Chapter 13 My Romance with Fia Metta (1)

A few months ago, my bookseller and I nearly got into a fight over some version of Boccaccio, and the guy went out of his way to sell me the book.The book is not bad, it is an original version of Boccaccio, published in Antwerp in 1603 [Antwerp, a city in northern Belgium, is located on the Stelt River north of Brussels and is one of the busiest ports in Europe. ], a pleasing red title, forty or fifty copperplate illustrations are carefully arranged in the inner pages.I dare say it's worth at least thirty dollars, but I don't want it. There was a debate between me and the bookseller about why I didn't want the book, which eventually became very heated.I told him frankly that I didn't care what was in the original because I already had several translations, all of them by masters.So the bookseller ventured to try to convince me with his well-worn platitude--a trick that has been tried and tested in the book business for centuries--that every translation, no matter how good it may be, There will always be a loss of some vitality and charm.

"Nonsense!" I said, "do you think that translators who devote their lives to the study and training of art are no better than amateur foreign tongues in explaining shades and colors with different meanings? Isn't life too short for book lovers? Are they supposed to spend their precious time, dictionaries in hand, digging out the author's deep metaphors? My dear sir, time and money are wasted on other people's Jobs that do better and cost less are really bad economics." Escaping the war of words with the bookseller, I went straight home, took off my favorites, and turned the pages softly: I'm a man who loves booklets, you know.Little did I realize that almost half a century had passed since Ysult Hardinger and I parted ways.She is such a character that the great novelists are willing to make her the heroine of their novels; Bugaqiu's name lasts through the ages.I especially remember her eyes, which were so beautiful, with different expressions reflected in those dark and deep eyes as her mood changed.

Why do I call her Fia Metta [Fia Metta, the protagonist in Boccaccio's early epistolary novel "Fia Meta". 】Woolen cloth?I can't answer because I don't remember anymore.Perhaps, it just came from a childish whimsy.At that time, Boccaccio and I were very good friends.We were always together, and his friendship had such an impact on me that I still live, walk, and enjoy life in that distant and romantic age.In those days, all men were heroic, all women were beautiful, and all birds were nightingales. I bought myself an old Florentine sword from Nosta's shop on the Strand, and hung it on the wall in my modest room with Boccaccio and Fia Meta portrait.I'd often have glasses of Italian wine served in pot-bellied flagon (beware, it's a genuine antique) over these beloved fakes.Twice I took Fia Metta on a boat on the Thames, and once to watch the Lord Mayor's event.On both occasions her mother was with her, although it would have been more appropriate if her mother had been at the bottom of the sea.She was a dull old man who could neither enjoy nor appreciate poetic ecstasy or romantic youth.

If Fia Metta were a book—oh, unfortunate lady! --she may still be mine, and I'll take care of her lovingly, hide her from profane eyes, dress her in crumpled morocco and gold leaf, and treat her like the favorite of my age Take care of your partner!If she were a book, she wouldn't be deeply guilty of the folly of marrying a farmer in Lincolnshire - oh dear!Why does Yu Lu's awakening always dispel the sweet dream of youth five times and three times. When I revisited England at the age of sixty, an inexplicable temptation drove me on an excursion to Lincolnshire in order to recapture my familiar sense of Fia Meta.Before I reached my destination, however, a thought suddenly occurred to me, and I said to myself: "Why have you come here? Go back, or you will destroy for ever one of the sweetest fantasies of boyhood!" For so many years you have sought her in Mrs. Henry Boggs, with such a delusion that you have sought her. There is only one Fia Metta, and she is your memory forever. The promises of many years ago have faded, physically The Fia Metta has become a housewife in Lincolnshire. Save yourself, lest these discoveries make you grieve in vain. Respect the ideal Fia who built her little sanctuary in your sensitive heart Mehta, that's enough."

It's incredible advice, but it's so powerful for me that I'm sold on it.After spending the night at the Swan and Arrow Inn, I returned to London, and never thought of visiting Lincolnshire again. But Fia Metta is still a happy memory - oh, not just a memory for me, because, as soon as I take down that precious little book and open it, how many friends flock to !Knights, princesses, courtiers, little girls, monks, nuns, royal attendants, waiters, maidens—cover all the different classes and identities of human society, all of which are full of the magical color of the magician named Buccaccio!

In front of them all came a young girl with bright black eyes and a garland of roses.The melting moonlight is like a blessing, pouring into the roof garden of Florence, and the evening wind is looking for the cradle in the laurel bushes, and happily falls asleep to the singing of the nightingale. As for Judge Methuen, he is exactly as much in love with his Boccaccio as I am.Moreover, being a poor limerick, he wrote a little poem on this subject, a copy of which I have secretly kept, and present it here for your amusement: