page_66 74 - vigji/cainjb GitHub Wiki

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It was neither the sheerest hell nor uttermost heaven thus to affront the dead; it was rather, surely, joys crown of sorrow, or sorrows crown of joy. Could it be thought morbid of me, I wondered, to sentimentalise a little as I sat and faced the old school colours frozen there before me?

Green and white and rose, grit, wisdom and reliability, the find old Head, as we called him, had quipped it. And now it was such an ephemeral combination.

I dont call that very terrible, she was saying, and I wished I could see whether she were smiling or not as she said it. Such remarks were irritant as well as stimulant. What didnt she call terrible? What indeed, with her Renaissance pose, did she, would she, call terrible? But I might lose all if I speculated.

I attacked the viridescence in front of me, and fed my brain on cleaner things.

I remembered the place of my initiation into so much that was glowing and splendid; I remembered the clanging fives courts, and the solemn old Hall, hung round with photographs of young and laughing athletes, lads who had profited and gone on, and ringing with those words of the Head, as we called him, that one by one the touch of life has turned to truth.

But again I was distracted. Will anyone know about them? that husky miracle of a voice was asking, and I thought, not for the first time, that it would have caresses for all, a golden impartiality.

To love her would be a liberal, no, a communist education. The red rose and the white only remained, and these were melting and blurring before my eyes; my wretched eyes that could not tell me the truth, for instance, about that Goya reproduction.

A hanging man? A countess? There is no danger of that, the old man said, I bought them secretly in Leningrad from a little humpbacked fellow, a double-faced Quasimodo of the Ogpu.

This was difficult enough to reconcile with his Manchester speech on sane mediocrity. From the secret police? The words rang like tense half-crowns dropped upon marble. Goodness gracious! But it so seldom is, came the wise old reply.

Original page: page_66.pdf page_74.pdf

Original text:

It was neither the sheerest hell nor uttermost 
heaven thus to affront the dead ; it was rather, 
surely, joys crown of sorrow, or sorrows crown 
of joy. Could it be thought morbid of me, I 
wondered, to sentimentalise a little as I sat and 
faced the old school colours frozen there before 
me? Green and white and rose, grit, wisdom 
and reliability, the find old Head, as we called 
him, had quipped it. And now it was such an 
ephemeral combination. I dont call that very 
terrible, she was saying, and I wished I could 
see whether she were smiling or not as she said 
it. Such remarks were irritant as well as 
stimulant. What didnt she call terrible? What 
indeed, with her Renaissance pose, did she, 
would she, call terrible? But I might lose all if I 
speculated. I attacked the viridescence in front 
of me, and fed my brain on cleaner things. I 
remembered the place of my initiation into so 
much that was glowing and splendid ; I 
remembered the clanging fives courts, and the 
solemn old Hall, hung round with 
photographs of young and laughing athletes, 
lads who had profited and gone on, and ringing 
with those words of the Head, as we called him, 
that one by one the touch of life has turned to 
truth. But again I was distracted. Will anyone 
know about them? that husky miracle of a 
voice was asking, and I thought, not for the 
first time, that it would have caresses for all, a 
golden impartiality. To love her would be a 
liberal, no, a communist education. The red 
rose and the white only remained, and these 
were melting and blurring before my eyes ; my 
wretched eyes that could not tell me the truth, 
for instance, about that Goya reproduction. A 
hanging man? A countess? There is no danger 
of that, the old man said, I bought them 
secretly in Leningrad from a little humpbacked 
fellow, a double-faced Quasimodo of the 
Ogpu. This was difficult enough to reconcile 
with his Manchester speech on sane mediocrity. 
From the secret police? The words rang like 
tense half-crowns dropped upon marble. 
Goodness gracious! But it so seldom is, 
came the wise old reply. 

Italian text:

Quindi affrontare il finale non fu né un inferno bello e buono, né il paradiso estremo; o meglio fu il coronamento di gioia del dolore, o la corona di dolore della gioia. Mi chiesi se non fosse morboso da parte mia indugiare nel sentimentalismo mentre sedevo con quei colori vecchio stile congelati davanti a me. Verde e bianco e rosa, verità e baldanza e resistenza, il caro vecchio Head, come lo chiamavamo, aveva creato quella battuta. E adesso era una combinazione effimera. «Non lo definirei così terribile» stava dicendo lei, e avrei tanto voluto vedere se sorrideva mentre parlava. Quelle osservazioni erano irritanti, ma anche stimolanti. Che cosa non definiva terribile? Anzi, che cosa avrebbe definito terribile, con quel suo portamento rinascimentale? Se indugiassi a fare ipotesi potrei perdere tutto. Attaccai quel verdognolo che avevo di fronte e nutrii il mio cervello di cose più pulite. Rammentai il luogo della mia iniziazione al punto che lo vidi eccellente e splendido; rammentai i chiassosi campi da pallamuro, la solenne vecchia Sala, con appese tutto intorno fotografie di atleti giovani e sorridenti, ragazzi che avevano studiato con profitto ed erano andati avanti, nelle orecchie quelle parole di Head, come lo chiamavamo, che il tocco della vita ha trasformato a una a una in verità. Ma mi distrassi ancora una volta. «Qualcuno saprà di loro?» stava chiedendo quella voce miracolosamente roca e pensai, non per la prima volta, che avrebbe avuto carezze per tutti, una dorata imparzialità. Amare lei sarebbe stato un'educazione liberale, no, comunista. Restavano soltanto la rosa rossa e quella bianca, che si scioglievano e confondevano davanti ai miei occhi; i miei occhi sciagurati che, per esempio, non mi potevano dire la verità su quella riproduzione di Goya. Un impiccato? Una contessa? «Non c'è pericolo» disse il vecchio. «Li ho acquistati in segreto a Leningrado da un piccolo gobbo, un Quasimodo ipocrita dell'OGPU.» Era difficile conciliare tutto questo con il suo discorso di Manchester sulla sana medio-crità. «Della polizia segreta?» Le parole risuonarono come mezze corone che tintinnano sul marmo. «Buon Dio!» «Ma lo è di rado» fu la saggia, vecchia risposta.