Sadness and despondency returned. His hand sought in his pocket for the
little volume of Leopardi which he had taken out with him. On that king
of pessimists, that prince of all despairs, he had just spent half an
hour among the olives. Could renunciation of life and contempt of the
human destiny go further?
Well, Leopardi's case was not his. It was true, what he had said to
Chide. With all drawbacks, he had enjoyed his life, had found it
abundantly worth living.
And, after all, was not Leopardi himself a witness to the life he
rejected, to the Nature he denounced. Ferrier recalled his cry to his
brother: "Love me, Carlo, for God's sake! I need love, love,
love!--fire, enthusiasm, life."
"_Fire, enthusiasm, life_." Does the human lot contain these things, or
no? If it does, have the gods mocked us, after all?
Pondering these great words, Ferrier strolled homeward, while the
outpouring of the evening splendor died from Perusia Augusta, and the
mountains sank deeper into the gold and purple of the twilight.
As for love, he had missed it long ago. But existence was still rich,
still full of savor, so long as a man's will held his grip on men and
circumstance.
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