Dona Sancha, I ask you not to read this book; or, if you’ve read it thus far, drop the rest. All you need to do is shut it; better still, burn it, to avoid the temptation of opening it again. If, in spite of the warning, you go to the end, it’s your fault; I can’t answer for the harm that may be done. Whatever I have already done by recounting our gestures on that Saturday, is done with, since events, and I myself, have given the lie to my illusion; but anything that might affect you from now on cannot be wiped away. No, my friend, read no more. Go on growing old, without husband or daughter, for I am doing the same thing, and it’s the best one can do once youth has passed. One day, we will go from here to heaven’s gate, where we will meet again, renewed, like young plants, come piante novelle,
Rinovellate di novelle fronde.*
The rest is in Dante.