Great Britain -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Short stories
'I will wait,' said Livia contentedly. The queer little house, with its
homely furniture, the gentle, picturesque woman who met her at the door,
amused her. It was certainly an adventure.
Next day, and the days following, they walked about the town, and
Roserra felt that his own luxuriating sensations could hardly fail to be
shared by Livia, though she said little and seemed at times
absent-minded. They strolled among the ruins of the theatre begun under
Augustus, and among the coulisses of the great amphitheatre; they sat
on the granite steps; they went up the hundred steps of the western
tower. From the cloisters of St. Trophime they went across to the museum
opposite, where a kindly little dwarf showed them the altar to Leda, the
statue of Mithras, and the sarcophagi with the Good Shepherd. He sold
them some photographs of Arlesian women: one was very beautiful. 'That
is my sister,' he said shyly.
When the soul of Autumn made for itself a body, it made Arles. An autumn
city, hinting of every gentle, resigned, reflective way of fading out of
life, of effacing oneself in a world to which one no longer attaches any
value; always remembering itself, always looking into a mournfully
veiled mirror which reflects something at least of what it was, Arles
sits in the midst of its rocky plains, by the side of its river, among
the tombs. Everything there seems to grow out of death, and to be
returning thither. The town rises above its ruins, does not seem to be
even yet detached from them. The remains of the theatre look down on
the public garden; one comes suddenly on a Roman obelisk and the
fragments of Roman walls; a Roman column has been built into the wall of
one of the two hotels which stand in the Forum, now the Place du Forum;
and the modern, the comparatively modern houses, have an air which is
neither new nor old, but entirely sympathetic with what is old. They are
faded, just a little dilapidated, not caring to distinguish themselves
from the faint colours, the aged slumber, of the very ancient things
about them.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account