I
As Helge Gram turned the corner into Via Condotti in the dusk a military
band came down the street playing “The Merry Widow” in such a crazy,
whirling time that it sounded like wild bugle calls. The small, dark
soldiers rushed past in the cold afternoon, more like a Roman cohort
intent on attacking barbarian hosts than peaceful men returning to their
barracks for supper. That was perhaps the cause of their haste, Helge
thought, smiling to himself, for as he stood there watching them, his
coat-collar turned up for the cold, a peculiar atmosphere of history had
pervaded him—but suddenly he found himself humming the same tune, and
continued his way in the direction where he knew the Corso lay.
He stopped at the corner and looked. So that was the Corso—an endless
stream of carriages in a crowded street, and a surging throng of people
on a narrow pavement.
He stood still, watching the stream run past him, and smiled at the
thought that he could drift along this street every evening in the dusk
among the crowds, until it became as familiar to him as the best-known
thoroughfare of his own city—Christiania. He was suddenly seized with the
wish to walk and walk—now and all night maybe—through all the streets of
Rome, for he thought of the town as it had appeared to him a while ago
when he was looking down on it from Pincio, while the sun was setting.
Clouds all over the western sky, close together like small pale grey
lambkins, and as the sun sank behind him it painted their linings a
glorious amber. Beneath the pale skies lay the city, and Helge understood
that this was the real Rome—not the Rome of his imagination and his
dreams, but Rome as she actually was.
Everything else he had seen on his journey had disappointed him, for
it was not what he had imagined at home when he had been longing to go
abroad and see it all. One sight at last was far beyond his dreams, and
that was Rome.
A plain of housetops lay beneath him in the valley, the roofs of houses
new and old, of houses high and low—it looked as if they had been built
anywhere and at any time, and of a size to suit the need of the moment.
In a few places only a space could be seen between the mass of housetops,
as of streets. All this world of reckless lines, crossing each other in
a thousand hard angles, was lying inert and quiet under the pale skies,
while the setting sun touched the borders of the clouds with a tinge of
light. It was dreaming under a thin veil of white mist, which no busy
pillar of smoke dared penetrate, for no factory chimney could be seen,
and no smoke came from a single one of the funny little chimney pipes
protruding from the houses. The round, old, rust-brown tiles were covered
by greyish moss, grass and small plants with yellow blossoms grew in the
gutters; along the border of the terraces the aloes stood immovably still
in their tubs, and creepers hung in dead cascades from the cornices.
Here and there the upper part of a high house rose above its neighbour,
its dark, hollow windows staring at one out of a grey or reddish-yellow
wall, or sleeping behind closed shutters. Loggias stood out of the mist,
looking like parts of an old watchtower, and small summer-houses of wood
or corrugated iron were erected on the roofs.
Above it all masses of church cupolas were floating—the huge, grey one,
far on the other side of what Helge supposed to be the river, was that of
St. Peter.
Beyond the valley, where the roofs covered the silent city—it well
deserved the epithet “eternal” tonight—a low hill stretched its longish
back toward the skies, carrying on the far-away ridge an avenue of
pines, the foliage of which formed one large mass above the row of
slender trunks. And behind the dome of St. Peter the eye was arrested by
another hill with villas, built among pines and cypresses. Probably Monte
Mario.
The dark leaves of the holly formed a roof over his head, and behind him
a fountain made a curiously living sound as the water splashed against
the stone border, before flowing into the basin beneath it.
Helge whispered to the city of his dreams, whose streets his feet had
not yet touched, whose houses did not harbour one single soul he knew:
“Rome—Rome—eternal Rome.” He was suddenly struck by his own loneliness
and startled at his emotion, though he knew that there was nobody to
witness it, and, turning round, he hurried down the Spanish stairs.
And now when he stood at the corner of Condotti and Corso he experienced
a quaint and yet pleasant anxiety at the thought of mixing with those
hustling crowds and finding his way in the strange city—to wander through
it as far as Piazza San Pietro.
As he was crossing the street two young girls passed him. They looked
like Norwegians, he thought, with a slight thrill of pleasure. One of
them was very fair and wore light-coloured furs.
It was a joy to him even to read the names of the streets carved in
clear, Latin type on white marble slabs set in the corners of the houses.
The street he took ran into an open space near a bridge, on which two
rows of lanterns burned with a sickly, greenish flame in the pale light
pouring down from the restless sky. A low parapet of stone ran along
the waterline, bordered by a row of trees with faded leaves and trunks,
dropping their bark in big white flakes. On the opposite side of the
river the street lamps were burning among the trees, and the houses stood
out black against the sky, but on this side the twilight still flickered
on the window-panes. The sky was almost clear now, and hung transparent
and greenish blue over the hill with the pine avenue, with here and there
a few reddish, threatening, slowly moving clouds.
He stopped on the bridge and looked down into the Tiber. How dull the
water was! It flowed on rapidly, reflecting the colours of the evening
skies, sweeping twigs and gravel and bits of wood on its way between the
stone walls. A small staircase on the side of the bridge led down to the
water’s edge. Helge thought how easy it would be to walk down the steps
one night, when one was tired of everything—had any ever done so? he
wondered.
He asked a policeman the way to St. Peter’s cathedral in German; the man
answered him first in French and then Italian, and when Helge repeatedly
shook his head, he spoke French again, pointing up the river. Helge
turned in that direction.
A huge, dark stone erection stood out against the sky, a low, round tower
with a jagged crest and the jet-black silhouette of an angel on top. He
recognized the lines of the San Angelo fort, and went close up to it. It
was still light enough for the statues by the bridge to show up yellow
in the twilight, the red skies were still mirrored in the flowing waters
of the Tiber, but the street lamps had gained power, and threw out paths
of light across the river. Beyond the San Angelo bridge the electric
tramcars with illuminated windows rolled over the new iron bridge,
throwing white sparks from the connecting wires.
Helge took off his hat to a man:
“_San Pietro, favorisca?_”
The man pointed with his finger and said something Helge did not
understand. He turned into a dark and narrow street which, with a
sensation of joy, he almost thought he recognized, for it was exactly
like the Italian street of his imagination: shop after shop full of
curios. He gazed into the poorly lit windows. Most of the things were
rubbish—those dirty strips of coarse white lace hanging on a string
were surely not Italian handiwork. There were bits of pottery exhibited
in dusty box-lids and small bronze figures of a poisonous green, old and
new brass candlesticks and brooches with heaps of stones that looked far
from genuine. Yet he was seized by a senseless wish to go in and buy
something—to inquire, to bargain, and to purchase. Almost before he knew
it, he had entered a small, stuffy shop filled with all sorts of things.
There were church-lamps hanging from the ceiling, bits of silk with gold
flowers on red and green and white ground, and broken pieces of furniture.
Behind the counter a youth with a dark complexion and a bluish, unshaven
chin was reading. He talked and asked questions while Helge pointed at
various articles, “_Quanto?_” The only thing he understood was that
the prices were excessive, but one ought not to buy until one knew the
language well enough to bargain with them.
Several pieces of china were standing on a shelf, rococo figures and
vases with sprays of roses, which looked quite modern. Helge seized one
at random and placed it on the counter: “_Quanto?_”
“_Sette_,” said the youth, and spread out seven fingers.
“_Quattro_,” said Helge, holding out four fingers in a new brown glove,
and felt quite pleased with himself at this leap into the foreign
language. He did not understand one word of the man’s arguments, but each
time he finished talking Helge raised his four fingers and repeated his
quattro, adding with a superior air: “_Non antica!_”
But the shopkeeper protested, “_Si, antica._” “_Quattro_,” said Helge
again—the man had now only five fingers in the air—and turned towards
the door. The man called him back, accepting, and Helge, feeling highly
pleased with himself, went out with his purchase wrapped up in pink
tissue paper.
He perceived the dark mass of the church at the bottom of the street
outlined against the sky, and walked on. He hurried across the first
part of the piazza with its lighted shop windows and passing trams
towards the two semicircular arcades, which laid a pair of rounded arms,
as it were, about one part of the place, drawing it into the quiet and
darkness of the massive church, with its broad steps extending in a
shell-like formation far out on the piazza.
The dome of the church and the row of saints along the roof of the
arcades stood out black against the faint light of the sky; the trees
and houses on the hill at the back seemed to be heaped one on top of the
other in an irregular fashion. The street lamps were powerless here,
the darkness streamed forth between the pillars, and spread over the
steps from the open portico of the church. He went slowly up the steps
close to the church and looked through the iron doors. Then he went back
again to the obelisk in the middle of the piazza and stood there gazing
at the dark building. He bent his head back, and followed with his eyes
the slender needle of stone that pointed straight into the evening sky,
where the last clouds had descended on the roofs of that part of the town
whence he had come, and the first radiant sparks of the stars pierced the
gathering darkness.
Again his ears caught the sound of water emptying into a stone cistern,
and the soft ripple of the overflow from one receptacle into another into
the basin. He approached one of the fountains and watched the thick,
white jet, driven upwards as it were in angry defiance and looking black
against the clear atmosphere, to break high in the air and sink back
into the darkness, where the water gleamed white again. He kept staring
at it until a gust of wind took hold of the jet and bent it towards him,
raining icy drops on his face, but he remained where he was, listening
and staring. Then he walked a few steps—stood still—and walked again,
but very slowly, listening to an inner voice. It was true, then—really
true—that he was here, far, far away from everything he had longed so
intensely to leave. And he walked still more slowly, furtively, like one
who has escaped from prison.
At the corner of the street there was a restaurant. He made for it,
and on his way found a tobacco shop, where he bought some cigarettes,
picture cards and stamps. Waiting for his steak, he drank big gulps
of claret, while he wrote to his parents; to his father: “I have been
thinking of you very often today”—it was true enough—and to his mother:
“I have already got a small present for you, the first thing I bought
here in Rome.” Poor mother—how was she? He had often been impatient with
her these last years. He unpacked the thing and had a look at it—it was
probably meant for a scent-bottle. He added a few words to his mother’s
card that he managed the language all right, and that to bargain in the
shops was an easy matter.
The food was good, but dear. Never mind, once he was more at home here he
would soon learn how to live cheaply. Satisfied and exhilarated by the
wine, he started to walk in a new direction, past long, low, dilapidated
houses, through an archway on to a bridge. A man in a barrier hut stopped
him and made him understand that he had to pay a soldo. On the other side
of the bridge was a large, dark church with a dome.
He got into a labyrinth of dark, narrow bits of streets—in the mysterious
gloom he surmised the existence of old palaces with projecting cornices
and lattice windows side by side with miserable hovels, and small
church-fronts in between the rows of houses. There were no pavements and
he stepped into refuse that lay rotting in the gutter. Outside the narrow
doors of the lighted taverns and under the few street lamps he had a
vague glimpse of human forms.
He was half delighted, half afraid—boyishly excited, and wondering at
the same time how he was to get out of this maze and find the way to his
hotel at the ends of the earth—take a cab, he supposed.
He passed down another narrow, almost empty street. A small strip of
clear, blue sky was visible between the high houses with their frameless
windows, looking like black holes cut in the wall. On the uneven stone
bridge dust and straw and bits of paper were tossed about by a light gust
of wind.
Two women, walking behind him, passed him close under a lamp. He gave a
start: they were the ones he had noticed that afternoon in the Corso and
believed to be Norwegian. He recognized the light furs of the taller one.
Suddenly he felt an impulse to try an adventure—to ask them the way, so
as to hear if they were Norwegian—or Scandinavian at any rate, for they
were certainly foreigners. With slightly beating heart he started to walk
after them.
The two young girls stopped outside a shop, which was closed, and then
walked on. Helge wondered if he should say “Please” or “_Bitte_” or
“_Scusi_”—or if he should blurt out at once “_Undskyld_”—it would be
funny if they were Norwegians.
The girls turned a corner; Helge was close upon them, screwing up courage
to address them. The smaller one turned round angrily and said something
in Italian in a low voice. He felt disappointed and was going to vanish
after an apology, when the tall one said in Norwegian: “You should not
speak to them, Cesca—it is much better to pretend not to notice.”
“I cannot bear that cursed Italian rabble; they never will leave a woman
alone,” said the other.
“I beg your pardon,” said Helge, and the two girls stopped, turning round
quickly.
“I hope you will excuse me,” he muttered, colouring, and, angrily
conscious of it, blushed still deeper. “I only arrived from Florence
today, and have lost my way in these winding streets. I thought you were
Norwegian, or at any rate Scandinavian, and I cannot manage the Italian
language. Would you be kind enough to tell me where to find a car? My
name is Gram,” he added, raising his hat again.
“Where do you live?” asked the taller girl.
“At a place called the Albergo Torino, close to the station,” he
explained.
“He should take the Trastevere tram at San Carlo ai Catenari,” said the
other.
“No; better take a No. 1 at the new Corso.”
“But those cars don’t go to the Termini,” answered the little one.
“Yes, they do. Those that have San Pietro, _stazione_ Termini, written on
them,” she explained to Helge.
“Oh, that one! It runs past Capo le Case and Ludovisi and an awful long
way about first—it will take an hour at least to the station with that
one.”
“No, dear; it goes direct—straight along Via Nazionale.”
“It does not,” insisted the other; “it goes to the Lateran first.”
The taller girl turned to Helge: “The first turning right will take you
into a sort of market. From there you go along the Cancellaria on your
left to the new Corso. If I remember rightly, the tram stops at the
Cancellaria—somewhere near it anyway—you will see the sign. But be sure
to take the tram marked San Pietro, _stazione_ Termini, No. 1.”
Helge stood somewhat crestfallen, listening to the foreign names which
the girls used with such easy familiarity, and, shaking his head, said:
“I am afraid I shall never be able to find it—perhaps I had better walk
till I find a cab.”
“We might go with you to the stop,” said the tall one.
The little one whispered peevishly something in Italian, but the other
answered her decisively. Helge felt still more confused at these asides,
which he did not understand.
“Thank you, but please do not trouble. I am sure to find my way home
somehow or other.”
“It is no trouble,” said the tall one, starting to walk; “it is on our
way.”
“It is very kind of you; I suppose it is rather difficult to
find one’s way about in Rome, is it not?” he said, by way of
conversation—“especially when it is dark.”
“Oh no, you will soon get into it.”
“I only arrived here today. I came from Florence this morning by train.”
The smaller one said something in an undertone in Italian. The tall one
asked: “Was it very cold in Florence?”
“Yes, bitterly cold. It is milder here, is it not? I wrote my mother
anyway yesterday to send my winter coat.”
“Well, it is cold enough here too sometimes. Did you like Florence? How
long were you there?”
“A fortnight. I think I shall like Rome better than Florence.”
The other young girl smiled—she had been muttering to herself in Italian
all the time—but the tall one went on in her pleasant, quiet voice:
“I don’t believe there is _any_ town one could love as much as Rome.”
“Is your friend Italian?” asked Helge.
“No; Miss Jahrman is Norwegian. We speak Italian because I want to learn,
and she is very good at it. My name is Winge,” she added. “That is the
Cancellaria.” She pointed towards a big, dark palace.
“Is the courtyard as fine as it is reported to be?”
“Yes; it is very fine. I will show you which car.” While they stood
waiting two men came across the street.
“Hullo, you here!” exclaimed one of them.
“Good evening,” said the other. “What luck! We can go together. Have you
been to look at the corals?”
“It was closed,” said Miss Jahrman sulkily.
“We have met a fellow-countryman, and promised to show him the right
tram,” Miss Winge explained, introducing: “Mr. Gram—Mr. Heggen, artist,
and Mr. Ahlin, sculptor.”
“I don’t know if you remember me, Mr. Heggen—my name is Gram; we met
three years ago on the Mysusaeter.”
“Oh yes—certainly. And so you are in Rome?”
Ahlin and Miss Jahrman had stood talking to one another in whispers. The
girl came up to her friend and said: “I am going home, Jenny. I am not in
the mood for Frascati tonight.”
“But, my dear, you suggested it yourself.”
“Well, not Frascati anyway—ugh! sit there and mope with thirty old Danish
ladies of every possible age and sex.”
“We can go somewhere else. But there is your tram coming, Mr. Gram.”
“A thousand thanks for your help. Shall I see you again—at the
Scandinavian club, perhaps?”
The tram stopped in front of them. Miss Winge said: “I don’t know—perhaps
you would like to come with us now; we were going to have a glass of wine
somewhere, and hear some music.”
“Thank you.” Helge hesitated, looking round at the others a little
embarrassed. “I should be very pleased, but”—and, turning with confidence
to Miss Winge of the fair face and the kind voice, he said, with an
awkward smile, “you all know one another—perhaps you would rather not
have a stranger with you?”
“Indeed no,” she said, smiling—“it would be very nice—and there—your
tram’s gone now. You know Heggen already, and now you know us. We’ll see
you get home all right, so if you are not tired, let us go.”
“Tired, not a bit. I should love to come,” said Helge eagerly.
The other three began to propose different cafés. Helge knew none of the
names; his father had not mentioned them. Miss Jahrman rejected them all.
“Very well, then, let us go down to St. Agostino; you know the one,
Gunnar, where they give you that first-rate claret,” and Jenny began to
walk on, accompanied by Heggen.
“There is no music,” retorted Miss Jahrman.
“Oh yes, the man with a squint and the other fellow are there almost
every night. Don’t let us waste time.”
Helge followed with Miss Jahrman and the Swedish sculptor.
“Have you been long in Rome, Mr. Gram?”
“No, I came this morning from Florence.”
Miss Jahrman laughed. Helge felt rather snubbed. He ought perhaps to have
said he was tired, and gone home. On their way down through dark, narrow
streets Miss Jahrman talked all the time to the sculptor, and scarcely
answered when he tried to speak to her. But before he had made up his
mind he saw the other couple vanish through a narrow door down the street.