Half past six on the following morning found Constance and her father rising from the breakfast table and Tony turning in at the gate. Constance’s nod of greeting was barely perceptible, and her father’s eye contained a twinkle as he watched her. Tony studied her mountain-climbing costume with an air of concern.
“You go wif us, signorina?” His expression was blended of surprise and disapproval1, but in spite of himself his tone was triumphant2. “You say to me yesterday you no want to climb any more mountain.”
“I have changed my mind.”
“But zis mountain today too long, too high. You get tired, signorina. Perhaps anozzer day we take li’l’ baby mountain, zen you can go.”
“I am going today.”
“It is not possible, signorina. I have not brought ze donk’.”
“Oh, I’m going to walk.”
“As you please, signorina.”
He sighed patiently. Then he looked up and caught her eye. They both laughed.
“Signorina,” he whispered, “I ver’ happy today. Zat Costantina she more kind. Yesterday ver’ unkind; I go home ver’ sad. But today I sink—”
“Yes?”
“I sink after all maybe she like me li’l’ bit.”
Giuseppe rowed the three climbers a mile or so down the lake and set them ashore3 at the base of their mountain. They started up gaily4 and had accomplished5 half their journey before they thought of being tired. Tony surpassed himself; if he had been entertaining the day before he was doubly so now. His spirits were bubbling over and contagious6. He and Constance acted like two children out of school. They ran races and talked to the peasants in the wayside cottages. They drove a herd7 of goats for half a mile while the goatherd strolled behind and smoked Tony’s cigarettes. Constance took a water jar from a little girl they met coming from the fountain and endeavored to balance it on her own head, with the result that she nearly drowned both herself and the child.
They finally stopped for luncheon8 in a grove9 of chestnut10 trees with sheep nibbling11 on the hillside below them and a shepherd boy somewhere out of sight playing on a mouth organ. It should have been a flute12, but they were in a forgiving mood. Constance this time did her share of the work. She and Tony together spread the cloth and made the coffee while her father fanned himself and looked on. If Mr. Wilder had any unusual thoughts in regard to the donkey-man, they were at least not reflected in his face.
When they had finished their meal Tony spread his coat under a tree.
“Signorina,” he said, “perhaps you li’l’ tired? Look, I make nice place to sleep. You lie down and rest while ze Signor Papa and me, we have li’l’ smoke. Zen after one, two hours I come call you.”
Constance very willingly accepted the suggestion. They had walked five uphill miles since morning. It was two hours later that she opened her eyes to find Tony bending over her. She sat up and regarded him sternly. He had the grace to blush.
“Tony, did you kiss my hand?”
“Scusi, signorina. I ver’ sorry to wake you, but it is tree o’clock and ze Signor Papa he say we must start just now or we nevair get to ze top.”
“Answer my question.”
“Signorina, I cannot tell to you a lie. It is true, I forget I am just poor donkey-man. I play li’l’ game. You sleeping beauty; I am ze prince. I come to wake you. Just one kiss I drop on your hand—one ver’ little kiss, signorina.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be so funny, Tony; I can’t scold you as much as you deserve. But I am angry just the same, and if anything like that ever happens again I shall be very very angry.
“Signorina, I would not make you very very angry for anysing. As long as I live nosing like zat shall happen again. No, nevair, I promise.”
They plunged14 into a pine wood and climbed for another two hours, the summit always vanishing before them like a mirage15. At the end of that time they were apparently16 no nearer their goal than when they had started. They had followed first one path, then another, until they had lost all sense of direction, and finally when they came to a place where three paths diverged17, they had to acknowledge themselves definitely lost. Mr. Wilder elected one path, Tony another, and Constance sat down on a rock.
“I’m not going any farther,” she observed.
“You can’t stay here all night,” said her father.
“Well, I can’t walk over this mountain all night. We don’t get anywhere; we merely move in circles. I don’t think much of the guide you engaged. He doesn’t know his way.”
“He wasn’t engaged to know his way,” Tony retorted. “He was engaged to wear earrings18 and sing Santa Lucia.”
Constance continued to sit on her rock while Tony went forward on a reconnoitering expedition. He returned in ten minutes with the information that there was a shepherd’s hut not very far off with a shepherd inside who would like to be friendly. If the signorina would deign19 to ask some questions in the Italian language which she spoke20 so fluently, they could doubtless obtain directions as to the way home.
They found the shepherd, the shepherdess and four little shepherds eating their evening polenta in an earth-floored room, with half a dozen chickens and the family pig gathered about them in an expectant group. They rose politely and invited the travellers to enter. It was an event in their simple lives when foreigners presented themselves at the door.
Constance commenced amenities21 by announcing that she had been walking on the mountain since sunrise and was starving. Did they by chance have any fresh milk?
“Starving! Madonna mia, how dreadful!” Madame held up her hands. But yes, to be sure they had fresh milk. They kept four cows. That was their business—turning milk into cheese and selling it on market day in the village. Also they had some fresh mountain strawberries which Beppo had gathered that morning—perhaps they too might be pleasing to the signorina?
Constance nodded affirmatively, and added, with her eyes on the pig, that it might be pleasanter to eat outside where they could look at the view. She became quite gay again over what she termed their afternoon tea-party, and her father had to remind her most insistently23 that if they wished to get down before darkness overtook them they must start at once. An Italian twilight24 is short. They paid for the food and presented a lira apiece to the children, leaving them silhouetted25 against the sky in a bobbing row shouting musical farewells.
Their host led them through the woods and out on to the brow of the mountain in order to start them down by the right path. He regretted that he could not go all the way but the sheep had still to be brought in for the night. At the parting he was garrulous26 with directions.
The easiest way to get home now would be straight down the mountain to Grotta del Monte—he pointed27 out the brown-tiled roofs of a village far below them—there they could find donkeys or an ox-cart to take them back. It was nine kilometres to Valedolmo. They had come quite out of their way; if they had taken the right path in the morning they would have reached the top where the view was magnificant—truly magnificant. It was a pity to miss it. Perhaps some other day they would like to come again and he himself would be pleased to guide them. He shook hands and wished them a pleasant journey. They would best hurry a trifle, he added, for darkness came fast and when one got caught on the mountain at night—he shrugged28 his shoulders and looked at Tony—one needed a guide who knew his business.
They had walked for ten minutes when they heard someone shouting behind and found a young man calling to them to wait. He caught up with them and breathlessly explained.
Pasquale had told him that they were foreigners from America who were climbing the mountain for diversion and who had lost their way. He was going down to the village himself and would be pleased to guide them.
He fell into step beside Constance and commenced asking questions, while Tony, as the path was narrow, perforce fell behind. Occasionally Constance translated, but usually she laughed without translating, and Tony, for the twentieth time, found himself hating the Italian language.
The young man’s questions were refreshingly29 ingenuous30. He was curious about America, since he was thinking, he said, of becoming an American himself some day. He knew a man once who had gone to America to live and had made a fortune there—but yes a large fortune—ten thousand lire in four years. Perhaps the signorina knew him—Giuseppe Motta; he lived in Buenos Aires. And what did it look like—America? How was it different from Italy?
Constance described the skyscrapers31 in New York.
His wonder was intense. A building twenty stories high! Dio mio! He should hate to mount himself up all those stairs. Were the buildings like that in the country too? Did the shepherds live in houses twenty stories high?
“Oh no,” she laughed. “In the country the houses are just like these only they are made of wood instead of stone.”
“Of wood?” He opened his eyes. “But signorina, do they never burn?”
He had another question to ask. He had been told—though of course he did not believe it—that the Indians in America had red skins.
Constance nodded yes. His eyes opened wider.
“Not quite,” she admitted.
“But how it must be diverting,” he sighed, “to travel the world over and see different things.” He fell silent and trudged33 on beside her, the wanderlust in his eyes.
It was almost dark when they reached the big arched gateway34 that led into the village. Here their ways parted and they paused for farewell.
“Signorina,” the young man said suddenly, “take me with you back to America. I will prune35 your olive trees, I will tend your vines. You can leave me in charge when you go on your travels.”
She shook her head with a laugh.
“But I have no vines; I have no olive trees. You would be homesick for Italy.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Then good bye. You, signorina, will go around the world and see many sights while I, for travel, shall ride on a donkey to Valedolmo.”
He shook hands all around and with the grace of a prince accepted two of Tony’s cigarettes. His parting speech showed him a fatalist.
“What will be, will be. There is a girl—” he waved his hand vaguely36 in the direction of the village. “If I go to America then I cannot stay behind and marry Maria. So perhaps it is planned for the best. You will find me, signorina, when next you come to Italy, still digging the ground in Grotta del Monte.”
As he swung away Tony glanced after him with a suggestion of malice37, then he transferred his gaze to the empty gateway.
“I see no one else with whom you can talk Italian. Perhaps for ten minutes you will deign to speak English with me?”
“I am too tired to talk,” she threw over her shoulder as she followed her father through the gate.
They plunged into a tangle38 of tortuous39 paved streets, the houses pressing each other as closely as if there were not all the outside world to spread in. Grotta del Monte is built on a slope and its streets are in reality long narrow flights of stairs all converging40 in the little piazza41. The moon was not yet up, and aside from an occasional flickering42 light before a madonna’s shrine43, the way was black.
“Signorina, take my arm. I’m afraid maybe you fall.”
Tony’s voice was humbly44 persuasive45. Constance laughed and laid her hand lightly on his arm. Tony dropped his own hand over hers and held her firmly. Neither spoke until they came to the piazza.
“Signorina,” he whispered, “you make me ver’ happy tonight.”
She drew her hand away.
“I’m tired, Tony. I’m not quite myself.”
“No, signorina, yesterday I sink maybe you not yourself, but to-day you ver’ good ver’ kind—jus’ your own self ze way you ought to be.”
The piazza, after the dark, narrow streets that led to it, seemed bubbling with life. The day’s work was finished and the evening’s play had begun. In the center, where a fountain splashed into a broad bowl, groups of women and girls with copper46 water-jars were laughing and gossiping as they waited their turns. One side of the square was flanked by the imposing47 façade of a church with the village saint on a pedestal in front; the other side, by a cheerfully inviting48 osteria with tables and chairs set into the street and a glimpse inside of a blazing hearth49 and copper kettles.
Mr. Wilder headed in a straight line for the nearest chair and dropped into it with an expression of permanence. Constance followed and they held a colloquy50 with a bowing host. He was vague as to the finding of carriage or donkeys, but if they would accommodate themselves until after supper there would be a diligence along which would take them back to Valedolmo.
“How soon will the diligence arrive?” asked Constance.
The man spread out his hands.
“It is due in three quarters of an hour, but it may be early and it may be late. It arrives when God and the driver wills.”
“In that case,” she laughed, “we will accommodate ourselves until after supper—and we have appetites! Please bring everything you have.”
They supped on minestra and fritto misto washed down with the red wine of Grotta del Monte, which, their host assured them, was famous through all the country. He could not believe that they had never heard of it in Valedolmo. People sent for it from far off; even from Verona.
They finished their supper and the famous wine, but there was still no diligence. The village also had finished its supper and was drifting in family groups into the piazza. The moon was just showing above the house-tops, and its light, combined with the blazing braziers before the cook-shops made the square a patch work of brilliant high-lights and black shadows from deep cut doorways51. Constance sat up alertly and watched the people crowding past. Across from the inn an itinerant53 show had established itself on a rudely improvised54 stage, with two flaring55 torches which threw their light half across the piazza, and turned the spray of the fountain into an iridescent56 shower. The gaiety of the scene was contagious. Constance rose insistently.
“Come, Dad; let’s go over and see what they’re doing.”
“No, thank you, my dear. I prefer my chair.”
“Oh, Dad, you’re so phlegmatic57!”
“But I thought you were tired.”
“I’m not any more; I want to see the play.—You come then, Tony.”
Tony rose with an elaborate sigh.
“As you please, signorina,” he murmured obediently. An onlooker58 would have thought Constance cruel in dragging him away from his well-earned rest.
They made their way across the piazza and mounted the church steps behind the crowd where they could look across obliquely59 to the little stage. A clown was dancing to the music of a hurdy-gurdy while a woman in a tawdry pink satin evening gown beat an accompaniment on a drum. It was a very poor play with very poor players, and yet it represented to these people of Grotta del Monte something of life, of the big outside world which they in their little village would never see. Their upturned faces touched by the moonlight and the flare60 of the torches contained a look of wondering eagerness—the same look that had been in the eyes of the young peasant when he had begged to be taken to America.
The two stood back in the shadow of the doorway52 watching the people with the same interest that the people were expending61 on the stage. A child had been lifted to the base of the saint’s pedestal in order to see, and in the excitement of a duel62 between two clowns he suddenly lost his balance and toppled off. His mother snatched him up quickly and commenced covering the hurt arm with kisses to make it well.
Constance laughed.
“Isn’t it queer,” she asked, “to think how different these people are from us and yet how exactly the same. Their way of living is absolutely foreign but their feelings are just like yours and mine.”
He touched her arm and called her attention to a man and a girl on the step below them. It was the young peasant again who had guided them down the mountain, but who now had eyes for no one but Maria. She leaned toward him to see the stage and his arm was around her. Their interest in the play was purely63 a pretense64 and both of them knew it.
Tony laughed softly and echoed her words.
“Yes, their feelings are just like yours and mine.”
He slipped his arm around her.
Constance drew back quickly.
“I think,” she remarked, “that the diligence has come.”
They returned to the inn to find Mr. Wilder already on the front seat, and obligingly holding the reins66, while the driver occupied himself with a glass of the famous wine. The diligence was a roomy affair of four seats and three horses. Behind the driver were three Italians gesticulating violently over local politics; a new sindaco was imminent67. Behind these were three black-hooded nuns68 covertly70 interested in the woman in the pink evening gown. And behind the three, occupying the exact center of the rear seat, was a fourth nun69 with the portly bearing of a Mother Superior. She was very comfortable as she was, and did not propose to move. Constance climbed up on one side of her and Tony on the other.
“We are well chaperoned,” he grumbled71, as they jolted72 out of the piazza. “I always did think that the Church interfered73 too much with the rights of individuals.”
Constance, in a spirit of friendly expansiveness, proceeded to pick up an acquaintance with the nuns, and the four black heads were presently bobbing in unison74, while Tony, in gloomy isolation75 at his end of the seat, folded his arms and stared at the road. The driver had passed through many villages that day and had drunk many glasses of famous wine; he cracked his whip and sang as he drove. They rattled76 in and out of stone-paved villages, along open stretches of moonlit road, past villas77 and olive groves78. Children screamed after them, dogs barked, Constance and her four nuns were very vivacious79, and Tony’s gloom deepened with every mile.
They had covered three quarters of the distance when the diligence was brought to a halt before a high stone wall and a solid barred gate. The nuns came back to the present with an excited cackling. Who would believe they had reached the convent so soon! They made their adieus and ponderously80 descended81, their departure accelerated by Tony who had become of a sudden alertly helpful. As they started again he slid along into the Mother Superior’s empty seat.
“What were we saying when the diligence interrupted?” he inquired.
“I don’t remember, Tony, but I don’t want to talk any more; I’m tired.”
“You tired, signorina? Lay your head on my shoulder and go to sleep.”
“Tony, please behave yourself. I’m simply too tired to make you do it.”
He reached over and took her hand. She did not try to withdraw it for two—three minutes; then she shot him a sidewise glance.
“Tony,” she said, “don’t you think you are forgetting your place?”
“No, signorina, I am just learning it.”
“Let go my hand.”
“Tony! I shall be angry with you.”
“I shall be ver’ sorry for zat, signorina. I do not wish to make you angry, but I sink—perhaps you get over it.”
“You are behaving abominably83 today, Tony. I shall never stay alone with you again.”
“Signorina, look at zat moon up dere. Is it not ver’ bright? When I look at zat moon I have always beautiful toughts about how much I love Costantina.”
An interval84 followed during which neither spoke. The driver’s song was growing louder and the horses were galloping85. The diligence suddenly rounded a curved cliff on two wheels. Constance lurched against him; he caught her and held her. Her lips were very near his; he kissed her softly.
She moved to the far end of the seat and faced him with flushed cheeks.
“I thought you were a gentleman!”
“I used to be, signorina; now I am only poor donkey-man.”
“I shall never speak to you again. You can climb as many mountains as you wish with my father, but you can’t have anything more to do with me.”
“Scusi, signorina. I—I did not mean to. It was just an accident, signorina.”
Constance turned her back and stared at the road.
“It was not my fault. Truly it was not my fault. I did not wish to kiss you—no nevair. But I could not help it. You put your head too close.”
She raised her eyes and studied the mountain-top.
“Signorina, why you treat me so cruel?”
Her back was inflexible86.
“I am desolate87. If you forgive me zis once I will nevair again do a sing so wicked. Nevair, nevair, nevair.”
Constance continued her inspection88 of the mountain-top. Tony leaned forward until he could see her face.
“Signorina,” he whispered, “jus’ give me one li’l’ smile to show me you are not angry forever.”
The stage had stopped and Mr. Wilder was climbing down but Constance’s gaze was still fixed89 on the sky, and Tony’s eyes were on her.
“What’s the matter, Constance, have you gone to sleep? Aren’t you going to get out?”
She came back with a start.
“Are we here already?”
There was a suspicion of regret in her tone which did not escape Tony.
At the Villa22 Rosa gates he wished them a humbly deferential90 good-night but with a smile hovering91 about the corners of his mouth. Constance made no response. As he strode off, however, she turned her head and looked after him. He turned too and caught her. He waved his hand with a laugh, and took up his way, whistling Santa Lucia in double time.
该作者的其它作品
《DADDY-LONG-LEGS 长腿叔叔》
该作者的其它作品
《DADDY-LONG-LEGS 长腿叔叔》
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1
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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8
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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11
nibbling
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的现在分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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12
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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diverged
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| 分开( diverge的过去式和过去分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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18
earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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20
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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21
amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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insistently
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| ad.坚持地 | |
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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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silhouetted
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| 显出轮廓的，显示影像的 | |
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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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28
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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refreshingly
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| adv.清爽地，有精神地 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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skyscrapers
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| n.摩天大楼 | |
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32
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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prune
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| n.酶干；vt.修剪，砍掉，削减；vi.删除 | |
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36
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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40
converging
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| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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41
piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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42
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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43
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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itinerant
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| adj.巡回的；流动的 | |
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improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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iridescent
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| adj.彩虹色的，闪色的 | |
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phlegmatic
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| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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onlooker
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| n.旁观者，观众 | |
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obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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expending
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| v.花费( expend的现在分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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covertly
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| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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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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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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ponderously
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81
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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86
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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87
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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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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89
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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