Wherever I went, then, I was the youngest, since boys under nineteen
don't mix on equal terms with men; and I knew that whoever I met envied
me three things: my youth, my hopes, and my light-heartedness. And now,
wherever I go, I meet young fellows who look at me and speak to me with
the deference shown to an elder brother; and, as I talk to them, I am
conscious of making an effort to appear as cheery as they, and even
find myself wondering what stuff they are made of.
The other day, looking at a friend's child, a little girl of six, I
said to him, half laughing, "Who knows?"
"Isn't there rather too much disparity of age?" he answered.
I was silent, half-startled; then, counting up the years on my fingers,
I murmured sadly, "Yes."
At nineteen I could say of any little maid I met, that one day she
might become my wife; the rising generation belonged to me; but now
there is a part of humanity for which I am already too old!
And the future--once an undefined bright background, on which fancy
sketched all that was fairest and most desirable, without one warning
from the voice of reason: now, clearly outlined and distinctly colored,
it takes such precise shape that I can almost guess what it is to be,
can see my path traced out for me, and the goal to which it leads. And
so, marvels and glories, farewell!
And mankind? Well--I never was mistrustful, nor inclined to see the bad
rather than the good in human nature; indeed, I have a friend who is so
exasperated by my persistent optimism that, when I enlarge upon my
affection for my kind, he invariably answers, "Wait till your turn
comes!"
And yet, how much is gone already of the naif abandonment of those
boyish friendships, of that candid and ready admiration that, like a
well-adjusted spring, leapt forth at a touch, even when I heard a
stranger praised! Two or three disillusionments have sufficed to weaken
that spring. Already I begin to question my own enthusiasm, and a
rising doubt silences the warm, frank words of affection that once
leapt involuntarily to my lips. I read with dry eyes many a book that I
used to cry over; when I read poetry my voice trembles less often than
it did; my laugh is no longer the sonorous irresistible peal that once
echoed through every corner of the house. When I look in the glass--is
it fancy or reality?--I perceive in my face something that was not
there six years ago, an indescribable look about the eyes, the brow,
the mouth, that is imperceptible to others, but that I see and am
troubled by. And I remember Leopardi's words, AT TWENTY-FIVE THE FLOWER
OF YOUTH BEGINS TO FADE. What? Am I beginning to fade? Am I on the
downward slope? Have I travelled so far already? Why, thousands younger
than I have graduated since my day from the college of Modena; I feel
them pressing upon me, treading me down, urging me forward. The thought
terrifies me. Stop a moment--let me draw breath; why must one devour
life at this rate? I mean to take my stand here, motionless, firm as a
rock; back with you! But the ground is sloping and slippery, my feet
slide, there is nothing to catch hold of. Comrades, friends of my
youth, come, let us hold fast to each other; let us clasp each other
tight; don't let them overthrow us; let us stand fast! Ah, curse it, I
feel the earth slipping away under me!