Two for tragedy. Volume 1 - стр. 36
What a pity that I do not speak French, so that, like Cédric, I could feel the true beauty and original thoughts of Baudelaire, not distorted by the Czech translation! But, even in a very distorted form, his poems remained beautiful.
Cedric is a romantic. It can't be otherwise. He who favours Goethe, Petrarch and Baudelaire cannot be a mere detached connoisseur without experiencing the force and power of the genius of these authors. They can only be understood by one in whose soul there is romance. When I saw how engrossed Cedric was in our conversation about poetry and literature, I realised that he was seriously interested in it. But while we were almost unanimous on poetry, our tastes in literature were monumentally different: Cedric liked serious, heavy literature, while I preferred the light and captivating genre of vampire novels.
"Well, now he thinks I'm thoughtless… Who cares what he thinks, though?" I thought with distaste. – I thought grudgingly, but in my heart I admitted to myself that it was important to know what he thought. What could I hope for, though? In Cedric's eyes, I looked stupid, or even shallow. But, God, he's so strange. And he's so persuasive. I was determined to refuse his help, and I had already said goodbye to him, but tomorrow I'm meeting him in the library!
That's absurd. Just a short conversation that cleared up so much.
I spent the rest of the day thinking, but it faded along with a presentation for a seminar on Czech history. The presentation took me a long time: I had to describe the biography and the influence of a historical figure on the development of the Czech Republic in a fairly short and accessible way. My choice was a national hero – Jan Hus. I didn't like to do things with my sleeves rolled up, so the presentation was very good. To stretch my back and legs, I occasionally took a break from the laptop monitor and wandered around the room, or went to the kitchen to make coffee. By evening, I had no energy left. After editing the last slide, I closed the laptop, looked at my watch and was surprised at my stamina: six hours! It had gone by quickly, like one minute!
It had long since gone dark outside the window, and only a lone streetlight dimly illuminated the street and a piece of the neighbourhood.
Like an oxygen-deprived dolphin, I needed a breath of fresh air: my head felt like it was cast in bronze. So, putting on my coat and boots, I went down to the courtyard. The evening was quiet and cool. Everything breathed freshness. I put my hands in my pockets and began to wind round the lantern. After the long hours I had spent in the stuffy flat, I was glad to feel the freedom and clarity of my tired mind again. The evening air seemed to bring me out of my lethargic sleep. Glancing at the windows of my flat, I regretted that I would have to go back there. But suddenly, out of nowhere, a stubborn desire to walk around evening Prague was born in me.
Evening Prague is not safe for lonely girls, but that fact never scared me, so I headed to the Nusle Bridge. It was quite a long walk to my favourite bridge, but I spent this time thinking and contemplating the gloomy beauty of the Gothic churches and the old, unique Prague architecture, as fascinating in its mystery as Baudelaire's poetry. Besides, there were always a lot of tourists in Prague, so I felt completely safe.