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The book fell open by itself at Lorenzo di Medici’s carnival
song, where a folded piece of paper lay in Gunnar’s
handwriting:
“Dear Mother, — I may tell you now that I have arrived
safely in Italy and am quite comfortable, and that” — the rest
of the sheet was covered with words to learn. Beside the
verbs he had written down the conjugations, and the margin all
along the melodramatic poetry was tightly covered with notes:
Quant’s bella giovenezza, che se fugge tuttavia.
Even the commonest words were written down. Gunnar had
probably tried to read the book directly he came to Italy,
before he knew the language at all. On the first page was
written “G. Heggen, Firenze, 1903” — that was before she
knew him.
She began to read here and there. It was Leopardi’s “Ode
to Italy,” which Gunnar was so enthusiastic about. She read
it. The margin was full of notes and ink-spots.
It was as if he had sent her a message more intimate than
any of his letters. Young, sound, firm, and active, he was
calling her, asking her to come back to life — and work. Oh,
if she could gather courage and begin work again! She
wanted to try — to make her choice whether for life or death;
she wanted to go out there where once she had felt herself free
and strong — alone save for her work. She longed for her
friends, the trusty comrades who never came too near to hurt
one another, but lived side by side, each minding their own
business and all sharing what they possessed in common: the
belief in their ability and the joy of their work. She wanted
to see again the country of mountains, with proud, severe lines
and sunburnished colours.
A few days later she left for Berlin, where she stayed some
time visiting the galleries, but, feeling tired and forlorn, she
went on to Munich.
In the Alte Pinakothek she stopped before Rembrandt’s
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