Certain conventional phrases are used in describing the site of a village or small town. When it lies at the bottom of a hill it “nestles” and when it approaches the top it “perches.” Roquebrune is distinctly “perched” upon the hillside. Indeed it appears to cling to it as a house-martin clings to sloping eaves and to keep its hold with some difficulty. The town looks unsteady, as if it must inevitably1 slip downwards2 into the road.
At some little distance behind Roquebrune is a great cliff from the foot of which spreads a long incline. It is on a precarious3 ledge4 on this slope that the place is lodged5, like a pile of crockery on the brink6 of a shelf and that shelf tilted7.
An enticing8 feature about any town is the approach to it, the first close sight of its walls, the glimpse of the actual entrance that leads into the heart of it. Now the entrance to Roquebrune is strange, strange enough to satisfy the expectation of any who, seeing the place from afar, have wondered what it would be like near at hand. A steep path, paved with cobble stones, mounts up between two old yellow walls and at the end of the path is the town. It is entered by a flight of stone steps which, passing into the shadow of a tunnelled way beneath high houses, opens suddenly into the sunlight of the chief street of Roquebrune.
It is a cheerful little town, clean and trim. It is undoubtedly10 curious and as one penetrates11 further into its by-ways it becomes—as Alice in Wonderland would remark—“curiouser and curiouser.” It is largely a town of stairs, of straight stairs and crooked12 stairs, of stairs that soar into dark holes and are seen no more, of stairs that climb up openly on the outside of houses, of stairs bleached13 white, of stairs green with speeds and of stairs that stand alone—for the place that they led to has gone. It would seem to be a precept14 in Roquebrune that if a dwelling15 can be entered by a range of steps it must be so approached in preference to any other way.
ROQUEBRUNE, FROM NEAR BON VOYAGE.
The streets are streets by name only, for they are mere16 lanes and very narrow even for lanes. They appear to go where they like, so long as they go uphill. They all go uphill, straggling thither17 by any route that pleases them. The impression is soon gained that the people of Roquebrune are living on a curious staircase fashioned out of the mountain side. So far as the outer world is concerned Roquebrune would be described as “upstairs.” The houses seem to have been tumbled on to the giant steps as if they had been emptied out of a child’s toy-box only that they have all fallen with the roofs uppermost. There results a confusing irregularity that would turn the brain of a town planner.
Roquebrune has been piled up rather than built. The front doorstep of one house may be just above the roof of the house below, with only a lane to separate them; while two houses, standing18 side by side may find themselves so strangely assorted19 that the kitchen and stables of the one will be in a line with the bedrooms of the other.
The houses are old. They form a medley20 of all shapes and sizes, heights and widths. They conform to no pattern or type. They can hardly be said to have been designed. The majority are of stone. Some few are of plaster and these are inclined to be gay in colour, to be yellow or pink, to have little balconies and green shutters21 and garlands painted on the walls.
The streets are delightful22, because they are so mysterious and have so many unexpected turns and twists, so many odd corners and so many quaint23 nooks. In places they dip under houses or enter into cool, vaulted24 ways, where there is an abiding25 twilight26. There are intense contrasts of light and shade in the by-ways of Roquebrune, floods of brilliant sunshine on the cobble stones and the walls alternating with masses of black shadow, each separated from the other by lines as sharp as those that mark the divisions of a chess-board. There are suspicious-looking doors of battered27 and decaying wood, stone archways, cheery entries in the wall that open into homely28 sitting-rooms as well as trap-like holes that lead into mouldy vaults29.
One small street, the Rue30 Pié, appears to have lost all control over itself, for it dives insanely under another street—houses, road and all—and then rushes down hill in the dark to apparent destruction. There is one lane that is especially picturesque31. It is a secretive kind of way, bearing the romance-suggesting name of the Rue Mongollet. It is very steep, as it needs must be. It is dim, for it passes under buildings, like a heading in a mine. It winds about just as the alley32 in a story ought to wind and finally bursts out into the light in an unexpected place. It is to some extent cut through rock, so that in places it is hard to tell which is house and which is rock.
There is a piazza33 in Roquebrune, a real public square, a place, with the name of the Place des Frères. It lies at the edge of the cliff where it is protected by a parapet from which stretches a superb view of the green slope to the road and, beyond the road, of Cap Martin and the sea. It is a peculiar34 square, for on two sides there are only bald precipices35. In one corner are a café and a fountain, while on the third side is a school. The piazza is, no doubt, used for occasions of ceremony, for speech making and receptions by the mayor; but on all but high days and holidays it is a playground for a crowd of busy children.
The church is placed near a point where the sea-path makes its entry into Roquebrune. It is comparatively modern and of no special interest. On the wall of a house near by is a stone on which is carved a monogram36 of Christ with a “torsade” or twisted border. This is said to be a relic37 of an ancient church which stood upon the site of the existing building.
There is, however, a delightful and unexpected feature about the present church. A door opens suddenly from the sombre aisle38 into the sunshine of a wondrous39 garden—wondrous but very small. The garden skirts the rim9 of the rock upon which the church stands. It is a more fitting adjunct to the church than any pillared cloister40 or monastic court could be. It is a simple, affectionate little place and is always spoken of by those who come upon it as “the dear little garden.” There are many roses in it, a palm tree or two and beds bright with iris41 and hyacinth, narcissus and candytuft and with just such contented42 flowers as are found about an old thatched cottage. There is a well in the garden and a shady bench with a far view over the Mediterranean43. Old houses and the church make a background; while many birds fill the place with their singing. In this retreat will often be found the curé of Roquebrune. He is as picturesque as his garden, as simple and as charming.
On the crown of Roquebrune stands the old castle of the Lascaris. It still commands and dominates the town, as it has done for long centuries in the past. It is disposed of by Baedeker in the following words “adm. 25c.; fine view.” It is a good example of a medi?val fortress44 and is much less ruinous than are so many of its time. It is placed on the bare rock which forms the top of the town and is surrounded by great walls. It is a veritable strong place, with a fine square tower, tall, massive and imposing45. It is covered on one side with ivy46 and has thus lost much of its ancient grimness, while about its feet cluster, in a curious medley, the red, grey and brown roofs of the faithful town.
Within the keep are a great hall, many vaulted rooms and a vaulted stair which leads to the summit of the castle. Those with an active imagination will find among the ruins the guard-room, the justice chamber47, the ladies’ quarters and the dungeons48, but the lines which indicate such places have become exceedingly faint. Certain trumpery49 “restorations” have been carried out in this lordly old ruin which would discredit50 even a suburban51 tea-garden. The only apology that could be offered for them is that they would not deceive a child of five.
It is impossible to regard Roquebrune seriously or to think of it as an old frontier stronghold that has had a place in history. Roquebrune, as a town, belongs to the country of the story book. It is a town for boys and girls to play in. It is just the town they love to read about and dream about and to make the scene of the doings of their heroes and heroines and their other queer people. From a modern point of view this happy little town is quite ridiculous. It is full of funny places, of whimsical streets and of those odd houses that children draw on slates52 when one of them has made the rapturous suggestion—“let us draw a street.” It has an odd well too—a real well with real water—but it is bewitched and haunted by real witches. At least the people about are so convinced they are real that they are afraid to come to the well for water. Now a well of this kind is never met with in an ordinary town.
There are walled places in Roquebrune where oranges and lemons are growing side by side and where both lavender and rosemary are blooming. The garden of the church is a child’s garden, for the paths are narrow and roundabout and the flowers are children’s flowers such as are found on nursery tables, while the whole place bears that pleasant form of untidiness which is only to be found where children are the gardeners. There is in the town—as everybody knows—a Place des Frères and with little doubt there is also, somewhere on the rock, a Place des S?urs which is prettier and which only a favoured few would know about or could find their way to.
Nothing that happens in any story book would seem out of place in Roquebrune. Indeed one is surprised in wandering through its curious ways to find it occupied by ordinary people, men with bowler53 hats and women who are obviously not princesses. One expects to come upon blind pedlars, old women in scarlet54 capes55 and pointed56 hats, mendicants who are really of royal blood, hags—especially hags with sticks—ladies wrapped in cloaks which just fail to conceal57 their golden hair, servants carrying heavy boxes with great secrecy58 and mariners59 from excessively foreign parts.
There is a steep, cobble-paved lane in Roquebrune up which Jack60 and Jill must assuredly have climbed when they went to fetch the pail of water which led to the regrettable accident. Indeed it is hardly possible for a child, burdened with a bucket, not to tumble down in Roquebrune. By the parapet in the Place des Frères there is a stone upon which Little Boy Blue must have stood when he blew his horn; for no place could be conceived more appropriate for that exercise. There are walls too without number, walls both high and low, some bare, some green with ferns, which would satisfy the passion for sitting upon walls of a hundred Humpty Dumpties.
The town itself is—I feel assured—the kind of town that Jack reached when he climbed to the top of the Beanstalk, for the entrance to Roquebrune is precisely61 the sort of entrance one would expect a beanstalk to lead to. In one kitchen full of brown shadows, in a side street near the Rue Pié, is an ancient cupboard in which, almost without question, Old Mother Hubbard kept that hypothetical bone which caused the poor dog such unnecessary distress62 of mind; while in a wicker cage in the window of a child’s bedroom was the Blue Bird, singing as only that bird can sing.
As there are still wolves in the woods about Roquebrune and as red hoods64 are still fashionable in the Place des Frères it is practically certain that Little Red Riding Hood63 lived here since it is difficult to imagine a town that would have suited her better. As for Jack the Giant Killer65 it is beyond dispute that he came to Roquebrune, for the very castle he approached is still standing, the very gate is there from which he hurled66 defiance67 to the giant as well as the very stair he ascended68. Moreover there is a room or hall in the castle—or at least the remains69 of it—which obviously no one but a giant could have occupied.
As time goes on arch?ologists will certainly prove, after due research, that Roquebrune is the City of Peter Pan. There is no town he would love so well; none so adapted to his particular tastes and habits, nor so convenient for the display of those domestic virtues70 which Wendy possessed71. No one should grow up in this queer city, just as no place in a nursery tale should grow old.
ROQUEBRUNE: THE EAST GATE.
ROQUEBRUNE: THE PLACE DES FRèRES.
Peter Pan is not adapted to the cold, drear climate of England. He stands, as a figure in bronze, in Kensington Gardens with perhaps snow on his curly head or with rain dripping from the edge of his scanty72 shirt. He should be always in the sun, within sight of a sea which is ever blue and among hills which are deep in green. He could stride down a street in Roquebrune clad—as the sculptor73 shows him—only in his shirt without exciting more than a pleasant nod, but in the Bayswater Road he would attract attention. He is out of place in a London park in a waste of tired grass dotted with iron chairs which are let out at a penny apiece. Those delightful little people and those inquisitive74 animals who are peeping out of the crevices75 in the bronze rock upon which he stands would flourish in this sunny hill town, for there are rocks in the very streets among which they could make their homes.
Then again Captain Hook would enjoy Roquebrune. It is so full of really horrible places and there are so many half-hidden windows out of which he could scream to the terror of honest folk. The pirates too would be more comfortable in this irregular city, for it is near the sea and close to that kind of cave without which no pirate is ever quite at ease. Moreover the Serpentine76 affords but limited scope to those whose hearts are really devoted77 to the pursuit of piracy78 and buccaneering.
So far I do not happen to have met with a pirate of Captain Hook’s type within the walls of Roquebrune; but, late one afternoon when the place was lonely I saw a bent79 man plodding80 up in the shadows of the Rue Mongollet. He was a sinewy81 creature with brown, hairy legs. I could not see his face because he bore on his shoulders a large and flabby burden, but I am convinced that he was Sindbad the Sailor, toiling82 up from the beach and carrying on his back the Old Man of the Sea.
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1
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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enticing
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| adj.迷人的；诱人的 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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penetrates
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| v.穿过( penetrate的第三人称单数 )；刺入；了解；渗透 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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13
bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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14
precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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16
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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17
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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assorted
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| adj.各种各样的，各色俱备的 | |
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medley
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| n.混合 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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monogram
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| n.字母组合 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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iris
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| n.虹膜，彩虹 | |
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42
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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43
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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45
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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46
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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47
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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48
dungeons
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| n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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50
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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51
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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52
slates
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| （旧时学生用以写字的）石板( slate的名词复数 )； 板岩； 石板瓦； 石板色 | |
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53
bowler
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| n.打保龄球的人，（板球的）投（球）手 | |
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54
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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55
capes
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| 碎谷； 斗篷( cape的名词复数 )； 披肩； 海角； 岬 | |
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56
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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57
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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60
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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61
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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63
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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hoods
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| n.兜帽( hood的名词复数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩v.兜帽( hood的第三人称单数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩 | |
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65
killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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66
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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67
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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68
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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70
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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71
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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72
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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73
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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74
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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75
crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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77
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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piracy
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| n.海盗行为，剽窃，著作权侵害 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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sinewy
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| adj.多腱的，强壮有力的 | |
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82
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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