He walked along quickly, away from the hills and the village perched on an outlying spur of the distant Apennines, on to the summit of a rolling undulation in that great grassy19 sea of wave-like hillocks. Not a sound stirred the stagnant20 air. Away in front, towards the dim distant Mediterranean21, the flat prairies of Ostia steamed visibly in the flickering22 sunlight; a low region of reeds and cane-brake, with feathery herbage unruffled by any passing breath of wind, and barely relieved from utter monotony by the wide dry umbrella-shaped bosses of the basking23 stone-pines of Castel Fusano. The malaria24 seemed to hang over it like a terrible pall14, blinking before the eye over the heated reach of sweltering pasture lands. Yonder lay Alsium—Palo they call it nowadays—a Dutch oven of pestilence25, breeding miasma26 in its thousand foul27 nooks for the inoculation28 of all the country round. In truth a sickly, sickening spot; but here, Audouin whispered to himself half apologetically, with self-evident hypocrisy29, here on the higher moorlands of the Campagna, among the shepherds and the sheep, beside the shaggy briar and hillocks, a man may walk and not hurt himself surely. Colin Churchill had said, 'No suicide;' and that was a bargain between them; yet suicide was one thing, and a quiet afternoon stroll through the heart of the country was really another.
He had bought a flask30 of 'sincere wine' at the osteria, and had brought some biscuits with him in his pocket from Rome. He meant to lunch out here on the Campagna, and only return late to the hotel for dinner. When a man feels broken and dispirited, what more natural than that he should wish to escape by himself for a lonely tramp in the fields and meadows, where none will interrupt his flow of spleen and the run of his solitary31 meditations32?
It would be quite untrue to say that Lothrop Audouin had come into the Campagna by himself that day on purpose to catch the Roman fever. Nothing could be more unjust or unkind to him. Wayward natures like his do not expect to have their actions so harshly judged by the unsympathetic tribunal of common-sense. They seldom do anything on purpose. Audouin was only tempting33 nature. He was trusting to the chapter of accidents. A man has a right to walk over the ground (if unenclosed and unappropriated) whenever he chooses; there can be nothing wrong in taking a little turn by oneself even among the desolate surging undulations of the great plain that rolls illimitably between Rome and Civita Vecchia. He was exercising his undoubted rights as an American citizen; he could go where he chose over those long unfenced slopes, where you may walk in a straight line for miles ahead, with nothing to hinder you save the sun and the fever. And the fever! Well, yes; he did perhaps have some slight passing qualms35 of conscience on that head, when he thought of his promise to Colin Churchill; but then of course that was straining language—interpreting it in non-natural senses. A man isn't bound to make a mollycoddle36 of himself simply because he has promised a friend that he won't commit suicide.
He sat down in the eye of the sun on a bit of broken rock—or at least it looked like rock, though it was really a fragment from the concrete foundations of some ancient villa—with his legs dangling37 over the deep brown bank of pozzolano earth, and his hat slouched deeply above his eyes to protect him from the penetrating38 sunlight. Dead generations lay beneath his feet; the air was heavy with the dust of unnumbered myriads39. Lothrop Audouin took out his flask and drank his wine and ate his biscuits. An old contadino came up suspiciously to watch the stranger; Audouin offered him the remainder of the wine, and the man drank it off at a gulp40 and thanked his excellency with Italian profuseness41.
Would his excellency buy a coin, the contadino went on slowly, with the insinuating42 Roman begging whine43. Audouin looked at the thing carelessly, and turned it round once or twice in his fingers. It was a denarius of Trajan, apparently44; he could read the inscription45, Avg. Ger. Dac. p.m. Tri. pot. Cos. vii., and so forth46. It might be worth half a lire or so. He gave the man two lire for it. Suicide indeed! Who talks of suicide? Mayn't a bit of a virtuoso47 come out on to the Campagna, quite legitimately48, to collect antiquities49?
The fancy pleased him, and he talked awhile with the contadino about the things he had found in the galleries that honeycomb for miles the whole Campagna. Yes, the man had once found a beautiful scarab?us, a scarab?us that might have belonged to C?sar or St. Peter. He had found a lachrymatory, too, a relic50 of an ancient Christian51; and many bones of holy martyrs52. How did he know they were holy martyrs? The most illustrious was joking. When one finds bones in a catacomb, one knows they must have been preserved by miraculous53 interference.
Much ague on the Campagna? No, no, signor; an air most salubrious, most vital, most innocent. In the Ptfntine Swamps? oh there, by Bacchus, excellency, it is far different. There, the people die of fever by hundreds; it is a most desolate country; encumbered54 with dead and rotting vegetation, it procreates miasma, and is left to stagnate55 idly in the sun. The bottoms are all soft slime and ooze56, where buffaloes57 wallow and wild boars hide. Nothing there save a solitary pot-house, and a few quaking, quavering, ague-smitten contadini—a bad place to live in, the Pontine Marshes58, excellency. But here on the Agro Romano, high and dry, thanks to the Madonna and all holy saints, why, body of Bacchus, there is no malaria.
Or if any, very little. Towards nightfall, perhaps; yes, just a trifle towards nightfall; but what of that? One wraps one's sheepskin close around one; one takes care to be home early; one offers a candle now and then to the blessed Madonna; and the malaria is nothing. Except for foreigners. Ah, yes, foreigners ought always to be very sure not to stop out beyond nightfall.
Audouin let the man run on as long as he chose, and when the contadino was tired of conversation, he lay back upon the dry yellow grass, and thought bitterly to himself about life and fate, and Gwen and Hiram. What a miserable, foolish, impossible sort of world we all lived in after all! He had more money himself than he needed; he didn't want the nasty stuff—filthy lucre—filthy indeed in these days; dirty bank-notes, Italian or American, the first perhaps a trifle the dirtier and racrgeder of the two. He didn't want it, and Hiram for need of it was going to the wall; and yet he couldn't give it to Hiram, and Hiram wouldn't take it if he were to give it to him. Absurd conventionality! There was Gwen, too; Gwen; how happy he could make them both, if only they would let him; and yet, and yet, the thing was impossible. If only Hiram had those few wretched thousand dollars, scraps59 and scrips, shares and houses—Audouin didn't know exactly what they were or what was the worth of them; a lawyer in Boston managed the rubbish—if only Hiram had them, he could take to landscape, marry Gwen, and undo34 the evil that he, Lothrop Audouin, had unwittingly and unwillingly60 wrought61 in his foolish self-confidence, and live happily ever after. In fairy tales and novels and daydreams62 everybody always did live happy ever after—it's a way they have, somehow or other. The whole course of individual human history for the great Anglo-American race, in fancy anyhow, seems always to end with a wedding as its natural finale and grand consummation. Yet here he was, boxed up alone with all that useless money, and the only way he could possibly do any good with it was by ceasing to exist altogether. No suicide! oh, no, certainly not. Still, if quite accidentally he happened to get the Roman fever, nobody would be one penny the worse for it, while Gwen and Hiram would doubtless be a good deal the better.
The afternoon wore away slowly, and evening came on at last across the great shifting desolate panorama63. The dirty greens and yellows began to flush into gold and crimson64; the misty65 haze66 from the Pontine Marshes began to creep with deadly stealth across the Agro Romano; the grey veil began to descend67 upon the softening68 Alban hills in the murky69 distance; the purples on the hillside hollows began to darken into gloomy shadows. A little breeze had sprung up meanwhile, and rain was dropping slowly from invisible light drifting clouds upon the parched70 Campagna. The malaria is never so dangerous as after a slight rain, that just damps the dusty surface without really penetrating it; for then the germs that lie thick among the mouldering vegetation are quickened into spasmodic life, and the whole Campagna steams and simmers with invisible eddies71 of vaporous effluvia. But Audouin sat there still, moodily72 pretending to himself that his headache would be all the better for a few cooling drops upon his feverish forehead. Even the old contadino was on his way back to his wretched hut, and as he passed he begged his excellency to get back to the railway with the most rapid expedition. 'Fa cattivo tempo,' he cried with a warning gesture. But his excellency only strolled slowly towards the yellow-washed station, dawdling73 by the way to watch the shadows as they grew deeper and blacker and ever longer on the distant indentations of the circling amphitheatre of hills.
The sunset glow faded away into ashen74 greyness. The air struck cold and chill across the treeless levels. The wind swept harder and damper over the malarious75 lowland. Then the Campagna was swallowed up in dark, and Lothrop Audouin found his way alone, wet and steaming, to the tiny roadside station. The train from Civita Vecchia was not due for half an hour yet; he stood on the platform under the light wooden covering, and waited for it to come in with a certain profound internal sense of despairing resignation. His limbs were very cold, and his forehead was absolutely burning. Yes, yes, thank heaven for that! the chapter of accidents had not forsaken76 him. He felt sure he had caught the Roman fever.
When the English doctor came to see him at the hotel that evening, about eleven, the work of diagnosis77 was short and easy. 'Country fever in its worst and most dangerous form,' he said simply; 'in fact what we at Rome are accustomed to call the perniciosa.'
点击收听单词发音
1 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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2 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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3 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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4 interspersed | |
adj.[医]散开的;点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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5 intervals | |
n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 );间隔时间;[数学]区间;(戏剧、电影或音乐会的)幕间休息 | |
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6 feverish | |
adj.发烧的,狂热的,兴奋的 | |
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7 obtrusive | |
adj.显眼的;冒失的 | |
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8 mouldering | |
v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 );腐烂,崩塌 | |
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9 buttress | |
n.支撑物;v.支持 | |
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10 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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11 frustrated | |
adj.挫败的,失意的,泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 );挫败;使受挫折;令人沮丧 | |
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12 supremely | |
adv.无上地,崇高地 | |
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13 palled | |
v.(因过多或过久而)生厌,感到乏味,厌烦( pall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14 pall | |
v.覆盖,使平淡无味;n.柩衣,棺罩;棺材;帷幕 | |
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15 homage | |
n.尊敬,敬意,崇敬 | |
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16 jealousy | |
n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
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17 pretensions | |
自称( pretension的名词复数 ); 自命不凡; 要求; 权力 | |
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18 formerly | |
adv.从前,以前 | |
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19 grassy | |
adj.盖满草的;长满草的 | |
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20 stagnant | |
adj.不流动的,停滞的,不景气的 | |
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21 Mediterranean | |
adj.地中海的;地中海沿岸的 | |
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22 flickering | |
adj.闪烁的,摇曳的,一闪一闪的 | |
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23 basking | |
v.晒太阳,取暖( bask的现在分词 );对…感到乐趣;因他人的功绩而出名;仰仗…的余泽 | |
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24 malaria | |
n.疟疾 | |
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25 pestilence | |
n.瘟疫 | |
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26 miasma | |
n.毒气;不良气氛 | |
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27 foul | |
adj.污秽的;邪恶的;v.弄脏;妨害;犯规;n.犯规 | |
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28 inoculation | |
n.接芽;预防接种 | |
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29 hypocrisy | |
n.伪善,虚伪 | |
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30 flask | |
n.瓶,火药筒,砂箱 | |
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31 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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32 meditations | |
默想( meditation的名词复数 ); 默念; 沉思; 冥想 | |
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33 tempting | |
a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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34 undo | |
vt.解开,松开;取消,撤销 | |
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35 qualms | |
n.不安;内疚 | |
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36 mollycoddle | |
v.溺爱,娇养 | |
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37 dangling | |
悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 ); 摆动不定; 用某事物诱惑…; 吊胃口 | |
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38 penetrating | |
adj.(声音)响亮的,尖锐的adj.(气味)刺激的adj.(思想)敏锐的,有洞察力的 | |
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39 myriads | |
n.无数,极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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40 gulp | |
vt.吞咽,大口地吸(气);vi.哽住;n.吞咽 | |
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41 profuseness | |
n.挥霍 | |
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42 insinuating | |
adj.曲意巴结的,暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 );巧妙或迂回地潜入;(使)缓慢进入;慢慢伸入 | |
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43 whine | |
v.哀号,号哭;n.哀鸣 | |
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44 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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45 inscription | |
n.(尤指石块上的)刻印文字,铭文,碑文 | |
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46 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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47 virtuoso | |
n.精于某种艺术或乐器的专家,行家里手 | |
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48 legitimately | |
ad.合法地;正当地,合理地 | |
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49 antiquities | |
n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 );古迹;古人们;古代的风俗习惯 | |
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50 relic | |
n.神圣的遗物,遗迹,纪念物 | |
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51 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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52 martyrs | |
n.martyr的复数形式;烈士( martyr的名词复数 );殉道者;殉教者;乞怜者(向人诉苦以博取同情) | |
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53 miraculous | |
adj.像奇迹一样的,不可思议的 | |
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54 encumbered | |
v.妨碍,阻碍,拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55 stagnate | |
v.停止 | |
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56 ooze | |
n.软泥,渗出物;vi.渗出,泄漏;vt.慢慢渗出,流露 | |
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57 buffaloes | |
n.水牛(分非洲水牛和亚洲水牛两种)( buffalo的名词复数 );(南非或北美的)野牛;威胁;恐吓 | |
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58 marshes | |
n.沼泽,湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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59 scraps | |
油渣 | |
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60 unwillingly | |
adv.不情愿地 | |
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61 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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62 daydreams | |
n.白日梦( daydream的名词复数 )v.想入非非,空想( daydream的第三人称单数 ) | |
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63 panorama | |
n.全景,全景画,全景摄影,全景照片[装置] | |
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64 crimson | |
n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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65 misty | |
adj.雾蒙蒙的,有雾的 | |
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66 haze | |
n.霾,烟雾;懵懂,迷糊;vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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67 descend | |
vt./vi.传下来,下来,下降 | |
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68 softening | |
变软,软化 | |
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69 murky | |
adj.黑暗的,朦胧的;adv.阴暗地,混浊地;n.阴暗;昏暗 | |
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70 parched | |
adj.焦干的;极渴的;v.(使)焦干 | |
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71 eddies | |
(水、烟等的)漩涡,涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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72 moodily | |
adv.喜怒无常地;情绪多变地;心情不稳地;易生气地 | |
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73 dawdling | |
adj.闲逛的,懒散的v.混(时间)( dawdle的现在分词 ) | |
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74 ashen | |
adj.灰的 | |
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75 malarious | |
(患)疟疾的,(有)瘴气的 | |
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76 Forsaken | |
adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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77 diagnosis | |
n.诊断,诊断结果,调查分析,判断 | |
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