blond, and savory babes.

AUTUMNAL

Eros, Vita, Lumen.

In the pale afternoons tranquil clouds wander in the azure; upon burning hands rest pensive heads. Ah, the sighs! Ah, the sweet dreams! Ah, the intimate sorrows! Ah, the dust of gold that floats in the air, behind whose trembling waves are seen the tender, dewy eyes, the mouths overflowing with smiles, the curly tresses, and the rosy fingers that fondle!

In the pale afternoons a friendly fairy recounts to me the secret stories full of poetry; what the birds sing, what the breezes carry, what wanders in the mists, what maidens dream.

Once I felt the yearning of an infinite thirst. I said to the loving fairy: “I wish in my soul to possess deep, profound, immense inspiration: light, warmth, scent, life.” She said to me: “Come!” in the tone wherewith a harp would speak to me. In it lay a divine language of hope. Oh thirst for the ideal!

Upon the summit of a mountain at midnight she showed me the blazing stars. It was a garden of gold with petals of flickering flame. I exclaimed: “More...”

Dawn came thereafter. Dawn smiled, with light upon her brow, like the timid maiden who opens the casement, and is then surprised by certain curious, magical eyes. And I said: “More...” Smiling, the celestial friendly fairy exclaimed: “Well then! The flowers!”

And the blossoms were fresh, lovely, steeped in perfume: the virgin rose, the white daisy, the gentle lily, and the morning-glories that dangle from the trembling bough. And I said: “More...”

The wind bore murmurs, echoes, laughter, mysterious whisperings, fluttering wings, melodies never heard. “The fairy then led me to the veil that hides from us our infinite yearnings, deep inspiration, and the soul of lyres. And she rent it. And there all was dawn.” In the depths was seen a fair woman’s face.

Oh, never, Pierides, shall you recount the holy delights that I felt in my soul! With her faint smile: “More?...” said the fairy. And I then had my pupils fastened upon the azure; and in my burning hands rested my pensive head...

WINTER

Night. This wandering wind bears its wings benumbed and frozen. The great Andes rears to the immense azure its white crest. The snow falls in flakes, crystallizing its transparent roses; in the city, delicate shoulders and throats wrap themselves warm; carriages roll and pass, cheerful pianos sound, the gas flares; and, if there be no hearth to warm him, the poor man shivers.

I sit with my radiant illusions and my intimate nostalgiæ, beside the hearth well sated with crackling brands. And I fall to musing: Oh! Were she here, she of my infinite yearnings, she of my wild dreams and my azure, pensive nights! How? Behold: From the tranquil chamber in the quiet expanse the lamp shed reflections of opaline light. Within, love that burns; without, the cold night; the beat of the rain upon the windowpanes, and the hawker shouting his monotonous and mournful chant to the icy breezes. Within, the round of my thousand ravings, songs of crystalline notes, hands that touch my hair, a breath that brushes my cheeks, a perfume of love, a thousand tremors, a thousand burning caresses; she and I: the two together, the two alone, the beloved and the lover, oh Poetry! the kisses of her lips, the triumphant music of my rhymes, and in the dark, nearby hearth the glowing log that bursts into sparks.

Oh! Blessed be the brazier filled with precious gems! Topazes and carbuncles, rubies and amethysts in the wide Etruscan bowl heaped with ashes. The warm beds, the soft pillows, the Astrakhan furs, the warm kisses bestowed by moist and tender mouths. Oh, ancient Winter, hail! since thou bringest with the frigid snows intoxicating love and the wine of pleasure in thy pouch.

Yes, she would be at my side, bestowing her smiles upon me— she who is wanting in my stanzas, she whom my brain envisions; she who, if I am in dreams, draws near and visits me; she who, wondrously fair, possesses an ideal flesh, large pupils, something of marble, white starlight; nervous, sensitive, she reveals the graceful, delicate neck of the ancient Hebes; fair gestures of a goddess, smooth arms of a nymph, lustrous hair coiled and gathered at the curled nape, and dark rings that betray profound longings and living passions. Ah, to see her in the flesh, to enjoy her caresses, to feel upon my lips the kisses of her love, I would give my life! Meanwhile it is cold. I contemplate the flickering flames, singing merrily with their golden tongues— shifting, capricious, and restless— in the dark and nearby hearth wherein the glowing log bursts into sparks.

Then I think of the chorus of cheerful lyres. In the carved goblet, dark wine— the boiling cup whose rims sparkle with trembling and shifting irises like a necklace of prisms; the dark wine that kindles the blood and gladdens the heart, making mad poets write golden sonnets and blazing silvas. Winter is a drunkard. When his breezes blow, the ancient casks pour forth the blood of the vineyards. Yes, I would paint his hoary head wreathed with a crown of vine leaves. Winter is a pander, for in the cold nights Paolo kisses Francesca upon her burning mouth, while his blood courses like fire and his heart throbs aflame. Oh, harsh Winter, hail! since thou bringest with the frigid snows intoxicating love and the wine of pleasure in thy pouch.