Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - Part one - I
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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
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