Sybert fastened the horses to a low beam by means of their bridles7, while Marcia sat down upon a plough and pensively8 regarded the landscape. He presently joined her.
‘This is not a very cheerful refuge,’ he remarked; ‘but at least it is drier than the open road.’
She moved along and offered him part of her seat.
‘I think I can improve on that,’ he said, as he rummaged9 out a board from a pile of lumber10 and fitted it at a somewhat precarious11 slope across the plough. They gingerly sat down upon it and Marcia observed—
‘It would at least be more comfortable,’ he returned.
The rain was beating fiercely by this time, and the lightning flashes were following each other in quick succession. Black clouds were rolling inland from across the Volscian mountains and piling layer upon layer above their heads. Marcia sat watching the gathering13 storm, and presently she exclaimed:
‘This might be a situation out of a book! To be overtaken by a thunderstorm in the Sabine mountains and seek shelter in a deserted14 wine-cellar—it sounds like one of the “Duchess’s” novels.’
She laughed softly, with an undertone of excitement in her voice.
‘I’ve never had so many adventures in my life as since we came out to Villa17 Vivalanti—Marcellus, and Gervasio, and Gervasio’s stepfather, and now a cloud-burst in the mountains! If they’re going to rise to a climax18, I can’t imagine what our stay will end with.’
131 ‘Henry James, you know, says that the only adventures worth having are intellectual adventures.’
Marcia considered this proposition doubtfully.
‘In an intellectual adventure,’ she objected, ‘you could never be quite sure that it really was an adventure; you’d always be afraid you’d imagined half of it. I think I prefer mine more visibly exciting. There’s something picturesque19 in a certain amount of real bloodshed.’
Sybert turned his eyes away from her with a gesture of indifference20.
‘Oh, if it’s merely bloodshed you’re after,’ he said dryly, ‘you’ll find as much as you like in any butcher’s shop.’
She watched him for a moment and then she observed, ‘I suppose you are disagreeable on purpose, Mr. Sybert. You have a—’ she hesitated for a word, and as none presented itself, substituted a generic21 term—‘horrid way of answering a person.’
He turned back toward her with a laugh. ‘If I really thought you meant it, I should have a still “horrider” way.’
‘Certainly I mean it,’ she declared. ‘I’ve always liked to read about fights and plots and murders in books. I think it’s nice to have a little blood spattered about. It’s a sort of concrete symbol of courage.’
‘Ah—I saw a concrete symbol of courage the other day, but I can’t say that it struck me as attractive.’
‘What was it?’
‘A fellow lying by the roadside, in a pool of dirty water and blood, with his mouth wide open, a couple of stiletto wounds in his neck, and his brains spattered over his face—brains may be useful, but they’re not pretty.’
She looked at him gravely, with a slow expression of disgust.
‘I suppose you think I’m horrider than ever now?’
‘Yes, said Marcia; ‘I do.’
‘Then don’t make any such absurd statement as that you think bloodshed picturesque. The world’s got beyond that. Do you object if I smoke? I don’t think it would hurt this place to have a bit of fumigating22.’
She nodded permission, and watched him silently as he rolled a cigarette and hunted through his pockets for a match. The coat did not reward his search, and he commenced 132 on the waistcoat. Suddenly she broke out with—
‘What’s that in your pocket, Mr. Sybert?’
‘It’s a revolver! What are you carrying that for? It’s against the law.’
‘Don’t tell the police’ he pleaded. ‘I’ve always liked to play with fire-arms; it’s a habit I’ve never outgrown26.’
‘Why are you carrying it?’ she repeated.
Sybert found his match and lighted his cigarette with slow deliberation. Then he rose to his feet and looked down at her. ‘You ask too many questions, Miss Marcia,’ he said, and he commenced pacing back and forth27 the length of the dirt floor.
She remained with her elbow resting on her knee and her chin in her hand, looking out at the storm. Presently he came back and sat down again.
‘Is our amnesty off?’ he asked.
Before she could open her mouth to respond a fierce white flash of lightning came, followed instantly by a deafening28 crash of thunder. A torrent29 of water came pouring down on the loose tiles with a roar that sounded like a cannonading. The air seemed quivering with electricity. The horses plunged30 and snorted in terror, and Sybert sprang to his feet to quiet them.
‘Jove! It is a cloudburst,’ he cried.
Marcia ran to the open doorway31 and stood looking out across the storm-swept valley. The water was coming down in an almost solid sheet; the clouds hung low and black and impenetrable except when a jagged line of lightning cut them in two. From the height across the valley the tall square monastery tower rose defiantly32 into the very midst of the storm, while the cypress33 trees at its base swayed and writhed34 and wrung35 their hands in agony. Sybert came and stood beside her, and the two watched the storm in silence.
‘There,’ he suddenly flashed out, with a little undertone of triumph in his voice—‘there is Italy!’ He nodded toward the old walls rising so stanchly from the storm. ‘That’s the way the Italians have weathered tyranny and revolution and oppression for centuries, and that’s the way they will keep on doing.’
133 She looked up at him quickly, and caught a gleam of something she had never seen before in his face. It was as if an internal fire were blazing through. For an imperceptible second he held her look, then his eyelids36 drooped37 again and his usual expression of reserve came back.
‘Come and sit down,’ he said; ‘you’re getting wet.’
They turned back to the plough again and sat side by side, looking out at the storm. The beating of the rain on the tiles above their heads made a difficult accompaniment for conversation, and they did not try to talk. But they were electrically aware of each other’s presence; the wild excitement of the storm had taken hold of both of them. Marcia’s breath came fast through slightly parted lips, her cheeks were flushed, her hair was tumbled, and there was a yellow glow in her deep grey eyes. Her face seemed to vivify the gloomy interior. Sybert glanced at her sidewise once or twice in half surprise; she did not seem exactly the person he had thought he knew. Her hand lay in her lap, idly clasping her gloves and whip. It looked white and soft against her black habit.
Suddenly Marcia asked a question.
‘Will you tell me something, Mr. Sybert?’
‘I am at your service,’ he bowed.
‘And the truth?’
‘Oh, certainly, the truth.’
She glanced down in her lap a moment and smoothed the fingers of her gloves in a thoughtful silence. ‘Well,’ she said finally, ‘I don’t know, after all, what I want to ask you; but there is something in the air that I don’t understand. Tell me the truth about Italy.’
‘The truth about Italy?’ He repeated the words with a slight accent of surprise.
‘Last week in Rome, at the Roystons’ hotel, everybody was talking about the wheat famine and the bread riots, and they all stopped suddenly when I asked any questions. Uncle Howard will never tell me a thing; he just jokes about it when I ask him.’
‘He’s afraid,’ said Sybert. ‘No one dares to tell the truth in Italy; it’s lèse majesté.’
She glanced up at him quickly to see what he meant. His face was quite grave, but there was a disagreeable suggestion of a smile about his lips. She looked out of 134 doors again with an angry light in her eyes. ‘Oh, I think you are beastly!’ she cried. ‘You and Uncle Howard both act as if I were ten years old. I don’t think that a wheat famine is any subject to joke about.’
‘Miss Marcia,’ he said quietly, ‘when things get to a certain point, if you wish to keep your senses you can’t do anything but joke about them.’
‘Tell me,’ she said.
There was a look of troubled expectancy38 in her face. Sybert half closed his eyes and studied the ground without speaking. Not very many days before he had felt a fierce desire to hurl39 the story at her, to confront her with a picture of the suffering that her father had caused; now he felt as strongly as her uncle that she must not know.
‘Since you cannot do anything to help, why should you wish to understand? There are so many unpleasant things in the world, and so many of us already who know about them. It’s—’ he turned toward her with a little smile, but one which she did not resent—‘well, it’s a relief, you know, to see a few people who accept their happiness as a free gift from heaven and ask no questions.’
‘I am not a baby. I should not care to accept happiness on any such terms.’
‘And you want to know about Italy? Very well,’ he said grimly; ‘I can give you plenty of statistics.’ He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and traced lines in the dirt floor with his whip, speaking in the emotionless tone of one who is quoting a list from a catalogue.
‘The poor people bear three-fourths of the taxes. Every necessity of life is taxed—bread and salt and meat and utensils—but such things as carriages and servants and jewels go comparatively free. When the government has squeezed all it can from the people, the church takes its share, and then the government comes in again with the state lotteries40. The Latin races are already sufficiently41 addicted42 to gambling43 without needing any extra encouragement from the state. Part of the revenue thus collected is spent in keeping up the army—in training the young men of the country in idleness and in a great many things they would do better without. Part of it goes to build arcades44 and fountains and statues of Victor Emmanuel. The most of it stops in official pockets. You may think that politics 135 are as corrupt45 as they can be in America, but I assure you it is not the case. In Italy the priests won’t let the people vote, and the parliament is run in the interests of a few. The people are ignorant and superstitious46; more than half of them can neither read nor write, and the government exploits them as it pleases. The farm labourer earns only from twenty-five to thirty cents a day to support himself and his family. Fortunately, living is cheap or there would soon not be any farm labourers alive.
‘Last year—’ he paused and an angry flush crept under his dark skin—‘last year in Lombardy, Venetia, and the Marches—three of the most fertile provinces in Italy—fifteen thousand people went mad from hunger. The children of these pellagrosi will be idiots and cripples, and ten years from now you will find them on the steps of churches, holding out maimed hands for coppers47. At this present moment there are ten thousand people in Naples crowded into damp caves and cellars—practically all of them stricken with consumption and scrofula, and sick with hunger.’
He leaned forward and looked into her face with blazing eyes.
‘Marcia, in this last week I’ve seen—God!’ he burst out, ‘what things I’ve seen!’
He got up and strode to the door, and Marcia sat looking after him with frightened eyes. The air seemed charged with his words. She felt herself trembling, and she caught her breath quickly with a half-gasp. She closed her eyes and pictures rose up before her—pictures she did not wish to see. She thought of the hordes48 of poor people in Castel Vivalanti, of the bony, wrinkled hands that were stretched out for coppers at every turn, of the crowds of children with hungry faces. She thought of the houses that they lived in—wretched little dens49, dark and filthy50 and damp. And it wasn’t their fault, she repeated to herself; it wasn’t their fault. They were honest and frugal51, they wanted work; but there was not enough to go around.
She sat quite still for several moments, feeling acutely a great many things she had scarcely divined before. Then presently she glanced over her shoulder at the great vats towering out of the darkness behind her. They suddenly presented themselves to her imagination as a symbol, a 136 visible sign of the weight of society bearing down upon the poor, crushing out goodness and happiness and hope. As she watched them with half-fascinated eyes, they seemed to swell52 and grow until they dominated the whole room with the sense of their oppressiveness. She rose with a little shiver and almost ran to the door.
‘Let’s go!’ she cried.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, looking at her face.
‘Nothing. I want to go. It’s stopped raining.’
He led out the horses and helped her to mount.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked again, ‘Your hand is trembling. Did I say anything to frighten you?’
She shook her head without answering, and when they reached the road she drew a long breath of fresh air and glanced back with a nervous laugh.
‘I had the most horrible feeling in there! I felt as if something were going to reach out from those vats and grab me from behind.’
‘I think,’ he suggested, ‘that you’d better take some of your aunt’s quinine when you get home.’
‘Mr. Sybert,’ she said presently, ‘I told you one day that I thought poor people were picturesque, I don’t think so any more.’
‘I didn’t suppose that you meant it.’
‘But I did!’ said Marcia. ‘I’ve merely changed my mind.’ She touched Kentucky Lil with her whip and splashed on ahead down the road that led toward the monastery, while Sybert followed with a slightly perplexed53 frown.
The storm had passed as quickly as it had come. Loose, flying clouds still darkened the sky, but the heavy black thunder-clouds were already far to the eastward54 over the Apennines. In its brief passage, however, the storm had left havoc55 behind it. The vines in the wayside vineyards were stripped of their leaves, and the bamboo poles they were trained upon broken and bent56. Branches torn from the olive trees were strewn over the grass, and in the wheat fields the young grain was bowed almost to the ground. A fierce mountain torrent poured down the side of the road through a gully that an hour before had been dry.
The mountain air was fresh and keen, and the horses, excited by the storm, plunged on, recklessly irrespective of mud and water. They crossed the little valley that lay 137 between the hill of the wine-cellar and the higher hill of the monastery, clattered58 through the single street of the tiny hamlet which huddled59 itself at the base of the hill, and wound on upward along the narrow walled roadway that turned and unturned upon itself like the coils of a serpent. They passed through the dark grove60 of cypresses61 that skirted the outer walls, and emerged for a moment on a small plateau which gave a wide view of receding62 hills and valleys and hills again. Below them, at a precipitous angle, lay the valley they had just come through and the clustering brown-tiled roofs of the little Noah’s Ark village.
As they rode out from the shadow of the trees, by a common impulse they both drew rein63 and brought their horses to a standstill at the edge of the grove. Away to the eastward the sky was black, but the western sky was a blaze of orange light, and the sun, an orange ball, was dropping into the purple Campagna as into a sea. The shadows were settling in the valley beneath them, but the hills were tinged64 with a shimmering65 light, and the tower above their heads was glowing in a sombre, softened66 beauty.
They had scarcely had time, however, to more than glance at the wide-spread picture before them when they became aware of a little human drama that was being enacted67 under their eyes.
A young monk68 in the brown cassock of the Franciscans, probably a lay brother in the monastery, was standing69 in the vineyard by the roadside, resting for a moment from his task of tying up the vines that had been beaten down by the storm. He had not seen the riders—his back was turned toward them, and his gaze was resting on the field across the way, where scarlet70 poppies were growing among the wheat. But his eyes were not for the flowers, nor yet for the light on the hills beyond—these he had seen before and understood. He was watching a dark-haired peasant girl and a man dressed in shepherd’s clothes, who were strolling side by side along the narrow pathway that led diagonally through the wheat. The man, strong-limbed and brown and muscular, in sheepskin trousers and pointed71 hat, was bending toward her, talking insistently72 with vehement73 Italian gestures. She appeared to listen, and then she shrugged74 her shoulders and half drew back, while her mocking laugh rang out clearly on the still evening air. For a moment he hesitated, then he boldly put his arm around her, and the two passed down the hill and out of sight in the direction of the hamlet. The poor young frate, his work forgotten, with hands idly hanging at his sides, stared at the spot where they had disappeared. And as he looked, the monastery bells in the campanile above him slowly rang out the ‘Ave Maria.’ He started guiltily, and with a hasty sign of the cross caught up his rosary and bowed his head in prayer.
At the unexpected sound of the bells the horses broke into a quick trot75. The monk, startled at the clatter57 of hoofs76 so near, turned suddenly and looked in their direction. As he caught sight of Marcia’s and Sybert’s eyes upon him, and knew that they had seen, a quick flush spread over his thin dark face, and turning away he bowed his head again.
Marcia broke the silence with a low laugh as they rode on into the shade of the cypresses.
‘He thought we were——’ and then she stopped.
‘Lovers too,’ said Sybert. ‘Poor devil! I suppose he thinks the world is full of lovers outside his monastery walls. There,’ he added, ‘is a man who is living for an idea.’
‘And is beginning to suspect that it is the wrong one.’
He shot her a quick glance of comprehension. ‘Ah, there’s the rub,’ he returned, a trifle soberly—‘when you begin to suspect your idea’s the wrong one.’
They rode on down the hill into the darkening valley. They were going the straight way home now, and the horses knew it. They were still in the hills when the twilight77 faded, and a young moon, just beyond the crescent, took its place, riding high in a sky scattered thick with flying clouds. It was a wild, wet, windy night, though on the lower levels the roads were fairly dry: the storm had evidently wasted its fury on the heights.
It was too fast a pace to admit much talking, and they both contented78 themselves with their thoughts. Only once did Marcia break the silence.
‘I feel as if we were carrying the good news from Ghent to Aix!’
Sybert laughed and quoted softly:—
‘Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace—
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place——
139 Kentucky Lil would make quite a Roland,’ he broke off.
‘She’s the nicest horse I ever rode,’ said Marcia.
As they turned in at the villa gates she said contritely81, ‘I didn’t know it would take so long; I’m afraid, Mr. Sybert, that I’ve made you very late!’
‘Perhaps I like adventures too,’ he smiled; ‘and you and I, Miss Marcia, have travelled far to-day.’
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1
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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vats
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| varieties 变化，多样性，种类 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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6
fermenting
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| v.（使）发酵( ferment的现在分词 )；（使）激动；骚动；骚扰 | |
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7
bridles
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| 约束( bridle的名词复数 )； 限动器； 马笼头； 系带 | |
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pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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10
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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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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reaper
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| n.收割者，收割机 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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sprain
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| n.扭伤,扭筋 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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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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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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generic
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| adj.一般的，普通的，共有的 | |
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fumigating
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| v.用化学品熏（某物）消毒( fumigate的现在分词 ) | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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dynamite
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| n./vt.(用)炸药(爆破) | |
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outgrown
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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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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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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cypress
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| n.柏树 | |
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writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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lotteries
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| n.抽彩给奖法( lottery的名词复数 )；碰运气的事；彩票；彩券 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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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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45
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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47
coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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hordes
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| n.移动着的一大群( horde的名词复数 )；部落 | |
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dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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50
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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52
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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53
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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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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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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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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receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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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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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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insistently
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| ad.坚持地 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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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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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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contritely
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