"GEMMA, there's a man downstairs who wants to see you." Martini spoke1 in the subdued2 tone which they had both unconsciously adopted during these last ten days. That, and a certain slow evenness of speech and movement, were the sole expression which either of them gave to their grief.
Gemma, with bare arms and an apron3 over her dress, was standing4 at a table, putting up little packages of cartridges5 for distribution. She had stood over the work since early morning; and now, in the glaring afternoon, her face looked haggard with fatigue6.
"A man, Cesare? What does he want?"
"I don't know, dear. He wouldn't tell me. He said he must speak to you alone."
"Very well." She took off her apron and pulled down the sleeves of her dress. "I must go to him, I suppose; but very likely it's only a spy."
"In any case, I shall be in the next room, within call. As soon as you get rid of him you had better go and lie down a bit. You have been standing too long to-day."
"Oh, no! I would rather go on working."
She went slowly down the stairs, Martini following in silence. She had grown to look ten years older in these few days, and the gray streak7 across her hair had widened into a broad band. She mostly kept her eyes lowered now; but when, by chance, she raised them, he shivered at the horror in their shadows.
In the little parlour she found a clumsy-looking man standing with his heels together in the middle of the floor. His whole figure and the half-frightened way he looked up when she came in, suggested to her that he must be one of the Swiss guards. He wore a countryman's blouse, which evidently did not belong to him, and kept glancing round as though afraid of detection.
"Can you speak German?" he asked in the heavy Zurich patois8.
"A little. I hear you want to see me."
"You are Signora Bolla? I've brought you a letter."
"A--letter?" She was beginning to tremble, and rested one hand on the table to steady herself.
"I'm one of the guard over there." He pointed9 out of the window to the fortress10 on the hill. "It's from--the man that was shot last week. He wrote it the night before. I promised him I'd give it into your own hand myself."
She bent11 her head down. So he had written after all.
"That's why I've been so long bringing it," the soldier went on. "He said I was not to give it to anyone but you, and I couldn't get off before-- they watched me so. I had to borrow these things to come in."
He was fumbling12 in the breast of his blouse. The weather was hot, and the sheet of folded paper that he pulled out was not only dirty and crumpled13, but damp. He stood for a moment shuffling14 his feet uneasily; then put up one hand and scratched the back of his head.
"You won't say anything," he began again timidly, with a distrustful glance at her. "It's as much as my life's worth to have come here."
"Of course I shall not say anything. No, wait a minute----"
As he turned to go, she stopped him, feeling for her purse; but he drew back, offended.
"I don't want your money," he said roughly. "I did it for him--because he asked me to. I'd have done more than that for him. He'd been good to me--God help me!"
The little catch in his voice made her look up. He was slowly rubbing a grimy sleeve across his eyes.
"We had to shoot," he went on under his breath; "my mates and I. A man must obey orders. We bungled15 it, and had to fire again-- and he laughed at us--he called us the awkward squad--and he'd been good to me----"
There was silence in the room. A moment later he straightened himself up, made a clumsy military salute16, and went away.
She stood still for a little while with the paper in her hand; then sat down by the open window to read. The letter was closely written in pencil, and in some parts hardly legible. But the first two words stood out quite clear upon the page; and they were in English:
"Dear Jim."
The writing grew suddenly blurred17 and misty18. And she had lost him again--had lost him again! At the sight of the familiar childish nickname all the hopelessness of her bereavement19 came over her afresh, and she put out her hands in blind desperation, as though the weight of the earth-clods that lay above him were pressing on her heart.
Presently she took up the paper again and went on reading:
"I am to be shot at sunrise to-morrow. So if I am to keep at all my promise to tell you everything, I must keep it now. But, after all, there is not much need of explanations between you and me. We always understood each other without many words, even when we were little things.
"And so, you see, my dear, you had no need to break your heart over that old story of the blow. It was a hard hit, of course; but I have had plenty of others as hard, and yet I have managed to get over them,--even to pay back a few of them,--and here I am still, like the mackerel in our nursery-book (I forget its name), 'Alive and kicking, oh!' This is my last kick, though; and then, to-morrow morning, and--'Finita la Commedia!' You and I will translate that: 'The variety show is over'; and will give thanks to the gods that they have had, at least, so much mercy on us. It is not much, but it is something; and for this and all other blessings20 may we be truly thankful!
"About that same to-morrow morning, I want both you and Martini to understand clearly that I am quite happy and satisfied, and could ask no better thing of Fate. Tell that to Martini as a message from me; he is a good fellow and a good comrade, and he will understand. You see, dear, I know that the stick-in-the-mud people are doing us a good turn and themselves a bad one by going back to secret trials and executions so soon, and I know that if you who are left stand together steadily21 and hit hard, you will see great things. As for me, I shall go out into the courtyard with as light a heart as any child starting home for the holidays. I have done my share of the work, and this death-sentence is the proof that I have done it thoroughly22. They kill me because they are afraid of me; and what more can any man's heart desire?
"It desires just one thing more, though. A man who is going to die has a right to a personal fancy, and mine is that you should see why I have always been such a sulky brute23 to you, and so slow to forget old scores. Of course, though, you understand why, and I tell you only for the pleasure of writing the words. I loved you, Gemma, when you were an ugly little girl in a gingham frock, with a scratchy tucker and your hair in a pig-tail down your back; and I love you still. Do you remember that day when I kissed your hand, and when you so piteously begged me 'never to do that again'? It was a scoundrelly trick to play, I know; but you must forgive that; and now I kiss the paper where I have written your name. So I have kissed you twice, and both times without your consent.
"That is all. Good-bye, my dear."
There was no signature, but a verse which they had learned together as children was written under the letter:
"Then am I A happy fly, If I live Or if I die."
. . . . .
Half an hour later Martini entered the room, and, startled out of the silence of half a life-time, threw down the placard he was carrying and flung his arms about her.
"Gemma! What is it, for God's sake? Don't sob24 like that--you that never cry! Gemma! Gemma, my darling!"
"Nothing, Cesare; I will tell you afterwards--I --can't talk about it just now."
She hurriedly slipped the tear-stained letter into her pocket; and, rising, leaned out of the window to hide her face. Martini held his tongue and bit his moustache. After all these years he had betrayed himself like a schoolboy--and she had not even noticed it!
"The Cathedral bell is tolling," she said after a little while, looking round with recovered self-command. "Someone must be dead."
"That is what I came to show you," Martini answered in his everyday voice. He picked up the placard from the floor and handed it to her. Hastily printed in large type was a black-bordered announcement that: "Our dearly beloved Bishop25, His Eminence26 the Cardinal27, Monsignor Lorenzo Montanelli," had died suddenly at Ravenna, "from the rupture28 of an aneurism of the heart."
She glanced up quickly from the paper, and Martini answered the unspoken suggestion in her eyes with a shrug29 of his shoulders.
"What would you have, Madonna? Aneurism is as good a word as any other."
“琼玛，楼下有人想要见你。”马尔蒂尼压低嗓门说道。这十天里，他们在无意之间都采用这样的语调。唯有这种语调和迟缓的言谈举止表现出了他们内心的哀痛。
琼玛赤着胳膊，连衣裙上系着布围裙。她正站在桌边，摞起准备分发的子弹盒。她从一大早起就站在这里工作。这会儿已是阳光灿烂的下午，她的脸庞因为劳累而显得憔悴。
“塞萨雷，有人？他想干什么？”
“我不知道，亲爱的。他不愿告诉我。他说必须单独和你交谈。”
“很好。”她解下布围裙，放下连衣裙的袖子。“我看我得出去见他，但是很有可能只是一个暗探。”
“反正我会在隔壁的房间里，随叫随到。等把他打发走了，你最好赶紧去躺一会儿，你今天一直都是这么站着。”
“噢，不！我还是情愿工作。”
她走下楼梯，马尔蒂尼默不做声地跟在后面。她在这几天里看上去老了十岁，头上的白发原先只有几缕，但是现在却已出现了一大片。现在，大多数的时候她都是垂下眼睛。但是偶尔在她抬起头来的时候，见到她眼里深处的恐惧，他禁不住会打个寒战。
她在小客厅里见到一个显得笨拙的人，他并着脚跟站在屋子的中央。当她进来时，他抬起头来，神情有些怯懦。从他的整个身体和他的表情来看，她认定他是一名瑞士卫兵。他身穿一件农民才穿的衬衫，这件衣服显然不是他的。而且他还不停地四下张望，好像害怕被人发现。
“您会说德语吗？”他操着浓重的苏黎士方言。
“会说一点。我听说你想见我。”
“您是波拉夫人吗？我给您带来了一封信。”
“一封——信吗？”她开始颤抖起来，一只手撑在桌上稳住自己。
“我是那里的一名看守。”他指着窗外山上的城堡。“是——上个星期被枪杀的那个人托我捎来的。他是在死前的那天夜里写的。我答应过他，我会把它亲手交给您。”
她垂下了头。这么说来，他还是写了。
“之所以过了这么长的时间我才带来，”那名士兵接着说道，“他说我不能把它交给任何人，只能交给您。可是我离不开身——他们总是盯着我。我得借来这些东西才能进来。”
他伸手探进衬衣，在胸前摸索。他取出了一张折叠起来的纸条。天气炎热，那张纸不但又脏又皱，而且还湿乎乎的。
他站了一会儿，局促不安地倒腾双脚，然后抬起一只手来摸着后脑勺。
“您不会说什么吧。”他又怯生生地说，将信将疑地看了她一眼。“我可是冒着生命危险到这里来的。”
“我当然什么也不会说。不会说的，等一下——”
在他转身离去之时，她叫住了他，然后伸手去摸皮夹。但是他直往后缩，有些生气。
“我不要您的钱，”他毫不客气地说，“我这是为了他——因为他请我帮忙。他一直对我都很好——愿上帝保佑我！”
他的嗓子有些哽咽，她不由得抬起头来。他正用积满污垢的袖子揉着眼睛。
“我们必须开枪，”他压低了声音，继续说道，“我和同伴们没有办法。军人以服从命令为天职。我们胡乱开枪，结果又得重来——他嘲笑我们——他说我们是一支蹩脚的行刑队——他一直对我都很好——”
屋子里静悄悄的。片刻之后，他直起身体，笨拙地敬了一个军礼，然后离去。
她愣愣地站了一会儿，手里拿着那张纸。随后她坐在敞开的窗户旁边读信。信是用铅笔写的，密密麻麻的，而且有几处的字迹很难辨认。但是开头的几个字十分清晰，而且是用英语写的：亲爱的吉姆：信上的字突然变得模糊不清。她又失去他——又失去了他！一见到这熟悉的小名，她重又陷入丧失亲人的绝望之中。
她茫然无助地伸出双手，仿佛堆在他身上的土块压在了她的心上。
她很快就拿起了信，继续往下读：
明天日出的时候，我就会被枪决。我答应过要把一切告诉你，所以如果我要遵守我的诺言，我必须现在就动手。但是，话又说回来，你我之间没有多少解释的必要。我们总是相互理解对方，不用太多的语言，甚至在我们还是孩童的时候就是这样。
所以，你瞧，我亲爱的，你不用为了一记耳光这样的旧事而伤心欲绝。当然打得很重，但是我也承受了许多别的打击，我还是挺过来了——甚至还曾回击了几次——我还在这儿，就像我们曾经读过的那本幼儿读物
（我忘了书名）中的那条鲭鱼一样，“活得又蹦又跳，嗬！”
尽管这是我最后的一跳。还有，等到了明天早晨，“FinitalaCommedia！”［意大利语：剧终。］你我会翻译成：“杂耍表演结束了。”
我们将会感谢诸神，至少他们已经给了我们这么多的慈悲。虽然并不太多，但是还算是有点。为了这个以及所有其他的恩惠，我们衷心表示感谢！
关于明天早晨的事情，我想让你和马尔蒂尼清楚地明白，我非常快乐，非常知足，再也不能奢求命运作出更好的安排。告诉马尔蒂尼，说我捎话给他，他是一个好人，一位好同志。他会明白的。你瞧，亲爱的，我就知道那些不可自拔的人们替我们做了一件好事，替他们自己做了一件坏事。他们这么快就重新动用审讯和处决的手段，我就知道如果你们这些留下的人团结起来，给他们予猛烈的反击，你们将会见到宏业之实现。至于我嘛，我将走进院子，怀着轻松的心情，就像是一个放假回家的学童。我已经完成了我这一份工作，死刑就是我已经彻底完成了这份工作的证明。他们杀了我，因为他们害怕我，我心何求？
可是我的心里还有一个愿望。一个行将死去的人有权憧憬他的一个幻想，我的幻想就是你应该明白为什么我对你总是那么粗暴，为何久久忘却不掉旧日的怨恨。你当然明白是为什么，我告诉你只是因为我乐意写信给你。
在你还是一个难看的小姑娘时，琼玛，我就爱你。那时你穿着方格花布连衣裙，系着一块皱巴巴的围脖，扎着一根辫子拖在身后。我仍旧爱你。你还记得那天我亲吻你的手吗？当时你可怜兮兮地求我“再也不要这样做”。
我知道那是恶作剧，但是你必须原谅这种举动。现在我又吻了这张写有你名字的信纸。所以我吻了你两次，两次都没有得到你的同意。
就这样吧。再见，我亲爱的。
信上没有署名，但是末尾写有他们小时候一起学的一首小诗：
不管我活着
还是我死去
我都是一只牛虻
快乐地飞来飞去
半个小时以后，马尔蒂尼走进了屋里。沉默寡言了半辈子，他这时却惊醒了过来。他扔掉手中的布告，一把将她抱住。
“琼玛！看在上帝的份上，这是怎么回事？不要这样哭啊——你从来都不哭！琼玛，我亲爱的！”
“没什么，塞萨雷。回头我会告诉你的——我——现在说不出来。”
她匆忙把那封沾满泪水的信塞进口袋里，然后站起身来，倚着窗户把脸伸到外面。马尔蒂尼缄口不语，只是咬着胡须。
经过这么多年，他竟像学童一样失态——而她竟然没有注意到！
“大教堂敲响了钟声。”她过了一小会儿才说，这时她已恢复了自制，并且转过身来。“肯定是有人死了。”
“我就是拿来给你看的，”马尔蒂尼答道，声音如同平常一样。布告上匆忙地印着加有黑边的大字讣告：
我们敬爱的红衣主教阁下劳伦佐·蒙泰尼里大人，因心脏动脉瘤破碎而于拉文纳遽然长逝。
她迅速瞥了一眼那张布告，马尔蒂尼耸了耸肩膀，回答了她的眼睛没有提出的问题。
“夫人，你说怎么办？动脉瘤和别的致死之病都一样。”
（全书完）
收听单词发音 |
1
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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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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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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cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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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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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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bungled
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| v.搞糟，完不成( bungle的过去式和过去分词 )；笨手笨脚地做；失败；完不成 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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