Isiah Berlin in Rome

Elaine Feinstein

At table with the guest of honour
on the Ambassador's terrace:
the heat is African. Tapers have been lit
to dispel mosquitoes.
We are eating flowers.

The deep lines on his face are humorous.
Dare I ask him, What

happened that night in Leningrad,

when Akhmatova

fell in love with you?

No. He is deep in the torrent
of another story: his own terror
under Wittgenstein's questioning –
as every truthful answer,
exposes his poor claim to philosophy.

He acts it out and we are mesmerised.
The moon is full. White blossom leaks
perfume into the air. Virginia Woolf once
described him with unkind surprise:
a swarthy Portuguese Jew – until he speaks.

(guardian)