The hotel opened, and the small houses by the pier were filled with summer visitors; children swarmed11 on the white beach, rolling in the sand and paddling in the water. Mothers and nurses in national costumes of the Spreewald sat on the grass with their sewing, looking after them. The bathing-huts had been transported into the sea, and young girls were shouting and laughing in the water. Sailing yachts anchored by the pier, tourists came from the town, in the evenings there[252] was dancing in the hotel, and couples walked about in the small plantation12 where Jenny used to lie in the grass early in the spring listening to the wash of the waves and the rustling13 of the wind in the scraggy tree-tops.
One or two of the ladies looked at her with interest and compassion14 when she walked on the beach in her black and white dress. The summer visitors staying in the village had got to know that a young Norwegian girl had had a child and was disconsolately15 mourning its death, and some of them found it more touching16 than scandalous.
She much preferred walking out into the country, where the summer boarders never went. Once in a while she went as far as the cemetery17, where her boy was buried. She sat staring at the grave, which she had not wished to have tended in any way, sometimes laying on it some wild flowers which she had picked on the way, but her mind refused to associate the little mound18 of grey earth with her beloved little boy.
In her room in the evenings she sat staring at the lamp—with needlework which she never touched. And her thoughts were always the same: she remembered the days when she had the boy—first the faint, peaceful joy while she was in bed, getting well, then when she was sitting up and Mrs. Schlessinger showed her how to bath and dress and handle him, and when they went to Warnemünde together to buy fine material, lace, and ribbon, and how on their return home she cut and sewed, designed and embroidered19. Her boy was to have nice things, instead of the common, ready-made outfit20 she had ordered from Berlin. She had also bought a ridiculous garden syringe of green-painted tin, with pictures of a lion and a tiger, standing21 by a blue sea amid palms and looking with awe22 at the German dreadnoughts steaming away towards the African possessions of the Empire. She had found it so amusing that she bought it for baby-boy to play with when he should be big enough—after a very long time. He must first learn to find[253] mother’s breast, which at present he only blindly sought for, and to discover his own little fingers, which he could not separate when he had clutched them together. By and by he would be able to recognize his mother, to look at the lamp and at mother’s watch when she was dangling23 it before his eyes. There were so many things baby-boy would have to learn.
All his things were in a drawer she never opened. She knew what every little piece looked like; she could feel them in the palms of her hands, the soft linen24 and the fluffy25 woollen things and the unfinished jacket of green flannel26 on which she had embroidered yellow buttercups—the jacket he was to wear when she took him out.
She had begun a picture of the beach with red and blue children on the white sands. Some of the compassionate27 ladies came to look at it, trying to make acquaintance with her: “How nice!” But she was not pleased with the sketch28, and cared neither to finish it nor to make a new one.
Then one day the hotel closed up again, the sea was stormy, and summer had gone.
Gunnar wrote from Italy, advising her to go there. Cesca wanted her to go to Sweden, and her mother, who knew nothing, wrote she could not understand why she stayed so long in Germany. Jenny was thinking of going away, but she could not make up her mind, although a faint longing29 began to stir in her.
She became restless at going about like that without being able to do anything. She had to take a decision—even if it came only to throwing herself into the sea one night from the pier.
One evening she took out Heggen’s books from their case. Among them was one with poetry—Fiori della Poesia Italiana—in an edition for tourists, bound in leather. She turned the leaves to see if she had forgotten all her Italian.
[254]
The book fell open by itself at Lorenzo di Medici’s carnival30 song, where a folded piece of paper lay in Gunnar’s handwriting:
“Dear Mother,—I may tell you now that I have arrived safely in Italy and am quite comfortable, and that”—the rest of the sheet was covered with words to learn. Beside the verbs he had written down the conjugations, and the margin31 all along the melodramatic poetry was tightly covered with notes: Quant’è bella giovenezza, che se fugge tuttavia.
Even the commonest words were written down. Gunnar had probably tried to read the book directly he came to Italy, before he knew the language at all. On the first page was written “G. Heggen, Firenze, 1903”—that was before she knew him.
She began to read here and there. It was Leopardi’s “Ode to Italy,” which Gunnar was so enthusiastic about. She read it. The margin was full of notes and ink-spots.
It was as if he had sent her a message more intimate than any of his letters. Young, sound, firm, and active, he was calling her, asking her to come back to life—and work. Oh, if she could gather courage and begin work again! She wanted to try—to make her choice whether for life or death; she wanted to go out there where once she had felt herself free and strong—alone save for her work. She longed for her friends, the trusty comrades who never came too near to hurt one another, but lived side by side, each minding their own business and all sharing what they possessed33 in common: the belief in their ability and the joy of their work. She wanted to see again the country of mountains, with proud, severe lines and sunburnished colours.
A few days later she left for Berlin, where she stayed some time visiting the galleries, but, feeling tired and forlorn, she went on the Munich.
In the Alte Pinakothek she stopped before Rembrandt’s[255] “Holy Family.” She did not look at it from a painter’s point of view; she only looked at the young peasant woman who, with her garment still drawn34 aside from her full bosom35, sat looking at her child sleeping on her lap, and holding his foot caressingly36 in her hand. It was an ugly little peasant boy, but in splendid condition; he was sound asleep and such a darling all the same. Joseph was looking at him across the mother’s shoulder, but it was not an old Joseph, and Mary was no immaterial, heavenly bride; they were a strong, middle-aged37 working man and his young wife, and the child was the joy and pride of the two.
In the evening she wrote to Gert Gram a long, sad and tender letter bidding him farewell for ever.
On the following day she took a through ticket to Florence; after a sleepless38 night in the train she found herself sitting at the window at daybreak. Wild torrents39 spurted40 down the forest-clad mountain-sides. It grew lighter41 and lighter, and the towns became more and more Italian in character: rust-brown or golden-yellow tiles, loggias to the houses, green shutters42 against reddish stone walls, church fronts in baroque, stone bridges across the rivers, vineyards outside the towns, and grey castle ruins on the hilltops. At the stations all the signs were written in German and Italian.
She stood in the customs office looking at the first- and second-class passengers startled out of their sleep, and she felt quite happy without being able to account for it. She was back again in Italy. The customs officer smiled at her because she was so fair, and she smiled back; evidently he took her for the maid of one or other of the lady passengers.
The misty44 grey mountains ridges43 on either side had a bluish shade in the crevices45, the ground looked rusty32 red, and the sun flamed white and hot.
But in Florence it was bitterly cold in the early days of November. Tired and frozen, she stayed in the city a fortnight—her[256] heart cold to all the beauty around her, and melancholy46 and discouraged because it did not warm her as before.
One morning she went to Rome. The ground was white with frost all the way down through Toscana; in the middle of the day the frosty mist lifted and the sun shone—and she saw again a spot she had never forgotten: the lake of Trasimene lying pale blue, surrounded by the mountains. A point of land projected into the water, with towers and pinnacles47 of a small stone-grey town, with a cypress48 avenue leading from the station.
She arrived at Rome in pouring rain. Gunnar was on the platform to meet her, and he squeezed her hands as he wished her welcome. He went on talking and laughing all the time as they drove from the station to the quarters he had engaged for her, the rain splashing against the cab from the grey sky and from the street paving.
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1
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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5
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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6
irises
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| n.虹( iris的名词复数 )；虹膜；虹彩；鸢尾（花） | |
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7
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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8
permeated
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| 弥漫( permeate的过去式和过去分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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9
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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10
tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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11
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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12
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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16
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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18
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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19
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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21
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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22
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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23
dangling
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| 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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24
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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27
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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28
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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29
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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30
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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31
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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32
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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34
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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38
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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39
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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40
spurted
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| （液体，火焰等）喷出，（使）涌出( spurt的过去式和过去分词 )； （短暂地）加速前进，冲刺 | |
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41
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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42
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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43
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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44
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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45
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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46
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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47
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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48
cypress
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| n.柏树 | |
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