He stopped at the corner and looked. So that was the Corso—an endless stream of carriages in a crowded street, and a surging throng6 of people on a narrow pavement.
He stood still, watching the stream run past him, and smiled at the thought that he could drift along this street every evening in the dusk among the crowds, until it became as familiar to him as the best-known thoroughfare of his own city—Christiania. He was suddenly seized with the wish to walk and walk—now and all night maybe—through all the streets of Rome, for he thought of the town as it had appeared to him a while ago when he was looking down on it from Pincio, while the sun was setting.
Clouds all over the western sky, close together like small pale grey lambkins, and as the sun sank behind him it painted their linings7 a glorious amber8. Beneath the pale skies lay the city, and Helge understood that this was the real Rome—not the[10] Rome of his imagination and his dreams, but Rome as she actually was.
Everything else he had seen on his journey had disappointed him, for it was not what he had imagined at home when he had been longing10 to go abroad and see it all. One sight at last was far beyond his dreams, and that was Rome.
A plain of housetops lay beneath him in the valley, the roofs of houses new and old, of houses high and low—it looked as if they had been built anywhere and at any time, and of a size to suit the need of the moment. In a few places only a space could be seen between the mass of housetops, as of streets. All this world of reckless lines, crossing each other in a thousand hard angles, was lying inert11 and quiet under the pale skies, while the setting sun touched the borders of the clouds with a tinge12 of light. It was dreaming under a thin veil of white mist, which no busy pillar of smoke dared penetrate13, for no factory chimney could be seen, and no smoke came from a single one of the funny little chimney pipes protruding14 from the houses. The round, old, rust-brown tiles were covered by greyish moss15, grass and small plants with yellow blossoms grew in the gutters17; along the border of the terraces the aloes stood immovably still in their tubs, and creepers hung in dead cascades18 from the cornices. Here and there the upper part of a high house rose above its neighbour, its dark, hollow windows staring at one out of a grey or reddish-yellow wall, or sleeping behind closed shutters19. Loggias stood out of the mist, looking like parts of an old watchtower, and small summer-houses of wood or corrugated20 iron were erected21 on the roofs.
Above it all masses of church cupolas were floating—the huge, grey one, far on the other side of what Helge supposed to be the river, was that of St. Peter.
Beyond the valley, where the roofs covered the silent city—it well deserved the epithet22 “eternal” tonight—a low hill stretched its longish back toward the skies, carrying on the[11] far-away ridge23 an avenue of pines, the foliage24 of which formed one large mass above the row of slender trunks. And behind the dome25 of St. Peter the eye was arrested by another hill with villas26, built among pines and cypresses27. Probably Monte Mario.
The dark leaves of the holly28 formed a roof over his head, and behind him a fountain made a curiously29 living sound as the water splashed against the stone border, before flowing into the basin beneath it.
Helge whispered to the city of his dreams, whose streets his feet had not yet touched, whose houses did not harbour one single soul he knew: “Rome—Rome—eternal Rome.” He was suddenly struck by his own loneliness and startled at his emotion, though he knew that there was nobody to witness it, and, turning round, he hurried down the Spanish stairs.
And now when he stood at the corner of Condotti and Corso he experienced a quaint30 and yet pleasant anxiety at the thought of mixing with those hustling31 crowds and finding his way in the strange city—to wander through it as far as Piazza32 San Pietro.
As he was crossing the street two young girls passed him. They looked like Norwegians, he thought, with a slight thrill of pleasure. One of them was very fair and wore light-coloured furs.
It was a joy to him even to read the names of the streets carved in clear, Latin type on white marble slabs33 set in the corners of the houses.
The street he took ran into an open space near a bridge, on which two rows of lanterns burned with a sickly, greenish flame in the pale light pouring down from the restless sky. A low parapet of stone ran along the waterline, bordered by a row of trees with faded leaves and trunks, dropping their bark in big white flakes34. On the opposite side of the river the street lamps were burning among the trees, and the houses stood out black against the sky, but on this side the twilight35 still flickered[12] on the window-panes. The sky was almost clear now, and hung transparent36 and greenish blue over the hill with the pine avenue, with here and there a few reddish, threatening, slowly moving clouds.
He stopped on the bridge and looked down into the Tiber. How dull the water was! It flowed on rapidly, reflecting the colours of the evening skies, sweeping37 twigs38 and gravel39 and bits of wood on its way between the stone walls. A small staircase on the side of the bridge led down to the water’s edge. Helge thought how easy it would be to walk down the steps one night, when one was tired of everything—had any ever done so? he wondered.
He asked a policeman the way to St. Peter’s cathedral in German; the man answered him first in French and then Italian, and when Helge repeatedly shook his head, he spoke40 French again, pointing up the river. Helge turned in that direction.
A huge, dark stone erection stood out against the sky, a low, round tower with a jagged crest41 and the jet-black silhouette42 of an angel on top. He recognized the lines of the San Angelo fort, and went close up to it. It was still light enough for the statues by the bridge to show up yellow in the twilight, the red skies were still mirrored in the flowing waters of the Tiber, but the street lamps had gained power, and threw out paths of light across the river. Beyond the San Angelo bridge the electric tramcars with illuminated43 windows rolled over the new iron bridge, throwing white sparks from the connecting wires.
Helge took off his hat to a man:
“San Pietro, favorisca?”
The man pointed9 with his finger and said something Helge did not understand. He turned into a dark and narrow street which, with a sensation of joy, he almost thought he recognized, for it was exactly like the Italian street of his imagination: shop after shop full of curios. He gazed into the poorly lit windows. Most of the things were rubbish—those dirty strips of coarse[13] white lace hanging on a string were surely not Italian handiwork. There were bits of pottery44 exhibited in dusty box-lids and small bronze figures of a poisonous green, old and new brass45 candlesticks and brooches with heaps of stones that looked far from genuine. Yet he was seized by a senseless wish to go in and buy something—to inquire, to bargain, and to purchase. Almost before he knew it, he had entered a small, stuffy46 shop filled with all sorts of things. There were church-lamps hanging from the ceiling, bits of silk with gold flowers on red and green and white ground, and broken pieces of furniture.
Behind the counter a youth with a dark complexion47 and a bluish, unshaven chin was reading. He talked and asked questions while Helge pointed at various articles, “Quanto?” The only thing he understood was that the prices were excessive, but one ought not to buy until one knew the language well enough to bargain with them.
Several pieces of china were standing48 on a shelf, rococo49 figures and vases with sprays of roses, which looked quite modern. Helge seized one at random50 and placed it on the counter: “Quanto?”
“Sette,” said the youth, and spread out seven fingers.
“Quattro,” said Helge, holding out four fingers in a new brown glove, and felt quite pleased with himself at this leap into the foreign language. He did not understand one word of the man’s arguments, but each time he finished talking Helge raised his four fingers and repeated his quattro, adding with a superior air: “Non antica!”
But the shopkeeper protested, “Si, antica.” “Quattro,” said Helge again—the man had now only five fingers in the air—and turned towards the door. The man called him back, accepting, and Helge, feeling highly pleased with himself, went out with his purchase wrapped up in pink tissue paper.
He perceived the dark mass of the church at the bottom of the street outlined against the sky, and walked on. He hurried[14] across the first part of the piazza with its lighted shop windows and passing trams towards the two semicircular arcades51, which laid a pair of rounded arms, as it were, about one part of the place, drawing it into the quiet and darkness of the massive church, with its broad steps extending in a shell-like formation far out on the piazza.
The dome of the church and the row of saints along the roof of the arcades stood out black against the faint light of the sky; the trees and houses on the hill at the back seemed to be heaped one on top of the other in an irregular fashion. The street lamps were powerless here, the darkness streamed forth52 between the pillars, and spread over the steps from the open portico53 of the church. He went slowly up the steps close to the church and looked through the iron doors. Then he went back again to the obelisk54 in the middle of the piazza and stood there gazing at the dark building. He bent55 his head back, and followed with his eyes the slender needle of stone that pointed straight into the evening sky, where the last clouds had descended56 on the roofs of that part of the town whence he had come, and the first radiant sparks of the stars pierced the gathering57 darkness.
Again his ears caught the sound of water emptying into a stone cistern58, and the soft ripple59 of the overflow60 from one receptacle into another into the basin. He approached one of the fountains and watched the thick, white jet, driven upwards61 as it were in angry defiance62 and looking black against the clear atmosphere, to break high in the air and sink back into the darkness, where the water gleamed white again. He kept staring at it until a gust63 of wind took hold of the jet and bent it towards him, raining icy drops on his face, but he remained where he was, listening and staring. Then he walked a few steps—stood still—and walked again, but very slowly, listening to an inner voice. It was true, then—really true—that he was here, far, far away from everything he had longed so[15] intensely to leave. And he walked still more slowly, furtively64, like one who has escaped from prison.
At the corner of the street there was a restaurant. He made for it, and on his way found a tobacco shop, where he bought some cigarettes, picture cards and stamps. Waiting for his steak, he drank big gulps65 of claret, while he wrote to his parents; to his father: “I have been thinking of you very often today”—it was true enough—and to his mother: “I have already got a small present for you, the first thing I bought here in Rome.” Poor mother—how was she? He had often been impatient with her these last years. He unpacked66 the thing and had a look at it—it was probably meant for a scent-bottle. He added a few words to his mother’s card that he managed the language all right, and that to bargain in the shops was an easy matter.
The food was good, but dear. Never mind, once he was more at home here he would soon learn how to live cheaply. Satisfied and exhilarated by the wine, he started to walk in a new direction, past long, low, dilapidated houses, through an archway on to a bridge. A man in a barrier hut stopped him and made him understand that he had to pay a soldo. On the other side of the bridge was a large, dark church with a dome.
He got into a labyrinth67 of dark, narrow bits of streets—in the mysterious gloom he surmised68 the existence of old palaces with projecting cornices and lattice windows side by side with miserable69 hovels, and small church-fronts in between the rows of houses. There were no pavements and he stepped into refuse that lay rotting in the gutter16. Outside the narrow doors of the lighted taverns70 and under the few street lamps he had a vague glimpse of human forms.
He was half delighted, half afraid—boyishly excited, and wondering at the same time how he was to get out of this maze71 and find the way to his hotel at the ends of the earth—take a cab, he supposed.
[16]
He passed down another narrow, almost empty street. A small strip of clear, blue sky was visible between the high houses with their frameless windows, looking like black holes cut in the wall. On the uneven72 stone bridge dust and straw and bits of paper were tossed about by a light gust of wind.
Two women, walking behind him, passed him close under a lamp. He gave a start: they were the ones he had noticed that afternoon in the Corso and believed to be Norwegian. He recognized the light furs of the taller one.
Suddenly he felt an impulse to try an adventure—to ask them the way, so as to hear if they were Norwegian—or Scandinavian at any rate, for they were certainly foreigners. With slightly beating heart he started to walk after them.
The two young girls stopped outside a shop, which was closed, and then walked on. Helge wondered if he should say “Please” or “Bitte” or “Scusi”—or if he should blurt73 out at once “Undskyld”—it would be funny if they were Norwegians.
The girls turned a corner; Helge was close upon them, screwing up courage to address them. The smaller one turned round angrily and said something in Italian in a low voice. He felt disappointed and was going to vanish after an apology, when the tall one said in Norwegian: “You should not speak to them, Cesca—it is much better to pretend not to notice.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Helge, and the two girls stopped, turning round quickly.
“I hope you will excuse me,” he muttered, colouring, and, angrily conscious of it, blushed still deeper. “I only arrived from Florence today, and have lost my way in these winding75 streets. I thought you were Norwegian, or at any rate Scandinavian, and I cannot manage the Italian language. Would[17] you be kind enough to tell me where to find a car? My name is Gram,” he added, raising his hat again.
“Where do you live?” asked the taller girl.
“At a place called the Albergo Torino, close to the station,” he explained.
“He should take the Trastevere tram at San Carlo ai Catenari,” said the other.
“No; better take a No. 1 at the new Corso.”
“But those cars don’t go to the Termini,” answered the little one.
“Yes, they do. Those that have San Pietro, stazione Termini, written on them,” she explained to Helge.
“Oh, that one! It runs past Capo le Case and Ludovisi and an awful long way about first—it will take an hour at least to the station with that one.”
“No, dear; it goes direct—straight along Via Nazionale.”
“It does not,” insisted the other; “it goes to the Lateran first.”
The taller girl turned to Helge: “The first turning right will take you into a sort of market. From there you go along the Cancellaria on your left to the new Corso. If I remember rightly, the tram stops at the Cancellaria—somewhere near it anyway—you will see the sign. But be sure to take the tram marked San Pietro, stazione Termini, No. 1.”
Helge stood somewhat crestfallen76, listening to the foreign names which the girls used with such easy familiarity, and, shaking his head, said: “I am afraid I shall never be able to find it—perhaps I had better walk till I find a cab.”
“We might go with you to the stop,” said the tall one.
The little one whispered peevishly77 something in Italian, but the other answered her decisively. Helge felt still more confused at these asides, which he did not understand.
[18]
“Thank you, but please do not trouble. I am sure to find my way home somehow or other.”
“It is no trouble,” said the tall one, starting to walk; “it is on our way.”
“It is very kind of you; I suppose it is rather difficult to find one’s way about in Rome, is it not?” he said, by way of conversation—“especially when it is dark.”
“Oh no, you will soon get into it.”
“I only arrived here today. I came from Florence this morning by train.” The smaller one said something in an undertone in Italian. The tall one asked: “Was it very cold in Florence?”
“Yes, bitterly cold. It is milder here, is it not? I wrote my mother anyway yesterday to send my winter coat.”
“Well, it is cold enough here too sometimes. Did you like Florence? How long were you there?”
“A fortnight. I think I shall like Rome better than Florence.”
The other young girl smiled—she had been muttering to herself in Italian all the time—but the tall one went on in her pleasant, quiet voice:
“I don’t believe there is any town one could love as much as Rome.”
“Is your friend Italian?” asked Helge.
“No; Miss Jahrman is Norwegian. We speak Italian because I want to learn, and she is very good at it. My name is Winge,” she added. “That is the Cancellaria.” She pointed towards a big, dark palace.
“Is the courtyard as fine as it is reported to be?”
“Yes; it is very fine. I will show you which car.” While they stood waiting two men came across the street.
“Hullo, you here!” exclaimed one of them.
“Good evening,” said the other. “What luck! We can go together. Have you been to look at the corals?”
[19]
“It was closed,” said Miss Jahrman sulkily.
“We have met a fellow-countryman, and promised to show him the right tram,” Miss Winge explained, introducing: “Mr. Gram—Mr. Heggen, artist, and Mr. Ahlin, sculptor78.”
“I don’t know if you remember me, Mr. Heggen—my name is Gram; we met three years ago on the Mysusaeter.”
“Oh yes—certainly. And so you are in Rome?”
Ahlin and Miss Jahrman had stood talking to one another in whispers. The girl came up to her friend and said: “I am going home, Jenny. I am not in the mood for Frascati tonight.”
“But, my dear, you suggested it yourself.”
“Well, not Frascati anyway—ugh! sit there and mope with thirty old Danish ladies of every possible age and sex.”
“We can go somewhere else. But there is your tram coming, Mr. Gram.”
“A thousand thanks for your help. Shall I see you again—at the Scandinavian club, perhaps?”
The tram stopped in front of them. Miss Winge said: “I don’t know—perhaps you would like to come with us now; we were going to have a glass of wine somewhere, and hear some music.”
“Thank you.” Helge hesitated, looking round at the others a little embarrassed. “I should be very pleased, but”—and, turning with confidence to Miss Winge of the fair face and the kind voice, he said, with an awkward smile, “you all know one another—perhaps you would rather not have a stranger with you?”
“Indeed no,” she said, smiling—“it would be very nice—and there—your tram’s gone now. You know Heggen already, and now you know us. We’ll see you get home all right, so if you are not tired, let us go.”
“Tired, not a bit. I should love to come,” said Helge eagerly.
[20]
The other three began to propose different cafés. Helge knew none of the names; his father had not mentioned them. Miss Jahrman rejected them all.
“Very well, then, let us go down to St. Agostino; you know the one, Gunnar, where they give you that first-rate claret,” and Jenny began to walk on, accompanied by Heggen.
“There is no music,” retorted Miss Jahrman.
“Oh yes, the man with a squint79 and the other fellow are there almost every night. Don’t let us waste time.”
Helge followed with Miss Jahrman and the Swedish sculptor.
“Have you been long in Rome, Mr. Gram?”
“No, I came this morning from Florence.”
Miss Jahrman laughed. Helge felt rather snubbed. He ought perhaps to have said he was tired, and gone home. On their way down through dark, narrow streets Miss Jahrman talked all the time to the sculptor, and scarcely answered when he tried to speak to her. But before he had made up his mind he saw the other couple vanish through a narrow door down the street.
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收听单词发音
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1
bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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2
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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3
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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4
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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5
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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6
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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7
linings
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| n.衬里( lining的名词复数 )；里子；衬料；组织 | |
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8
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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9
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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10
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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12
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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13
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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14
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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15
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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16
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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17
gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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18
cascades
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| 倾泻( cascade的名词复数 )； 小瀑布（尤指一连串瀑布中的一支）； 瀑布状物； 倾泻（或涌出）的东西 | |
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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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20
corrugated
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| adj.波纹的；缩成皱纹的；波纹面的；波纹状的v.（使某物）起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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21
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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22
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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cypresses
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| n.柏属植物，柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
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28
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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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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hustling
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| 催促（hustle的现在分词形式） | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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35
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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38
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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40
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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41
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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42
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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43
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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44
pottery
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| n.陶器，陶器场 | |
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45
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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46
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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47
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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48
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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49
rococo
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| n.洛可可；adj.过分修饰的 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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51
arcades
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| n.商场( arcade的名词复数 )；拱形走道（两旁有商店或娱乐设施）；连拱廊；拱形建筑物 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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54
obelisk
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| n.方尖塔 | |
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55
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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56
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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57
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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58
cistern
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| n.贮水池 | |
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59
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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60
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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61
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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62
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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63
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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65
gulps
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| n.一大口（尤指液体）( gulp的名词复数 )v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的第三人称单数 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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66
unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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67
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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68
surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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69
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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71
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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72
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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73
blurt
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| vt.突然说出，脱口说出 | |
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74
rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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75
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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76
crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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77
peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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78
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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79
squint
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| v. 使变斜视眼, 斜视, 眯眼看, 偏移, 窥视; n. 斜视, 斜孔小窗; adj. 斜视的, 斜的 | |
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