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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
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