Undset, Sigrid: Jenny (details) (Jenny (detaljer) in English)

I.

 

Musikken kom opover Via Condotti, netop som Helge Gram i skumringen bøiet ind i gaten. Den spillet «Den glade Enke» i et sindssvakt, rivende tempo, saa det klang som vilde fanfarer. Og de svarte smaa soldater stormet forbi i den kolde eftermiddag, mindst som det var en romersk kohorte, der i rasende springmarsch skulde til at styrte sig over barbarernes hærskarer, istedetfor at de ganske fredelig skulde hjem tilkvelds i kasernen. Eller kanske det netop var derfor, de hadde slik fart i sig — tænkte Helge og smilte — for der han stod med frakkekraven brettet op for kulden, hadde han følt en underlig historisk stemning stryke gjennem sig. Men saa tok han til at nynne med: «Nei paa kvinden man aldrig blir klog» — og fortsatte nedover gaten i den retning, som han visste, Corsoen skulde ligge.

Han stanset paa hjørnet og saa opover. — Saa den saa slik ut, Corsoen. En ustanselig rindende strøm av vogner i den trange gaten og et kokende mylder av mennesker paa det smale fortaug.

Han stod stille og saa strømmen rinde forbi sig. Og han smilte, for han tænkte paa, at opover denne gaten kunde han nu drive hver evige kveld i mørkningen gjennem menneskemylderen, til den blev like saa hverdags for ham som Carl Johan hjemme.

Aa han hadde lyst til at gaa og gaa nu med det samme — gjennem alle Roms gater — gjerne hele natten. For han tænkte paa byen, slik den hadde ligget under ham for litt siden, da han stod paa Pincio og saa solen gaa ned.

— Skyer utover hele vesthimmelen, tæt i tæt som smaa lysegraa lam. Og de fik glødende ravgyldne kanter av solen, som sank bakom. Under den bleke himmel laa byen, og Helge visste med et, at akkurat slik maatte Rom se ut — ikke saan, som han hadde drømt sig den, men akkurat slik — slik den var.

Men alt andet han hadde set paa reisen hadde skuffet ham, fordi det ikke var saan, som han hadde tænkt det ut paa forhaand, mens han gik hjemme og længtet etter at komme ut og se det. — Endelig, nu endelig var et syn rikere end alle hans drømme. — Og det var Rom.

En vid slette av hustak laa under ham i dalsøkket — et mylder av takene paa huser, som var gamle og nye, høie huser og lave huser — det saa ut, som de var bygget op akkurat naar og hvor og saa store, som det hadde været bruk for dem i øieblikket, for det var bare paa nogen faa steder at der drog sig rette kløfter efter gater gjennem massen av takene. Og hele denne verden av urolige linjer, der løp paa hinanden i tusenvis av haarde vinkler, den laa stivnet og stille under den bleke himmel, hvor en usynlig, synkende sol tændte en og anden liten lysrand i skyernes kanter. Den laa og drømte under en fin, hvitlig taakedis, hvori der ikke blandet sig en eneste levende travl røksøile. For en fabrikpipe var ikke til at øine, og det røk ikke av en eneste av de smaa komiske blikpiperne, som stak op av husene. Der laa graagul lav paa de rustbrune, runde gamle taksten, og der grodde grønt og smaa busker med gule blomster i vandrenderne, og paa terrasserne stod døde og stille agaver i urner langs kanten, og utfor gesimserne faldt der slyngplanter i stille og døde kaskader. Hvor en overetage av et høiere hus raket op over naboerne, stirret døde og mørke vinduer ut av rødgul eller graahvit væg — eller de sov med lukkede jalousier. — Men op av disen raket loggiar, de saa ut som stubben av et gammelt vakttaarn, og smaa lysthuser av træ og blik var sat op paa takene.

Og over det hele svævet kirkekupler, masser, masser av kupler — den vældige graa langt ute paa den anden side av der hvor Helge ante elvens løp, det var Peterskirken.

Men hinsides dalbunden, hvor de døde takene dækket over den by, som Helge iaften følte kunde kaldes den evige, der buet en lav bakke langlig sin ryg mot himmelen, og bakkekammen bar fjernt ute en allé av pinjer, hvis kroner løp ut i ett under stammernes smekre søilerad. Og længst nede bak Peterskuplen, hvor synet stanset, reiste sig en ny høide med lyse villaer mellem pinjer og cypresser. Det var vel Monte Mario.

Over hans hode laa stenekenes mørke tætte løvtak, og bak ham plasket springvandets søile med en egen, levende lyd — vandet smaldt mot kummens sten og rislet overflødig ned i bassinet under.

Helge hvisket utover sine drømmes by, hvis gater hans fot aldrig hadde traadt — hvis huser ikke gjemte en kjendt sjæl: «Roma — Roma — evige Roma». Og han blev sky indfor sit eget ensomme jeg, og ræd, fordi han var hjertegrepet — endda han visste, her var ingen som kunde belure ham. Og han snudde og skyndte sig ned mot den spanske trappe.

Nu stod han her paa hjørnet av Condotti og Corso og følte en underlig søt beklemmelse, fordi han skulde krydse gjennem gatens myldrende liv og søke sig utefter i den fremmede by — han vilde gaa tvers gjennem det hele like til Peterspladsen.

Idet han skraadde over gaten, kom to unge piker forbi ham. De der var vist norske, faldt det ham ind i det samme, og han syntes allikevel, det var moro. Den ene var meget lys, med noget lyst skindtøi.

Det var, som han blev glad bare av at læse gatenavnene paa hushjørnerne, de indfældte hvite marmorplater med de rene, latinske typer hugget ind.

Gaten han fulgte, endte i en aapen plads ved en hvit bro, hvis to lygterader brændte sykt og grøngult mot det vældige, bleke lys, som drev ned fra den urolige himmel. Langs vandet løp et lavt brystvern av sten, som lyste gustent, og en række trær med vissent løv og stammer, hvor barken liksom skallet av i store hvite flaker. Over paa den anden side av elven brandt gaslygterne under trærne, og husmasserne stod svarte mot himmelen, men paa denne siden flaret endda kveldskinnet i ruterne. For himmelen var næsten klar nu og stod gjennemsigtig blaagrøn over høiden med pinjealléen, men der seilet nogen faa tunge sammenføkne skybunker, som lyste rødt og gult som mot storm.

Han stanset paa broen og saa ned i Tiberen. Saa uklart vandet var! Det veltet stridt og flammebroget av skyernes speiling — sopte kvister og bordender og grus med sig dernede i sit leie av lys stenmur. Paa siden av broen førte en liten trap ned til vandet. Helge maatte tænke paa, hvor det var letvint en nat at snike sig uti der, om man var blit lei alting. Tro om nogen gjorde det.

Han spurte paa tysk en konstabel efter veien til Peterskirken, og konstablen svarte først paa fransk og saa paa italiensk, og da Helge blev ved at ryste paa hodet, snakket han fransk igjen og pekte opover med strømmen. Helge drev paa den veien.

En vældig mørk murmasse stod mot himmelen, et lavt rundt taarn med takkete murkranser og en kulsvart silhouet av en engel paa toppen. — Han kjendte Engelsborgens linjer. Like ind under den kom han. Endda var der saa meget lys i luften, at statuerne indover broen stod gullige i dæmringen, og endda randt Tibervandet med speiling av røde skyer, men gaslygterne hadde faat mere magt og kastet lysbroer ut paa strømmen. Bakom Engelsbroen strøk elektriske sporvogner med lys ut av ruterne over en ny bro av jernkonstruktion. Der føk blaahvite gnister av ledningstraadene.

Helge lettet paa hatten for en mand:

«San Pietro favorisca?»

Og manden pekte og sa en hel del, som Helge ikke skjønte.

Gaten han kom ind i, var saa trang og mørk, at han likefrem følte gjenkjendelsesglæde, — slik hadde han tænkt, en italiensk gate skulde være. Og der var den ene antikvitetsbutik efter den anden. Helge tittet interessert i de daarlig oplyste vinduer. Det meste var vel juks, — de skidne remser av grove hvite blonder, som hang der paa hyssinger, var det italienske kniplinger —. Der var skaar og skrap av lertøi utstillet i støvete æskelaag og smaa giftgrønne broncefigurer, gamle og nye metalstaker og broscher med masser av stener, som saa uegte ut. Allikevel fik han en rent meningsløs lyst til at gaa ind og kjøpe, — spørre, prutte, handle —. Han var kommet ind i en liten kvalm butik, næsten før han selv visste ordet av. — Der var forresten moro — alverdens rare greier: gamle kirkelamper under taket, silkefiller med guldblomster paa rød og grøn og hvit bund, itubrukne møbler.

Bak disken sat en gulhydd, mørk gut med haken blaa av skjegrot og læste. Han spurte og snakket, mens Helge pekte paa dit og dat og sa quanto. Det eneste Helge skjønte var, at sakerne var uforskammet dyre — man burde naturligvis vente med at kjøpe, til man kunde sproget og saa prutte svært.

Borte paa en hylde stod en hel del porcellæn, rokokkofigurer og vaser med modellerte rosenbuketter paa. Men de saa nye ut. Helge tok paa maafaa en liten tingest og satte paa disken: «quanto?»

«Sette,» sa manden og sprikte med syv fingre.

«Quattro,» Helge holdt op fire fingre i ny, brun hanske. Og han følte sig glad og tryg i det samem ved sit hop over i det fremmede sprog. Rigtignok skjønte han ingenting av mandens protester, men hvergang den anden hadde snakket ut, kom han med sit quattro og sine fire fingre.

«Non antica!» slængte han flot ind.

Men butiksmanden bedyret, antica. Quattro, sa Helge for sidste gang — nu hadde manden bare fem fingre i luften. Da Helge vendte sig mot døren, ropte manden paa ham — han akcepterte. Sprættende glad tok Helge mot tingesten, som var blit tullet ind i lyserødt silkepapir.

 

…

 

Der laa en restaurant nede paa hjørnet til gaten. Han gik dit, fandt en tobaksbutik paa veien og var indom efter cigaretter, prospektkort og frimerker. Mens han ventet paa sin bif og drak store slurker av rødvinen, skrev han kort til sine forældre, til faren: «Jeg tænker saa paa dig hernede iaften —» og han smilte saart — jaggu var det da sandt lel. Men til moren skrev han: «Jeg har allerede kjøpt en liten ting til dig — det første jeg kjøpte her i Rom.» Mor stakkars — tro hvordan hun hadde det. Han hadde ofte været ukjærlig mot hende i de sidste aar —. Han pakket ut tingesten — det var vist en Eau de Cologneflaske — og saa paa den. Og han føiet til nogen linjer — han klarte sig med sproget, og det var ikke saa vanskelig at prutte i butikkerne.

Maten var god men dyr. Naa, bare han blev kjendt her, lærte han nok at indrette sig billig. Mæt og kvik av vinen gik han nedover i en ny retning — skimtet lange, lave, forfaldne hus og høie havemure, kom gjennem en forfalden porthvælving og til en bro, som han gik utpaa. En mand i et bomhus stanset ham og fik gjort Helge begripelig, at han skulde ut med en soldo. Over paa den anden side laa en stor mørk kirke med kuppel.

Derover kom han ind i et virvar av mørke, trange gatestubber — i den hemmelighetsfulde dunkelhet ante han gamle paladser med fremspringende takgesims mot himmelen, gitrede vinduer — side om side med elendige rønner, smaa kirkefacader inde i husrækkerne. Fortaug fandtes ikke — han traadte i mystisk avfald, som laa og stank i rendestenen. Og utenfor de smale, oplyste kneipedører og under de faa gaslygter skimtet han skumle menneskeskikkelser.

Helge var midt imellem henrykt og ræd — gutagtig spændt. Mens han samtidig begyndte at spekulere paa, hvor han kom ut av denne labyrint — og hvordan han skulde finde tilbake til sit hotel langt borte i den anden ende av verden. Han fik vel spendere en drosche.

Og han gik nedover en ny, trang gate — ganske mennesketom. Mellem de høie huser, hvis vægger steg ret tilveirs med svarte vindueshuller snittet ind uten gesimser, løp en rift av himmel, blaaklar og mørkt lysende, og nede paa den ujevne stenbro drev støv og flakset papir og halmrusk for et litet vindstøt.

To kvinder kom bakfra og gik forbi ham. Det var like ved en gaslygt — der gik et sæt igjennem ham: det var dem han hadde lagt merke til paa Corsoen ieftermiddags. Som han hadde tænkt var norske. Han kjendte igjen det lyse skindtøiet til den høieste.

Han fik pludselig et vildt indfald — han vilde prøve et eventyr — spørre dem om veien for at se, om de var norske — skandinaver ialfald. Med litt bankende hjerte gav han sig til at følge efter dem. Utlændinger var de nu sikkert.

De to unge piker stanset borte i gaten foran en stængt butik. Straks efter gik de videre. Helge overveiet, om han skulde si «Please» eller «Bitte» eller «Scusi» — eller likefrem forsøksvis blaffe ut «Undskyld» — det kunde være leven, hvis de var norske.

Pikerne bøiet om et hjørne. Helge var tæt efter og samlet mot til at tiltale dem. Da snudde den mindste sig halvt og sa noget paa italiensk, lavt og rasende.

Helge blev svært skuffet. Han skulde like til at si «Scusi» og forsvinde; men saa sa den høie til veninden:

«Uf nei da, Cesca, ikke snak til dem — det er meget bedre bare at late, som man ikke merker det.»

«Jamen jeg taaler ikke dette fordømte italienerpakket, som aldrig kan la et fruentimmer gaa ifred,» sa den anden.

«Omforladelse,» sa Helge, og pikerne stanset og braasnudde.

«De maa virkelig undskylde.» Helge stammet og blev rød, og blev ærgerlig over det og rødmet endda mere i mørket. «Jeg er nemlig kommet fra Florens idag, og nu har jeg gaat mig rent bort i disse krinkelgaterne her. — Og saa tænkte jeg, damerne var vist norske, — eller skandinaver ialfald — jeg kan saa daarlig klare mig paa italiensk, og saa tænkte jeg. — De kan ikke værsaasnil og si mig, hvor jeg finder en sporvogn? — Mit navn er kandidat Gram,» sa han og lettet paa hatten igjen.

«Ja hvor bor De henne da,» spurte den høie.

«Ja det er no som heter Albergo Torino — like oppe ved stationen,» forklarte Helge.

«Han faar ta Trasteveretrikken ved San Carlo ai Catenari da,» sa den lille.

«Nei det er da bedre at ta linje en paa den nye Corso.»

«De gaar ikke til Termini de,» svarte den lille.

«Jovist. Den som det staar San Pietro—Stazione Termini paa,» forklarte hun Helge.

«Den — den gaar jo opom Capo le Case og Ludovisi og saa videre pokkeren ivold deromkring først — det tar en time til stationen med den — mindst!»

«Neida snille dig — den gaar direkte — like op Via Nazionale.»

«Den gjør altsaa ikke det,» sa den lille paastaaelig. «Den gaar forresten rundt til Lateranet og — først.»

Den høie dame vendte sig til Helge:

«De gaar bare ret bortover den første gaten tilhøire, ut paa loppetorvet. Og saa gaar De tilvenstre langs Cancelleria ut paa den nye Corso. Saavidt jeg husker, saa holder trikken ved Cancelleria — like i nærheten ialfald — De ser nok skiltet. Saa maa De passe paa at ta den trikken, som det staar San Pietro—Stazione Termini paa — linje en er det.»

Helge stod litt motløs og hørte paa de unge piker kaste bal forbi ham med fremmede navne. Og han rystet paa hodet:

«Jeg er ræd, jeg finder det ikke, frøken — jeg faar vist heller gaa, til jeg træffer paa en drosche.»

«Vi kan gjerne følge Dem til stoppestedet,» sa den høie.

Den lille hvisket grættent paa italiensk, men den høie svarte avvisende igjen. Helge blev endda mere motløs ved disse bemerkninger forbi ham, som han ikke forstod.

«Tak, det skal De virkelig ikke uleilige Dem med — jeg finder nok hjem paa et vis, kan De vite.»

«Det er ikke nogen uleilighet,» sa den høie og begyndte at gaa. «Vi skal omtrent den veien vi og.»

«Det er altfor snilt. Det er vist noksaa vanskelig at finde frem her i Rom — er det ikke,» forsøkte han at konversere. «Ialfald naar det er mørkt.»

«Aanei, man blir fort kjendt.»

«Ja jeg kom jo altsaa hit idag — jeg kom fra Florens i formiddags med toget.»

Den lille sa noget halvhøit paa italiensk. Den høie spurte Helge:

«Der var vel koldt i Florens nu?»

«Ja bikjekaldt. Er det ikke litt mildere her i byen? Jeg skrev forresten hjem til min mor efter vinterfrakken min igaar.»

«Aa her kan nok være noksaa skarpt her og. Likte De Dem i Florens — hvor længe var De der?»

«Fjorten dage,» sa Helge. «Jeg tror, jeg kommer til at like Rom bedre.»

Den anden unge pike lo. Hele tiden hadde hun gaat og smaamukket paa italiensk. Men den høie sa til ham med sin varme, rolige stemme:

«Ja jeg tror ikke, der er nogen by, man kan bli saa glad i som Rom.»

«Deres veninde er italiensk,» spurte Helge.

«Neida, frøken Jahrmann er norsk. Vi snakker bare italiensk sammen forat jeg skal lære — hun er nemlig svært flink. Mit navn er Winge,» føiet hun til. «Dette er Cancelleria,» viste hun mot et stort mørkt palads.

«Er gaardsrummet saa vakkert, som det har ord for?»

«Ja svært vakkert. — Nu skal jeg hjælpe Dem, at De kommer paa rigtig sporvogn.»

Mens de stod og ventet, skraadde to herrer over gaten.

«Nei se, staar ni här,» sa den ene.

«Godaften,» sa den anden. «Saa gaar vi vel opover sammen da? Har dere været nede og set paa korallerne?»

«Der var stængt,» svarte frøken Jahrmann mut.

«Vi har truffet en landsmand, som vi skulde hjælpe paa rigtig sporvogn,» forklarte frøken Winge, og hun forestilte, «kandidat Gran, — maleren Heggen, billedhugger Ahlin.»

«Jeg vet ikke, om herr Heggen husker mig — Gram heter jeg — vi traf sammen paa Mysusæter for tre aar siden.»

«Aa javist ja. Og nu er De i Rom?»

Ahlin og frøken Jahrmann hadde staat og hvisket sammen. Nu kom hun bort til veninden:

«Du Jenny, — jeg gaar hjem. Jeg er ikke oplagt til at gaa paa Frascati allikevel.»

«Men kjære — det er jo du, som har fundet paa det.»

«Uf nei, ikke Frascati — æsch, sitte der og murpe da med tredve gamle danske damer av alle mulige kjøn og aldre.»

«Vi kan jo gaa et andet sted hen, — men der kommer Deres sporvogn, kandidat Gram.»

«Ja tusen tak for hjælpen da — kanske jeg træffer damerne engang igjen — i Skandinavisk Forening kanske?»

Sporvognen stanset foran dem. Da sa frøken Winge:

«Jeg vet ikke — kanske De kunde ha lyst at slaa følge med os — vi hadde avtalt at gaa litt ut iaften — drikke vin og høre musik.»

«Ja tak —» Helge stod litt uviss og forlegen og saa rundt paa de andre. «Det skulde være svært moro, men —» og han vendte sig tillidsfuldt mot frøken Winge med det lyse ansigt og den venlige stemme: «Dere kjender jo hinanden og — ja, er det ikke hyggeligst for dere da at slippe og ha med en fremmed,» plumpet han ut og lo forlegent.

«Nei kjære Dem —» hun smilte. «Det vilde da bare være hyggelig — se der gik trikken Deres og — Heggen kjender De jo fra før, og nu os —. Vi skal nok passe paa at faa Dem ekspedert rigtig hjem og — saa hvis De ikke er træt.»

«Nei træt! — Jeg vil forfærdelig gjerne faa være med dere, jeg,» sa Helge ivrig og lettet.

De andre tre begyndte at foreslaa kneiper. — Helge kjendte ingen av navnene; det var ikke nogen, hans far hadde snakket om. Frøken Jahrmann forkastet allesammen.

«Jaha — saa gaar vi derned ved S. Agostino — du vet, med den røde vinen, Gunnar.» Jenny Winge begyndte uten videre at gaa; Heggen fulgte.

«Der er ikke musik,» indvendte frøken Jahrmann.

«Joda — han som skjeler og den andre manden er der næsten hver aften. Lad os nu bare ikke staa her og tøve da.»

Helge fulgte efter med frøken Jahrmann og den svenske billedhugger.

«Har herr Gram varit länge i Rom?»

«Nei, jeg kom fra Florens i formiddag».

Frøken Jahrmann lo litt. Helge blev flau. Han gik og overveiet — kanske han allikevel hellere skulde si, han var træt, og saa gaa? Mens de fortsatte ned gjennem mørke, trange gater, snakket frøken Jahrmann hele tiden med billedhuggeren og svarte neppe, naar han forsøkte at si noget til hende. Men inden han fik bestemt sig, saa han det andet par forsvinde ind av en smal dør nede i gaten.

I

 

The music surged up the Via Condotti just as Helge Gram turned onto the street in the twilight. It was The Merry Widow , played at a preposterously fast tempo, making it resound like a wild fanfare. And small, dark-haired soldiers stormed past him in the cold afternoon, as if they were no less than part of a Roman cohort which, at a furious double time, was about to fall upon the barbarian hosts rather than peacefully return home to the barracks for supper. Or perhaps that was exactly the reason they were in such a hurry, thought Helge with a smile; for as he stood there with his coat collar turned up against the cold, an oddly historic feeling came over him. But then he began humming along — "No, a man will never understand women" — and continued down the street in the direction where he knew the Corso must be.

He stopped at the corner and looked up the street. So that's how the Corso looked. A ceaselessly flowing stream of traffic in the cramped thoroughfare and a churning throng of people on the narrow sidewalk.

He stood still and watched the stream flow past. And he smiled, because he was thinking that now, every single evening, he could head up this street in the dark through the swarms of people until it became as familiar to him as Karl Johans Gaten back home.

Oh, he had the urge right now to walk and walk, through all the streets of Rome, gladly all night long. He was thinking of the city as it lay below him a short time ago, when he stood on Monte Pincio and watched the sun go down.

Clouds had covered the entire sky to the west, crowded together like small pale gray lambs. And the sun gave them glowing golden-amber edges as it sank behind. Beneath the pale sky lay the city, and Helge suddenly knew that this was precisely how Rome should look — not the way he had dreamed of it, but precisely like this, as it was.

Yet everything else he had seen on this trip had disappointed him because it wasn't the way he had imagined beforehand, as he went about at home, longing to go out and see things. At last, now at last there was one sight that was richer than all his dreams. And it was Rome.

A wide plain of rooftops lay beneath him in the hollow of the valley, a jumble of roofs on buildings that were old and new, tall buildings and low buildings. They looked as if they had been put up quite haphazardly and as big as was needed at the time; only in a few places did the streets cut regular clefts through the mass of rooftops. And this whole world of disorderly lines that intersected each other at thousands of sharp angles lay rigid and motionless beneath the pale sky, in which an invisible sinking sun sporadically ignited a tiny rim of light on the edges of the clouds. The sun hung dreaming under a delicate, whitish mist, into which not a single spurting column of smoke blended, because there were no factory smokestacks in sight, and no smoke came from any of the comical little tin chimneys sticking up from the buildings. Grayish yellow lichen lay on the old, rounded, rust-brown roof tiles, and greenery and small shrubs with yellow flowers grew along the eaves. Around the edges of the terraces stood silent, dead agaves in urns, and from the cornices twining plants spilled in silent, dead cascades. Wherever the upper story of a taller building loomed above its neighbors, dark, dead windows stared out from a red-yellow or gray-white wall — or else they slumbered with closed shutters. But out of the mist rose loggias, looking like the stumps of old watchtowers, and arbors made of wood and tin had been erected on the rooftops.

And above everything hovered the church domes, a countless number of them. The magnificent gray dome far off in the distance, on the other side of the place where Helge caught a glimpse of the flowing river, that was the Basilica of St. Peter.

But on this side of the valley floor, where the dead roofs covered the city — which, on this evening, Helge certainly felt could be called eternal — a low hillside arched its long back toward the sky, and its ridge carried into the distance a lane of Italian stone pines whose crowns spread out into one above the slender pillars of their trunks. And farthest away, beyond the dome of St. Peter's, where the eye stopped, another slope rose up with light-colored villas among the pines and cypresses. Surely that must be Monte Mario.

Above his head hung the thick, dark foliage of the holly oaks, and behind him splashed the jet of the fountain with a peculiarly vivid sound. The water crashed against the stone bowl and trickled innocuously into the basin underneath.

Helge whispered aloud to the city of his dreams, whose streets his feet had never trod and whose buildings concealed not one familiar soul: "Rome, Rome, eternal Rome." And he grew shy before his own lonely being, and afraid, because he was deeply moved, although he knew that no one was there watching him. All the same, he turned around and hurried down toward the Spanish Steps.

Now he was standing here on the corner of Via Condotti and the Corso, feeling an oddly sweet anxiety because he was about to cross through the teeming life of the street and then make his way into the strange city. He would go straight through, all the way to the Piazza San Pietro.

As he cut across the street two young girls walked past him. Those two are undoubtedly Norwegian, it occurred to him at once, and he found the idea amusing. One of them was very blond and wore a light-colored fur.

He suddenly felt happy just from reading the street names on the corners of the buildings, the white inlaid marble plaques with the clean, Roman letters chiseled into them.

The street he was following ended in an open square near a white bridge that had two rows of streetlamps burning a sickly greenish yellow against the vast pale light streaming down from the restless heavens. Along the water ran a low stone parapet, shining wanly, and a row of trees with withered leaves, the bark of their trunks scaling off in big white flakes. On the opposite side of the river, gas lamps burned beneath the trees, and the massive buildings stood black against the sky; but on this side the evening light still flared in the windowpanes. The sky was almost clear now, a transparent blue-green above the ridge with its lane of pines, but a few heaps of heavy cloud banks drifted past, glowing red and yellow, like a portent of storm.

He stopped on the bridge and looked down at the Tiber. How murky the water was! It gushed in torrents, flame-colored from the sky's reflection; it swept branches and planks and debris along with it, there below in its bed of pale stone walls. On one side of the bridge a small stairway led down to the water. Helge thought about how easy it would be to sneak out here one night if things ever became too unbearable. He wondered if anyone ever did.

In German he asked a constable the way to St. Peter's, and the constable replied in French and then Italian, but when Helge kept on shaking his head, he went back to speaking French and pointed up the street the way the traffic was flowing. Helge set off in that direction.

A massive dark wall rose against the sky, a low round tower with notched battlements and the coal-black silhouette of an angel on top. He recognized the contours of the Castel Sant'Angelo. He passed right below it. There was still enough light in the sky that the statues along the bridge looked yellowish in the dusk, and the Tiber's water still flowed with the reflection of red clouds, but the gas lamps were gaining in power and cast arcs of light onto the currents. Behind the Ponte Sant'Angelo the electric trolley cars, with lights shining from their windows, raced across a new bridge made of iron. Blue-white sparks flew from the insulated wires.

Helge tipped his hat to a man. "San Pietro, favorisca? "

The man pointed and said a great deal that Helge could not understand.

The street he now entered was so narrow and dark that he actually felt a thrill of recognition — this was the way he had imagined an Italian street would look. And there was one antiques shop after another. Helge peered with interest into the poorly lit windows. Most of it was probably junk. The dirty remnants of coarse white lace hanging there on strings: Was that Italian lace? There were bits and pieces of pottery displayed in dusty box lids, small, venomous-green bronze figures, old and new metal candlesticks, and brooches with clusters of stones that didn't look genuine. Still, he had an absurd urge to go in and buy something — inquire, bargain, make a purchase. He ended up inside a cramped little shop, almost before he knew what he was doing. But it was an amusing place, with all sorts of strange artifacts: old church lamps up near the ceiling, tattered silk with gold flowers on red and green and white backgrounds, rickety furniture.

Behind the counter sat a dark-haired young man, reading. His skin was golden, his chin blue with stubble. He chattered his replies as Helge pointed at various items and said, " Quanto? " The only thing Helge could understand was that everything was shamelessly expensive. Of course he ought to wait to buy anything until he spoke the language and could haggle properly.

Over on a shelf stood a number of porcelain pieces: rococo figurines and vases decorated with molded bouquets of roses. But they looked new. Helge picked up a little knickknack at random and set it on the counter. " Quanto? "

" Sette ," said the man and put out seven fingers.

" Quattro ." Helge held up four fingers, wearing his new brown glove. And he suddenly felt happy and confident at this leap into a foreign language. It was true that he didn't understand a word of the clerk's protests, but each time the man stopped talking, he would repeat his " quattro " and hold up four fingers.

" Non antica! " he added with a flourish.

But the shop clerk insisted: " Antica ."

" Quattro ," said Helge for the last time. Now the man was holding up only five fingers. When Helge turned toward the door, the man called after him — he gave in. Bursting with joy, Helge accepted the knickknack, which had been wrapped in pink tissue paper.

 

…

 

At the end of the street he could glimpse the dark dimensions of the church against the sky. He walked fast. And he hurried across the first section of the piazza, where the shops stood with bright windows and the trolleys raced past. He was headed toward the two semicircular arcades, which seemed to be placing a pair of curved arms around part of the piazza, pulling it into the silence and darkness, toward the magnificent dark cathedral, which thrust across the square its wide stairs, jutting out into a shell-shaped semicircle in the middle.

Black against the dim vault of the sky stood the dome of the church with its ranks of statues: saintly hosts lining the roof of the arcades, with buildings and crowns of trees irregularly piled up on the slope behind. The gas lamps seemed to have little power here; the dark seeped out through the pillars of the arcades, flooding down the steps from the open portico of the cathedral. Helge walked all the way up to the church and peered at the closed bronze doors. Then he went back to the obelisk in the center of the piazza and stood there, staring at the dark cathedral. He tilted his head back and moved his eyes along the slender stone spire that pointed straight up into the evening sky, where the last clouds had settled onto the rooftops in the direction from which he had come, and the first stars were drilling their glittering needles of light through the darkness, which was growing denser.

And his ears were filled once again with the odd crash of splashing water gushing into a stone basin, and the soft trickling of water overflowing from bowl to bowl, into the basin underneath. He moved close to one of the fountains and looked up at the thick white jet that was being forced upward in fierce defiance, bursting apart high overhead, dark against the clarity of the sky, then falling back in the darkness, where the water gleamed white again. He stared until a little gust of wind seized the fountain's column of spray and bent it toward him. The water no longer slammed against the stone basin; it hissed, and he was showered with icy drops in the cold night.

But he stayed where he was, listening and staring; walked on a bit, stopped a moment, walked on again — but very quietly, trying to hear the whispering inside him. Now he was here, he was actually here — far, far away from everything he had been longing so feverishly to leave behind. And he walked even more quietly, treading like someone who had escaped from prison.

There was a restaurant on the corner of the street. He headed toward it, found a tobacco shop along the way, and stopped in to buy cigarettes, postcards, and stamps. While he waited for his steak and drank great gulps of red wine, he wrote cards to his parents. To his father: "I'm thinking of you so much down here tonight," and he smiled sadly — yes, it was true, in spite of everything. But to his mother he wrote: "I've already bought a little gift for you — the first I've purchased here in Rome." Poor Mother. He wondered how she was. He had often been unloving toward her over the past few years. He unwrapped the knickknack — it was probably an eau de cologne bottle — and looked at it. And he added a few lines about how well he had managed with the language and how it wasn't very difficult to bargain in the shops.

The food was good but expensive. Well, as soon as he became familiar with things here, he would no doubt learn how to get by more cheaply. Feeling full and lively from the wine, he set off in a new direction, glimpsing long, low, dilapidated buildings and high garden walls. He passed through a crumbling arched gate and came to a bridge, which he proceeded to cross. A man in a tollbooth stopped him and made Helge understand that he had to hand over a soldo. On the other side stood a large dark church with a dome.

Then he entered a maze of dark, narrow streets. In the secretive dimness he could make out old palazzos with eaves jutting against the sky and windows with grates, standing side by side with miserable hovels and small church facades among the rows of buildings. There was no sidewalk; he stepped on dubious-looking garbage that lay reeking along the curb. Outside the narrow, illuminated tavern doors and beneath the few gas lamps he caught sight of sinister-looking people.

Helge was half delighted and half frightened — as excited as a boy. At the same time he began to wonder how he was going to get out of this labyrinth, and how he would find his way back to the hotel, far away on the other side of the world. He would probably have to splurge on a cab.

He walked down another narrow street, completely deserted. Between the tall buildings, whose walls rose straight up with black window holes carved into them but no cornices, rippled a crevice of sky, clear blue and darkly luminous, while below, on the uneven cobblestones, dust and fluttering paper and shreds of straw drifted along in a little gust of wind.

Two women came up behind him and walked past, right near a gas lamp. He gave a start: They were the ones he had noticed on the Corso that afternoon. The ones he thought were Norwegian. He recognized the light-colored fur the tall girl was wearing.

He had a sudden impulse; he would have himself a little adventure, ask them for directions to see whether they were Norwegian, or Scandinavian, at any rate. With his heart beating a little faster, he proceeded to follow them. He was certain they were foreigners.

The two young women stopped along the street in front of a shop that was closed. A moment later they continued on. Helge considered whether he should say "Please" or " Bitte " or " Scusi " — or come right out and try " Undskyld " — it would be fun if they were Norwegian.

The girls turned the corner. Helge was close behind, gathering his courage to speak to them. Then the shorter one looked over her shoulder and said something in Italian, in a low, furious voice.

Helge was very disappointed. He was just about to say "Scusi" and leave, but then the tall girl said to her friend in Norwegian: "Oh, no, Cesca, don't say anything to them — it's much better to pretend you don't notice."

"But I can't stand these darned Italian louts who won't ever leave a woman alone," she replied.

"I beg your pardon," said Helge, and the girls stopped and turned around at once.

"You really must forgive me," Helge stammered and blushed, which annoyed him, and he blushed even more in the dark. "But I've just arrived from Florence today, and now I've gotten completely lost in all these twisting streets. And so I thought you ladies might be Norwegian, or Scandinavian, at any rate — I can't manage very well in Italian, and so I thought ... Would you be kind enough to tell me where I might find a trolley? My name is Herr Gram," he said and tipped his hat again.

"Where are you staying?" asked the tall girl.

"Well, it's a place called Albergo Torino — right near the train station," Helge explained.

"Then he should take the Trastevere trolley over by San Carlo ai Catinari," said the short girl.

"No, it's better to take route number one from the new Corso."

"But that one doesn't go to the Termini," replied her friend.

"Yes, it does. The one that says SAN PIETRO—STAZIONE TERMINI on it does," she explained to Helge.

"That one ... it goes up around Capo le Case and Ludovisi and then keeps on going all the way around first. It takes at least an hour to get to the station on that one!"

"No, no, my dear — it goes straight there, right up Via Nazionale."

"No, it doesn't at all," said the short girl, stubbornly. "Besides, first it goes around to Laterana too."

The tall woman turned to Helge.

"Just take the first street on the right, over to the flea market. Then take a left at the Cancelleria out to the new Corso. As far as I remember, the trolley stops at the Cancelleria, or right next to it, at any rate. You're bound to see the sign. Then be careful to take the trolley that says SAN PIETRO—STAZIONE TERMINI. It's route number one."

Helge stood there a little dejectedly, listening to the two young women tossing the foreign names back and forth right in front of him. He shook his head. "I'm afraid I won't find it, Frøken. I suppose I'd better just keep walking until I find a cab."

"We'd be happy to go with you to the stop," said the tall girl.

Her friend began whispering crossly in Italian, but the tall girl rebuked her. Helge felt even more dejected by these remarks flying past him, which he didn't understand.

"Thank you, but you really mustn't trouble yourselves; you know, I'm sure I'll find my way back somehow."

"It's no trouble at all," said the tall girl and began walking. "We're going quite near there ourselves."

"You're much too kind. It certainly is hard to find your way around here in Rome, isn't it?" he said, attempting to converse. "At least in the dark."

"Oh, you'll know your way around in no time."

"Well, I just arrived today. I came from Florence this afternoon, on the train."

The short girl said something softly in Italian. The tall girl asked Helge, "Is it cold in Florence right now?"

"Yes, freezing cold. It seems quite a bit warmer here in the city, doesn't it? And here I just wrote home to my mother yesterday, asking for my winter coat."

"Oh, it can get quite bitter here too. Did you like Florence? How long were you there?"

"Two weeks," said Helge. "I think I'm going to like Rome better."

The other girl laughed. The whole time she had been walking along muttering in Italian. But the tall girl told him in her calm, warm voice, "Yes, I don't think there's any city that you'll like more than Rome."

"Your friend is Italian?" asked Helge.

"Oh no, Frøken Jahrmann is Norwegian. We just speak Italian to each other so I'll get better at it. She speaks it so well, you see. My name is Winge," she added. "Here's the Cancelleria." She pointed to a large dark palazzo.

"Is the courtyard as lovely as they say?"

"Yes, quite lovely. Now let me make sure you find the right trolley."

As they stood and waited, two gentlemen cut across the street.

"Well, look who's here," said one of them.

"Good evening," said the other. "Shall we go up there together? Have you been over to look at the corals?"

"It was closed," sulked Frøken Jahrmann.

"We ran into a countryman, and we're helping him find the right trolley," explained Frøken Winge, and she made the introductions. "Herr Gram — the painter, Heggen, and the sculptor, Ahlin."

"I don't know whether Herr Heggen remembers me ... My name is Gram, we met up at Mysusæter three years ago."

"Oh, that's right, of course. And now you're here in Rome?"

Ahlin and Frøken Jahrmann were whispering to each other. Now they came over to the other girl.

"Jenny, I'm going home. I don't feel like going to Frascati after all."

"But my dear — it was your idea in the first place."

"Oh, no, not Frascati. Ugh. Sit there and mope with two dozen Danish women of all ages."

"We could certainly go somewhere else. But here's your trolley, Herr Gram."

"Yes, well, thank you so much for your help. I hope I'll meet you ladies sometime again — perhaps at the Scandinavian Club?"

The trolley stopped in front of them. Then Frøken Winge said, "I wonder ... maybe you might like to come along with us? We were planning to go out for a bit this evening — drink some wine and hear some music."

"Oh yes ..." Helge stood there a little uncertain and shy, looking around at the others. "That would be very pleasant, but ..." and he turned trustingly to Frøken Winge with her bright face and kind voice: "All of you know each other, and ... well, I'm sure it would be more comfortable if you didn't have a stranger tagging along," he exclaimed and laughed with embarrassment.

"Oh, my dear man," she said with a smile. "It would be so nice. And look, there goes your trolley. You already know Heggen from before, and now you know us. And we'll make sure that you get home properly. So if you're not tired ..."

"Tired? Oh no! I would love to join you," said Helge eagerly, with relief.

The three others had begun to suggest taverns. Helge didn't know any of them by name; none of them was among those his father had talked about. Frøken Jahrmann rejected them all.

"All right then — we'll go down to Sant'Agostino. You know, the place with the red wine, Gunnar." Jenny Winge started off at once; Heggen followed.

"They don't have music," objected Frøken Jahrmann.

"Yes, they do — the man who squints and that other man are there almost every evening. Let's not stand here talking nonsense."

Helge followed behind with Frøken Jahrmann and the Swedish sculptor.

"Have you been in Rome long, Herr Gram?" asked Ahlin.

"No, I came from Florence this afternoon."

Frøken Jahrmann gave a little laugh. Helge felt sheepish. He walked along thinking that perhaps he ought to say he was tired after all, and leave. As they continued on through the dark, narrow streets, Frøken Jahrmann kept talking to the Swedish sculptor and barely responded whenever he tried to speak to her. But before he had made up his mind, he saw the other couple disappear through a narrow doorway down the street.