Szindbád, bon voyage! Page #3

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I had time to think about it.

Here is this small notebook.

Here I write everything

that I don't want to forget.

Let me see,

here is July 21, 1900:

"Two hours in a carriage

with drawn curtains

with the lawyer's wife. "

This pleasure drive was repeated

every week, from July to October.

I had a sad childhood.

Unclad shepherds,

and goddesses on the lids of snuff boxes

were my companions.

And swans,

violinists in breeches and wigs,

mail coaches worked in enamel.

Later, my father brought an old man

who read La Fontaine to me.

I don't remember his name,

but when he looked up from the book,

a pair of unforgettable,

wonderful eyes looked at me.

My first unhappiness led me back here

to the old house.

It was autumn.

Our old Frenchman was still alive.

He watched me unawares

from a corner.

When I'm in trouble

I always come here.

In the hope

the old man is still alive.

You were desperately

in love with Fanny.

How I pitied you!

She was a dear,

faithful mistress.

There were dreams in her eyes,

and enchantment in her voice.

"My sweet one... " she would say,

and fondled me

with her soft palm.

Oh dear, oh dear!

Aged thirty. Two false teeth.

But her hair is genuine.

And this one?

Why do you want

to complicate my life?

You make me miserable.

We spent a drowsy afternoon

in a church in Buda,

then we wandered among the graves

in the old cemetery,

where leaning against the rusty railings

she defended her virtue,

her peace of mind.

While I was standing in front of her

with my head bent down

and thought of

the goldsmith's wife.

No, I'm not like the other women!

I'll die if you desert me!

I swear, I'll die!

I haven't even noticed,

your hair is turning grey.

Your voice sounds like a cello.

I like that very much.

This wasn't the beginning

of my downfall.

Here we are.

God be with you, Sindbad!

God be with you, Florentine!

I hope, we'll meet

tomorrow again!

If chance wants us,

we'll meet.

Good-bye!

I won't come tomorrow.

There's no point carrying on.

I never get acquainted with women

who'd want it.

That's why I've stayed young.

I'm completely

disillusioned with you.

My sweetheart,

no reproaches, please!

You've put your

dark glasses on again.

Life is a chain of beautiful lies.

There's no emotion

more moving than love.

In our age, when noble feelings,

like piety, loyalty, friendship...

...and patriotism are disappearing

from our lives,

only love can conjure up

bygone illusions.

We need the tenderness of women

more than at any other time.

For every woman,

even the commonest one

is akin to the Moon,

the world to come, and superstition.

Only women can improve men,

who've become debased

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