THE FIRST AND SECOND.
had loved the first and no longer loved her. He had begun to love the Second and First still loving me. This is a shocking story. Who would think that would end as mysteriously? Myself to blame, I can not yet explain the sudden development of very simple issue.
not remember, however, how I started to love the First. Perhaps because he had two black eyes larger than natural, that bowed cowed before mine? Or because I wrote, without knowing, to send his humble and shy greeting in the midst of a battle? It was neither tall nor graceful nor beautiful, but was full of humility and ardor. I saw her, I told the panicked and ended up loving it. She loved me before and maybe he loved before he met me. I had a noisy little soul, one of those souls who are consumed with fever without ever discovered. I felt great admiration for me an even greater love and devotion even larger.
I, too, for some time, I thought he loved her. The discovery of hidden life that tempt me. The feeling My power over it excited me. One word from me made her happy or sad, or ecstatic insomniac. Expected of me orders to his life: his reading, their occupations were suggested by me.
was looking to be a part of myself, my family thing and nothing else. A stroll along the avenues of cypresses sinister, by the lonely valleys or along the banks of the river a little foggy, a kiss, hurried into the darkness of the evening, a letter brief and peremptory were sufficient for their happiness. Every day I received a letter from him, two or even three, full of passion eloquent, in which each one of my ways, each of my gestures were remembered, described and discussed with lyrical frenzy. Alone in the big city, away from his mother and his mountain, his whole life was focused on this love. I was to her the universe, while it was not for me more than a curiosity.
But their love was so great that the mine could not last. I feel so much contempt for myself that I can adapt to represent the part of the idol. That passionate worship, which at all times felt about me, irritated me. Knowing that each of my actions was spied on, remembered, exalted in every detail, that my every word was heard, recorded, repeated, discussed and still was, to another being, a "show" but glory be, I put down. I want to be for me to live for me, do not want anyone to come into my life, even dressed as a slave.
After just one year, I started to slow down the visits, walks and cards, and since, this did not diminish his passion, but that did nothing but grow, eventually wrote him a letter simple, short and sharp to say he no longer loved her, who loved her and never ceases to annoy me with their cards. He believed that the sudden desperation, the respect he felt towards me and dignity would impose silence. But it was the opposite. I did not want to resign themselves to silence. Accepted, although this was bleeding heart, that I no longer love her, but would not prohibit him that she continue to love me.
continued to receive letters and burning longer than before. Each time, every phrase, every word, were evoked by it with scrupulous accuracy and pathetic. Every day he repeated that he loved me still, I loved every day, that had never loved anyone more than me, I had always loved, that it could get any less to love. I resorted to the harshest environments and villains to stop this daily postal invasion: no answer at all for months, or wrote letters brief cool, ironic, offensive, reaching out to return their cards without having opened.
But all this tired and dropped his love. I also wrote every day without waiting for an answer, if I got one of my letters was wicked happy to send me back, in an unsealed envelope, letters rejected. Often received flowers that she had come to take for me to the field. Once I got the picture of my house that she had done in secret. Unable to come see me waiting for me in the streets where I used to spend, frequenting places where I was accustomed to go and immediately after the meeting, received very long letters that I wrote his fatal intoxication seen me from afar.
was impossible to contain the stubborn love. So I had to decide to bear no signs of life. For some time my concerns about a possible change in my life, some long trips wandering through Italy, I stayed away from women. But one day, I found the second - a woman who already knew, but not discovered until that day -. The second was the woman on her purity animal, the healthy female, single, gay, tall, voluptuous, quick to laughter, to the defense and caress. I love the things that are what they should be: the dogs who bite me, the countryside without grooves, bread made of flour and women without literature. Since that day I loved the second with all the energy of a body (why insist so much on the heart?) 25.
But the Second, precisely because women are instinctively hostile to those who live with hope and words, projects and smoke cigarettes, did not feel anything for me, was laughing with me as with the other and that was enough to exhaust young rich and shine her beautiful eyes serene. All primitive arts of the seducer were useless mediocrity: languid looks, convoluted flattery, letters, lyrics, walking with and without a moon, burning handshakes, attempts to quick kiss. All these things and handling were welcomed with a hearty laugh beautiful flight to compensate more calm indifference of his flesh and his heart.
Despite this, he could not give up hope of one day see her moaning with her head on my chest. While the other, the First continued its futile chasing love, I continued to torment with my love Two necessary. One day, somehow, writing the Second, I copied only changing the male female, a passage from a letter he had written the first bit. This writes a lot and this is repeated a lot, but I must admit that it possessed a virtuoso in the style that I have not defaulted owned never, wanted to learn. Burning with passion, with all my heart set on your love, pictures, and the pleading was born spontaneously, copious, and at the same time are highly original. That morning, having before me the letter of the First, while I was writing the second, suddenly gave me the idea of \u200b\u200busing torture to save me everyday fatigue to invent new paragraphs.
My surprise was great when, the next day to meet again with the second, I realized that my letter had done more than any other impression. Instead of laughing the whole time, as usual, was more embarrassed, she wanted discuss the sincerity of one of the phrases he had stolen the card from the other, and when we parted, I felt his hand pressed mine with less crowded than other times. The first sign of victory not let me sleep all night, smiling at the absurd idea of \u200b\u200ba magic communicating, I came of purpose to continue what had started by chance, that is, the letters serve the First to write the Second.
deep and wide In a drawer kept a hundred letters from the First, all drew on two or three of them drew a small anthology of passion that later, thanks to some additions, was a beautiful long letter loving. The system was successful. Why not expand? I, therefore, in giving the second some of the books I had given the First and the effects were even more rapid and visible. Second I do not now receiving its usual smile, but secretly hoped by the window at the time of arrival. Speaking inadvertently took one of my hands, shaking and nervously stroked.
His eyes, especially when I went to leave, became almost languid. With the words still rejected my love, but his whole person began to confess his own.
First
One day I sent a large envelope full of wild violets. Before is that the limp got into another envelope and then take them to the Second, saying that this was a "Letter of Spring."
Another day I found in one case a gold ring decorated with a small red stone that was taken by force on the first day of my most ardent love for her. I give this ring to the Second, was a kind of treason, but I could not resist. Although the Second had not yet confessed that he loved me, the demonstrations were, however, so many that could risk to make that perfect present. And sent it the next day, I saw the second with the first ring on his finger, touched smiling a little sad. After remaining silent for a while, after I asked again and again if you really loved her, having returned to remain silent, approached me, pressed against my body, and his face flushed and his voice distinct from usual told me he loved me, you could not help loving.
From that day began my true happiness. Long hours spent in silence, burned - long hours of laughter and confidences, long walks in which they took quick pink petals and kisses in the shadow of the walls - everything you know and feel the love, we met together for months and months. First went
sending endless letters, and I did not confess anything to the second, I memorized their new phrases to repeat to the new lover.
and continuous long this unique private plagiarism, the transmission of words and things between two unknown women and lovers through one man, forgetful and full of desire. It was as if it were a hidden transmission obtained by means unknown unknown. Had noted from the outset that in the days when the first had searched me and I had long looked with her big brown eyes, full of sorrow and passion, the second showing love love me with rage, while when there was no letter one of the first, the other appeared more quiet and withdrawn. I was aware of this and other facts, but in the abandonment of new and fresh looking for love or want to explain, and not thinking about the consequences that neither could have for me this spiritual transmission.
I did not see the sense of the incredible relationship that had developed between us three, was loved by the second because the first still loved me. What would have happened if the first had stopped loving me?
did not want to think about it, although this could happen and it happened.
How could the First discovered my love for the Second? I could not know never straight, maybe a friend, perhaps a premonition, perhaps a secret report. He had used every precaution favorite of my soul, naturally reserved, to hide my last love. Second went to the streets and fields where he was sure of not finding anyone, and people who I only know by sight - went to his home, hidden, at nightfall, when he knew he was the first home .
But he knew - and he told me in a letter from 20 to 30 pages, in which love, the feeling, the despair, the appeal, the despair and anger were a confusing mix sentimental -. The letter ended as follows:
"I understand that my martyrdom is nearing completion, I understand that my crazy love will die. Will you be happy in order? "
love Before the Second, these words I would have taken a heart weight, but now, after what had happened, I was afraid.
All day I felt terrible and I could not do anything. It was dark just went home and started the Second madly kissing her on the face and hands, without even giving time to close the door. It was cold, grim, boring. The open, I said quietly thousand sweet words, I asked him what he had, he'd done, why was pensive and moody, but in vain, I was unable to get it out of its doldrums.
Perhaps, I thought, this is a sadness that does not reveal because he is ashamed.
I could not calm down, or that night or the next day. It was a few days. First I do not write, did not allow himself to see, and I followed, but the second was increasingly sad, but it would be more boring than ever, and I could not, not with words, nor by gifts, nor touch , her back to joyful love of another time. One morning, another letter, this time of the Second. Why write? What did you want from me? How did she wrote me that I had never sent a letter?
By tearing the envelope, shaking like a leaf. Had reason to tremble: I read through tears that the Second, my gracious and cheerful Second did not love me, although I did not know why, and no longer wanted to love me more, but my pain was causing him pain.
Those who have received similar letters include the anguish I felt at that time. I did not know what to do or what to think ..., sometimes I was furious with a beast chained, in other down like a man who melts into nothingness. I thought about what I might try, possible and impossible to revive the love in the second, and finally saw one thing, but extravagant painful, could restore the joy back to the First, obtain his pardon.
the same day, after I calmed down a bit, I wrote to the first order that found the next day on a street that he knew very well because he wanted to speak, and wrote to the second I could not believe his words, but had no courage to see it again immediately.
next day, the First trembling, waiting for me. How could feign love for her, which no longer loved her, to her that I was bored for so long, and pretend to deceive, for the benefit of the two that had suffered so much? However, was necessary to recite the scene of the passion back, which softens repentance, remorse that gnaws. It was necessary to deceive an unfortunate villain, soiling my soul with a nasty bend to get back the love of my precious second. I have suffered so much talking about love to a woman, as on that day. I did what I believe. I denied it all, I promised everything.
To get me back to love of the absent endeavored to get me back to love this. The scene was long and pathetic, interspersed with tears and kisses. When was evening I had won. I saw the big black eyes shows the love that only a few days had been, not killed, but coated by jealousy and contempt
After this exhausting sacrifice I had no courage to return to the Second. The next day restarted the long, persistent and frequent letters from the First. To make sure I did my best victory once again accompany her to places where we had loved in the distant spring mornings. We went to a hidden path, lined with cypress trees, and picked up some branches for her broom. I was happy, happy, crazy, no one dared speak for fear that disappeared from her side as the ghost of sleep.
A few hours later I received a letter from the Second. Few lines.
Come back, my soul. I love you, I love you more, love you forever. The other day I was crazy. Again, I hope ... do not make me suffer.
The same afternoon I ran to his house I found as before, full of laughter, grace, sensuality. But the ecstasy of conquest should be short, the target was not happy. Blinded by my joy, hastened the end of everything. Second I wanted to take the field, as the First, and enjoy your beautiful face among the trees, grass and solitude. Do not understand why we went to a party where we had not ever been. She wanted to change the road and pointed with his hand a hill covered with yellow gorse. "I want to go there - I said -: I like both the broom! I want to take a bunch home. "
Could obey stop? And yet, at that moment I felt something inside me and I felt that my legs were shaking. Behind the hill that was the way of my love affair with the First, the path with cypresses which had sat so many times, hand in hand and mouth in the mouth. Left. To descend we approach the path, the path could not see without fear again, thinking about the last scene of pretense with each other. But the second was so happy! Ran ahead of me, screaming, her face flushed, eyes shining, hands full of yellow branches. I ran after her, she reached the squeezed between my arms, kissed her mouth, she licked her lips moist and warm. Walking distance
heard footsteps ... and a cry.
The other, the First, coming towards us down the path and had recognized me. I saw a moment his face pale and his eyes are crazy. I left the second and I got up. The first approaches: perhaps he had come to believe in me, to dream again in the place where he had been so happy. When he stood before a hoarse voice shouted:
- Basta!
and passed, and suddenly heard the seizure of a sob. Then it disappeared. I looked at the Second. Also was pale, his face turned upside down. Threw down the broom and said,
- Goodbye!
and walked away, like the other, sobbing. And since that day either love me again, the two I have forgotten and have found another love. I stayed alone and did not love anyone, not even memories. I wrote this to get rid of them.
De Giovanni Papini (Florence , January 9 of 1881 - id. July 8 of 1956 ). It was a controversial writer Italian. Initially I was skeptical, later became a fervent Catholic. His book The Devil was the subject of much discussion and controversy. European critics considered his best work is Gog, a collection of philosophical stories, written in a brilliant and satirical style. Among his religious works are The History of Christ, Letters to Pope Celestine VI, and Final Judgement.
