While composing Andrea studied himself curiously. It was long since he
had made verses. Had this interval of idleness been harmful to his
technical capacities? It seemed to him that the lines, rising one by one
out of the depths of his brain, had a new grace. The consonance came of
itself, and ideas were born of the rhymes. Then suddenly some obstacle
would intercept the flow, a line would rebel and the whole verse would
be displaced like a shaken puzzle; the syllables would struggle against
the constraint of the measure; a musical and luminous word which had
taken his fancy had to be excluded by the severity of the rhythm, do
what he would to retain it, and the verse was like a medal which has
turned out imperfect through the inexperience of the caster, who has not
calculated the proper quantity of metal necessary for filling the mould.
With ingenious patience he poured the metal back into the crucible and
began all over again. Finally the verse came out full and clear, and the
whole sonnet lived and breathed like a free and perfect creature.
Thus he composed--now slow, now fast--with a delight never felt before.
As the day grew, the sea cast luminous darts between the trees as
between the columns of a jasper portico. Here Alma Tadema would have
depicted a Sappho with hyacinthine locks, seated at the foot of the
marble Hermes, singing to a seven-stringed lyre and surrounded by a
chorus of maidens with locks of flame, all pallid and intent, drinking
in the pure harmony of the verses.
Pages:
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148