Odysseus and the Sirens. The mystical island of Es Vedra, or Where Odysseus listened to the Sirens

"Isle of the Sirens"

On Capri there is the “Azure Grotto”, on Capri Tiberius lived in antiquity, and in the last suit Krupp, famous for his cannons and some deeds, r of which he imitated Tiberius and which forced him in the end to resort to suicide ... That, it seems, is all what is common knowledge about Capri.

Some people also know that this marvelous island was once under the rule of the barbarians, then the Greeks, the Normans ... Historians and archaeologists remembered it relatively recently. They violated its centuries-old silence, peace, began excavations and the great plunder of its ancient values. These valuables turned out to be lying in the land of Capri almost at every step: the peasants, in whose vineyards they were found every now and then, gave everything to anyone, for pennies, allowed to take out whole barks ... Then - it was only a hundred years ago - some German poet accidentally discovered in rocky cliffs north coast Capri grotto, so magically illuminated by the sun and the waves penetrating it, that Capri immediately became known to the whole world as “the truly promised land of all painters and lovers of Nature”, whose incessant and crowded pilgrimage to “ divine island” has never stopped since then, despite the complete wildness of the island in terms of even the slightest conveniences of life on it and the communication between it and Naples only by sailing boats; only a long time later the first hotel opened on Capri and connected it with Naples by steamship. This message was even up to our time extremely miserable, but from year to year brought to Capri a great number of travelers from all over the world ...

To imagine Capri, one must first of all imagine oneself in Naples, in the middle of the sea, a semicircle, the vast Gulf of Naples, with mountainous shores to the left, with towns whitening along their foot, and the bulk of Vesuvius. Right in front of Naples, in the bay, as if melting in the water blue, two high islands: Ischia and Capri.

Capri "rises from the bosom of the sea like a lying sphinx" or a sunken ship, as others say. Byron compared Capri to a wave driven by a storm. But, to put it simply, this is a giant rock sticking out of the sea, wild in appearance and in some places completely sheer, the ridge of which forms a deep saddle almost in the middle of its small town Capri, its olive orchards and vineyards. Above the terrible rapids of that Caprian coast that faces east, towards the mainland of Italy, towards Cape Minerva, traces of the palace of Tiberius are still preserved, and this cliff is called Monte Tiberio. A West Side The island is crowned by a rocky mountain (Monte Solaro), at half the height of which hangs another town, Anacapri. What is older - Capri or Anacapri - is unknown. Strabo says that both of these cities existed from time immemorial, so perhaps the very name of the island comes from the Phoenician word Kapriam, which means: two cities.

The southern slope of the Capri saddle is called Picola Marina, the northern slope is called Marina Grande. The steamboat, going from Naples to Capri for about two hours at a fairly rapid pace, sticks to the latter. As he approaches the island, the traveler is more and more amazed by the color of the water: this color is a kind of bright precious stone, some marvelous alloy of vitriol and indigo. Then you see a small bay, and on its shore a rocky fishing village, primitive, picturesque in its rough Italian antiquity. From this village you can climb to the saddle of the island in the town of Capri, in two ways: straight, along the steep slope of the funicular, or along the windings of the highway among the vineyards. The beginning of this path passes through the place where the city of Capri stood in antiquity, past the Byzantine church of St. Constanzo, which has existed for one and a half thousand years and is charming in its wretched simplicity, poverty, although it is decorated inside with antique porridge columns. And from the saddle, from the streets of Capri, you can admire two seas at once: on the one hand - the Gulf of Naples, Ischia, Naples, on the other - the open sea, going all the way to the coast of Africa.

When you swim up to Capri, they point to Monte Solaro - there, at the very top, the ruins of the Castle of Barbarossa are miraculously drawn in the sky (“ Eagle Nest Tunisian corsair, who once betrayed the entire Neapolitan region and Capri to fire and sword”), then to those places near the pier where he stood summer palace August. And in the guidebook you will also find something from the history of Capri: the Greeks called Capri the "Island of the Sirens" and established the worship of these cute and treacherous sea creatures on it; since the time of the Romans, it has received a different name - Caprea, that is, Goat Island; Augustus visited him, returning from the Sicilian campaign, and was so captivated by him that he bartered him from the Neapolitan Greeks for the island of Ischia. Looking at Monte Solaro and Anacapri, you also see the famous “Phoenician stairs” leading to Anacapri to the right of the pier: it’s almost a thousand stone steps carved almost vertically into the rocks (precisely, as if by the Phoenicians, who are considered the very first owners of the island). Now Anacapri can be climbed quite easily - along the windings of the highway. But the Anacaprians still prefer their stone staircase to her. This is generally very strange people: from ancient times they lived and live an unusually closed life, completely separate even from the life of the Caprians, almost not communicating with them, speaking their own dialect; among them there are still old men and women who have never been in the city of Capri.

Rising from the pier in a cab or funicular, you go out to a small square, where there is an old turret with a clock and the coat of arms of the Spanish dynasty. It stands on the very edge of the square, above a deep cliff, and from here opens one of the most glorious views in the world - the Gulf of Naples, Naples. Looking there and turning to face the town, you cross the square, enter a narrow street that ends in a rich hotel, once built by Krupp and presented by him to one of his servants, then you go left and exit onto Via Tragara, a road winding along the southern cliffs islands. Here you first pass by a small valley lying on your right, behind the hotel, and descending to the sea; in it, on the site of another palace of Augustus, winter, among shrubs and olive trees, rises the huge skeleton of a six-hundred-year-old Carthusian monastery that has long been empty, its ancient church covered with brown tiles, the walls of the cells, the courtyard overgrown with wild roses and weeds. Further, everything is still wilder and more beautiful: on the one hand, the brilliance of the sun and south sea, on the other - the southern desert of rocks and the impenetrability of shrubs, rising walls into the sky. Some boy who has become attached to you on this road, in a learned muttering, lists its sights: three rocky islands, standing near the coast, known to everyone from Becklin. The Arch of Naturale, the grotto of Mitra, where Tiberius allegedly offered human sacrifices, and many other grottoes, known for the wonderful difference in their colors: in one, everything seems golden yellow, in the other, a transparent green light shimmers, in the third, underwater plants illuminate the walls with something like a purple flame...

The Tiberian road, running from the town of Capri parallel to this one, only not along the cliffs of the mountains, but along the peaks, leads to the most famous place of the island, to the residence of Tiberius. Here you keep climbing, walking along a steep plateau, among farms, villas and vineyards. Gardens, flowers, cypresses, pine trees… In some places there are steps carved in the rocky soil under Augustus, in some places there are worn-out ruts of a stone road along which “slaves once carried Tiberius on a stretcher”… The ruins of his dwelling are huge. The island here breaks off completely vertically above the sea, the deepest abyss. On the cliff itself are the remains of a lighthouse, which in ancient times was considered one of the largest and brightest in the world and illuminated the extremely dangerous path for sailors, because this sea is a rather narrow strait between Capri and the mainland. Closer are the ruins. Height, desert, sun, sky, the sound of the solar wind in wild grasses and ruins. The ruins are a maze of rooms and galleries. The vaults and walls of the first floor and the dungeons under it survived. The center of the palace was the peristyle, surrounded by a colonnade and Caesar's private chambers - some of this has also been preserved ... What was his atrium under Tiberius? Marble ceiling, in the square recesses of which there are bronze rosettes, the edges of the vaults are bordered with bronze. The walls are covered with polished cinnabar and decorated with reliefs of alabaster, representing the Winged Victories in light, flowing tunics, with palm branches in their hands, as well as other drawings: in circles, on a blue field - tragic and comic masks, human passions and delusions, to stone trophies are leaning against pilasters of ivory and old gold - huge bones of antediluvian animals and weapons of ancient, fabulous heroes. Among the trophies, on bronze stands, are precious Corinthian vases, which Augustus collected all his life with great love and taste. Entry thresholds - from white marble and gleaming Egyptian granite, over the veils of these entrances of coarse linen. And now, throwing them back, the incoming one saw after the bright sun a light shadow of the atrium, this marble ceiling, polished cinnabar of the walls, trophies, jambs, vases, a patterned mosaic floor, in the depths - a statue of Augustus, deified by the attributes of Jupiter, in front of it is a semicircular altar of a simple Etruscan style of snow-white marble, a table for offerings covered with a white veil embroidered at the edges with a pattern of leaves, a bronze tripod for the sacred fire ... In these walls, where the careful steps of slaves and courtiers once rustled, Lydian flutes sounded and the laughter of beautiful concubines rang now hides from rains and storms, the cattle of the Capri peasants ...

Suetonius says that in his youth Tiberius was handsome, had an aquiline nose and large eyes that could seem to see even in the dark, tall and strong build, broad shoulders and chest, proportionate parts of the whole body, such strength that he could click to pierce the crown of an adult; only he was unfriendly and pleasant in his youth: he walked with his head bowed to one side, sullenly and silently, and when he spoke, he slowly and difficultly arranged words, helping his speech with a movement of his right hand; and this description of Suetonius corresponds well with the statue of the young Tiberius in the Vatican Museum: he sat firmly and straight, with a scepter in his hand; the bridge of the nose is thin, sharp, which makes the eye sockets seem deep and give the face the expression of a hawk ... In the palace on Capri sat a man who already looked very little like this.

He left Rome forever in the twenty-sixth year of A.D., in order to live the last eleven years of his life almost entirely in Capri, in full accordance with the predictions of astrologers. The whole island was at that time a solid garden, covered with holm oak, the favorite tree of Augustus; from the ledges of the mountains everywhere descended to the sea terraces carved into the rocks; aqueducts were laid on the arches and delivered rainwater to the nymphs, decorated with marble and bronze statues; the climate of the island, its balsamic air, was famous for its health, which the centuries-old Capri elders have proven and still prove in practice; the abundance of all kinds of birds, fish, oysters, lobsters was fabulous; Capri wines were excellent... Tiberius chose Capri both for honorable reasons and because the island reminded him of Greece most of all in a different way: Capri was impregnable, it was difficult to land on it, and it was impossible to bypass the guards, refuge, I always saw not only everything that was happening on the island, but also all the ships passing by the island in all directions ... “He was very old at that time, but in solitude, in freedom for his great debauchery and villainy, and in impregnability He needed the most reliable, like no one on earth ... "He was terrible at that time:" His face was covered with ulcers, it was covered with plasters; the eyes sunk deep; lips, chin become heavy; the neck swelled as if from some unknown poison; the breath became noxious; sight and hearing weakened; speech now gave him extreme, slow, stubborn labor ... and only greed became the only joy of his life ... "

Before his death, he went to Rome. On the way he stopped at Tusculum - he was frightened: his favorite snake, which he always carried with. itself, was eaten by ants. From Tusculum I turned back to Capri. But then a storm and illness delayed him. He stopped at the Pisenne Cape. And at the evening meal he suddenly lost consciousness. He was surrounded by Macron, Caligulla, Drusilla and the physician Charicles. Drusilla removed the sign of his divine power from the insensitive Caesar - a precious gem, the ring of Dioscorides - and handed it to Caligulla. Caesar woke up, asked in a tongue-tied voice: “Where is the ring?” Caligulla was shaking with fear. Macron threw a blanket over Caesar's face and quickly strangled him.

<1932>

Pan Mikholsky's vest

It was in Kyiv in the forties of the last century and was told to many Kievans by Pan Mikholsky himself, and it was retold to us by the writer Yasinsky.

Pan Mikholsky decided to marry. He was then still very young, but already quite reasonable, gravitated towards the company of respectable and secular people, he chose a pretty bride for himself and with a dowry, he made all the preparations for the wedding in detail, decently. And since one of the foundations of a decent life lies in decent equipment, then Pan Mikholsky decided to come before the wedding from his remote district to Kiev in order to sew pantaloons, frock coats, tailcoats and waistcoats for himself. latest fashion. So he did - he arrived and equipped himself to glory, using the advice of a certain count who knew and patronized the young provincial. Before leaving Kyiv, back to his hometown, once Pan Mikholsky came to the count with the intention of spending a pleasant evening and found him in great care about the most thorough toilet. Pan Mikholsky was embarrassed and began to apologize:

Oh, forgive me, dear Count! You seem to be in training somewhere...

Yes, - said the count, - I'm going to Yuzefovich in Lipki. He invited me to visit and, moreover, to a very important person.

What is this person? asked Pan Mikholsky.

Someone Gogol, a writer.

Ah, I know, I've read his stuff.

And I, - said the count, - only heard that he writes, but I didn’t have a chance to read him. Well, does he write well?

Yes, not bad, - answered Pan Mikholsky, - only it is painfully ordinary: no, you know, flight, Byronism ...

Still, we must go,” said the count, sighing. Firstly, one cannot skimp on the invitation of such a person as Yuzefovich, and secondly, this Gogol himself: it turns out that he is in great favor with the sovereign.

Pan Mikholsky was wary:

Ai what are you? Well, you know, that makes a big difference. I myself would be but averse to look at such a noble person.

And if you don't mind, then take a look. Come with me to Lipki.

Please, how is that? Awkward...

Trivia! Yuzefovich is the most hospitable host. I will introduce you to him. Let's go!

And here is the count and Pan Mikholsky in Lipki. And there is already a whole assembly, a secret thrill, the expectation of a distinguished guest. The tea table on the balcony has been ready for a long time, the other guests are crowding, talking quietly, - more and more professors of Kiev University in brand new uniforms - the owner now and then runs out to see if Gogol is coming. But an hour passes, another - Gogol is still gone. Finally, the butler runs: he has arrived! The host rushes to meet them, the professors straighten their tails, line up, lower their hands at the seams ... And here it happens that which Pan Mikholsky later narrated so many times about in the following way:

As I remember now, this same Gogol walked in front of the owner who respectfully followed him, slowly and looking somewhat sideways, frowningly. He had a long nose, long straight hair. He was wearing a frock coat of dark garnet and a dark green waistcoat, along which flies and eyes were red, and yellow spots shone brightly. We all bowed low before him, but he suddenly stopped and, not answering his bows, began to look at one of my persons. The owner recommends:

Professor so-and-so... Professor so-and-so...

He starts nodding his head slightly, muttering:

Very pleasant ... sincerely glad in every sense ... Then the owner invites him to sit down at the table and eat. But he looks squeamishly at tea, at snacks, winces at the setting sun. The owner makes a hasty sign to some young man, he even more hastily rushes to the edge of the balcony and blocks Gogol from the sun. But Gogol does not pay any attention to this either, does not sit down at the table, but continues to look at me, more precisely, at my chest, which on that day was adorned with one of my new and best waistcoats: this waistcoat was also very smart, only it did not look like on the skin of a frog, like a guest from the capital, but on the skin of a chameleon.

It seems to me," he finally said, screwing up his eyes, "it seems to me that I've seen you somewhere before.

I want to answer that, it seems, I did not have such happiness, but the owner threatens me so angrily from behind his back with his finger; that my tongue sticks to my throat. And Gogol continues (and not without poison):

Yes, I saw you somewhere. I will not say that your physiognomy is vividly remembered to me, but nevertheless I saw you. I saw you in some tavern, you were eating onion soup there.

What was I to do? It was already insulting, but of course, I just bow and do not mind anything. Gogol again plunges into silence, looking thoughtfully at the stains of my waistcoat. Then he suddenly gives his host a hand, makes a general bow to everyone else, and heads for the door. The owner is amazed as much as possible, but, of course, he does not dare to hold him back. Gogol leaves, somehow awkwardly moving his legs in narrow gray trousers with wide slippers, and the owner, confused, runs after him, bowing to his back ...

Here, at the conclusion of his story, Pan Mikholsky always grinned slyly.

Tell me now,” he said, “how do you explain to yourself such strange behavior Gogol in Lipki? What was going on in his nature?

They answered him:

But who can know the nature of such a person? Maybe some wonderful idea flashed through his mind, a sharp figure arose in his imagination ...

But Pan Mikholsky shook his head:

No! Neither one nor the other. The casket opened simply: Gogol envied my vest! Yes, yes, honestly! If the count had not brought me to Lipki, Gogol would have eaten tea and talked with all the other guests. But it so happened that I, completely unwittingly, poisoned his life with my vest.

But listen: is it possible?

Yes, it turned out that it is quite possible, and the evidence for this is as follows. The next morning, a Jewish tailor comes running to me in the hotel, with whom I made this waistcoat, the last of its kind, for there was no more velvet of such a design in the city, and almost falls at my feet.

By the grace of God, give me, sir, your waistcoat! Give up for any amount of money! It's pure punishment that you won't get such a vest anywhere else in Kyiv! An important gentleman from the capital came and bought a waistcoat from Gross, and now he saw yours and shouts that you should definitely give him exactly the same as yours! I figure out what's wrong and answer:

What is the name of that gentleman?

The tailor shrugs.

Do I know? And why do you need his last name?

And I already clearly see: well, of course, this is Gogol! And I firmly answer:

No, I will not sell you vests for any money! Although he is Gogol, he does not have such a vest and never will! I, brother, put my vest above any of his "Dead Souls"!

Youth and old age

lovely summer days, calm Black Sea.

The ship is overloaded with people and luggage, - the deck is cluttered from stern to forecastle.

Swimming is long, circular - the Crimea, the Caucasus, the Anatolian coast, Constantinople ...

Hot sun, blue sky, lilac juice; endless stops in crowded ports with a deafening roar of winches, with abuse, with shouts of captain's assistants: mine! vira! - and again calm, order and a leisurely path along the mountain distances, sultryly melting in a sunny haze.

In first class, a cool breeze in the saloon, empty, clean, spacious. And the mud, the tightness in the horde of multi-tribal deck passengers near the hot car and the smelly kitchen, on steam under awnings and on anchor chains, on ropes on the forecastle. There is a thick stench everywhere, sometimes hot and pleasant, sometimes warm and disgusting, but equally exciting, special, steamy, mingling with the freshness of the sea. There are Russian men and women, crests and Khokhlushkas, Athos monks, Kurds, Georgians, Greeks... Kurds, quite a wild people, sleep from morning to evening, Georgians either sing or dance in pairs, bouncing lightly, with coquettish ease throwing back their wide sleeves and floating in the parting crowd, clapping their hands in harmony: tash-tash, tash-tash! Russian pilgrims to Palestine have endless tea drinking, a long man with sagging shoulders, with a narrow yellow beard and straight hair reads the Scriptures aloud, and some defiantly independent woman in a red sweater and a green gauze scarf on black dry clothes keeps sharp eyes on him. hair, sitting alone near the kitchen.

For a long time they stood on the roads in Trebizond. I went ashore and, when I returned, I saw that a whole new gang of ragged and armed Kurds was ascending the gangway - the retinue of an old man walking in front, a large and wide bone in a white kurpei and a gray Circassian coat, tightly belted at the thin waist with a belt with a silver set . The Kurds, who sailed with us and lay in the same deck bridge as a whole herd, all got up and cleared the free space. The retinue of the old man laid a lot of carpets there, laid pillows. The old man reclined regally on this bed. His beard was as white as boiling, his dry face was black from sunburn. And small brown eyes shone with an unusual brilliance.

I approached, squatted down, said "sell", asked in Russian:

From the Caucasus?

He also answered in a friendly manner in Russian:

Where are you sailing?

He answered modestly but proudly:

Istanbul, sir. To the padishah himself. I bring gratitude to the padishah himself, a gift: seven whips. The padishah took seven sons from me for the war, all of them, how many there were. And everyone was killed in the war. Seven times the padishah glorified me.

Tse, tse, tse! - with careless regret, standing over us with a cigarette in his hand, a young, plump, handsome and dandy, a Kerch Greek: a cherry-colored damask fez, a gray frock coat with a white waistcoat, gray fashionable trousers and patent leather shoes fastened with buttons on the side. - So old and one left! he said, shaking his head.

The old man looked at his fez.

What a fool, he replied simply. - Here you will be old, but I am not old and never will be. Do you know about the monkey?

The handsome man smiled incredulously.

What monkey?

Well, listen! God created heaven and earth, you know?

Well, I know.

Then God created man and said to man: you, man, will live thirty years in the world - you will live well, you will rejoice, you will think that God created and made everything in the world only for you alone. Are you satisfied with this? And the man thought: so good, but only thirty years of life! Oh, not enough! Do you hear? asked the old man with a grin.

I hear, - the handsome man answered.

Then God created the donkey and said to the donkey: you will carry waterskins and packs, people will ride on you and beat you on the head with a stick. Are you satisfied with this period? And the donkey sobbed, wept and said to God: why do I need so much? Give me, God, only fifteen years of life. - And add fifteen to me, - the man said to God, - please, add from his share! - And so God did, he agreed. And the man had forty-five years of life. Is it true that the man did well? - asked the old man, looking at the handsome man.

It turned out not bad, - he answered hesitantly, obviously not understanding what all this was for.

Then God created the dog and also gave it thirty years of life. You, God said to the dog, will always live angry, you will guard the master's wealth, you will not trust anyone else, you will lie at passers-by, you will not sleep at night from anxiety. And, you know, the dog even howled: oh, there will be half of such a life from me! And again the man began to ask God: add me this half! And again, God added to him. How old is the person now?

It's become sixty, - said the handsome man more cheerfully.

Well, and then God created a monkey, gave her thirty years of life too, and said that she would live without labor and without care, only she would be very bad-looking, - you know, bald, wrinkled, bare eyebrows climb on her forehead, - and that’s all She will try to be looked at, and everyone will laugh at her.

The handsome man asked:

So, she refused, asked for only half of her life?

And she refused, - said the old man, getting up and taking the mouthpiece of the hookah from the hands of a nearby Kurd.

He was silent and looked somewhere in front of him, as if he had forgotten about us. Then he began to speak, addressing no one:

A man lived his own thirty years like a man - he ate, drank, fought in the war, danced at weddings, loved young women and girls. And for fifteen years he worked as a donkey, amassing wealth. And fifteen dogs kept their wealth, kept lying and getting angry, did not sleep at night. And then he became so ugly, old, like that monkey. And everyone shook their heads and laughed at his old age. That's all this will happen to you, - the old man said mockingly to the handsome man, rolling the mouthpiece of the hookah in his teeth.

Why don't you have this? - asked the handsome man.

Not with me.

Why is this?

There are few like me,” the old man said firmly. - I was not a donkey, I was not a dog - why should I be a monkey? Why should I be old?

Returning to Rome

He died near Nicea, returning from Gaul to Rome.

It was expected that the new war would be long, difficult and, perhaps, fatal for him: fate was always merciful to him, but this was already the ninth campaign in his life, and an unkind sign was attributed to the number nine. Nevertheless, the war again turned out to be happy, even happier and shorter than all the previous ones: the enemy was struck by blows so well-aimed that, with all its faith in the star of its leader, the victorious army itself was amazed: and before that, one kind of him, with each his appearance before her shook her with delight; now, when, at farewell reviews in Gaul, the formidable splendor of the golden eagle slowly moved along the military ranks and this always quiet and sad man with a sallow, badly shaven face walked under its shadow, people turned deathly pale, felt as if on the edge of an abyss, and then burst into such passionate cries as if they were possessed by a demon.

After the end of the war, he made a trip to Spain for state purposes: extraordinary indefatigability was combined with his bodily weakness. And the trip was also quite prosperous and fruitful. late autumn, with a small detachment and a few close associates, he returned to Rome. were cool, bright days. Walked by the sea. As always, he was silent and impassive, his face gray and thin. Yet his health did not inspire fear in anyone during this peaceful journey along the blue bays and crimson coasts. But now, one passage to Nicea, he suddenly lost his voice, felt such a loss of strength that they hurried to stop at the first villa they came across.

She suited the occasion perfectly. It was the famous Hearth, known throughout Rome, thanks to the glorious name of its owner and its noble beauty. The deserted cape jutted far into the sea. It was completely covered with the silvery green of a stunted pine forest. The house, which stood in this forest, was vast and simple, white with marble walls, shining with thin glass of large windows, surrounded by flower beds, fiery distances. After the departure of the owner, the villa was empty, and only the manager met the unexpected guests. They politely asked for shelter from him.

Soon, having taken a bath and refreshing drink, he was left alone. His bed was placed in such a way that on one side he had a view of the sea rising behind round pine tops, and on the other to the Gulf of Nice and the misty, distant pallor of the Alps, rising lifelessly to the sky with their snows, like great tombs. It was evening, cold foggy. In the desolate expanse of the drowsily agitated sea there was hopelessness, aimlessness, a sad mystery. The white crests of the waves rose and fell steadily. The tops of the pines, clean and cold, clearly visible through the panes, rustled thickly and resoundingly. Two lamps trembled evenly near the bed with a wax flame. And under this trembling and ringing coniferous noise, he fell into a deep sleep. When I woke up, it was already a black night. The sea rustled in her silence more audibly and solemnly, as if approaching. The lamps flowed and shone; their tongues, now golden, clear, with an azure base, quivering, stretched upward. And, rising, leaning against the headboard, he fixed his gaze on the panes blackened before him. The sea rustled closer and clearer, and the ever-increasing coniferous noise interfered with it. He contemplated and listened to this black night element that surrounded him. He knew that his hour was at hand. Making an effort, he sat up a little higher and, taking everything he needed for writing from the bedside table, he began to write slowly but firmly.

He wrote until dawn. He made the last state orders and expressed some of his dying thoughts. He said this: my name will outlive me, people will worship my golden and marble images, perhaps for many more centuries, for in a great man, or at least invested with greatness, we honor the concentration of those high forces that are contained to some extent in each of us. He said that Socrates, calling on a person to know "himself", had in mind the knowledge of the features, vices or virtues contained in a person, but the search for and awakening in oneself that "divine", which is the true essence of man. When it began to turn white outside the windows, the lights of the lamps turned yellow and the morning haze that came from the calming sea surrounded the house with solid whiteness, he lay down and covered his face with his marching cloak, surrendering to the fate of all mortals.