She experienced all the cosiness and irritation which can come from living with thoroughly nice people with whom one has nothing in common...

Whatever we make of this useless life

Is all the same, whether it's glory,
Reputation, love, knowledge or life itself -
As if it were simply
Some memory of a game well played
And a wager won
By the best player.

Glory weighs like a precious burden
Reputation like a fever,
Love wearies, being so searching and serious,
Knowledge never finds anything,
and life achingly passes, knowing all this...
The games of chess
Captures the heart completely, but losing
Matters little, since it's nothing at all.

Ah! and we, undr the indifferent, favorable shade,
With a pitcher of wine beside us,
And only intent on the gratuitous effort
That's in a game of chess,
Even if the game's only a dream
And being played without a partner.

Let us be like the Portuguese in this tale,
And if somewhere out there,
Nearby or far away, we're summoned
By war, by country, by life,
Let them summon us in vain, and let
Each, under some friendly shade,
Dream of his opponent,
And the chess game, of its indifference...