Читать книгу A Walk with Love and Death - Hans Koning - Страница 11

I cannot now remember how it felt to see her without knowing who she was. I know I was struck by her eyes, gray-brown, and the copper color of her hair (it was the sunny room which made it that way, her hair is simply dark blond); I remember that for some reason a line from a stupid song sprang to my head, which goes, “and her round high breasts . . .” although she wore a wide and chaste dress; above all she seemed to possess a quality which I’d describe as an overflowing, youthful, luminousness. Perhaps a less biased observer would simply call her a fair-skinned almost plump girl—she isn’t plump though—but I know that I decided in that same moment to fall in love with her.

“Good morning,” I said, and stood up. Instead of looking at her I looked down upon myself and was aware of appearing shabby and ill-kempt. I thought hastily, I must try and get in a romantic explanation of my disheveled state. Just then a maid entered who said to me in an unpleasant tone, “We thought you’d gone, sir. This is the lady of the house, who has to be here.”

I didn’t think of anything to answer. I bowed and left, walked to the back of the house and came to the kitchens where a cook explained to me the way to Montmélian. I set out hesitantly: I had wanted to talk to the girl.

I got as far as the edge of the lawn. They hadn’t built a fence there, the ground dropped away steeply toward the village which was just a collection of miserable huts. Down the slope zigzagged a path, or rather a trail, made through the rushes by the feet of villagers coming and going. I sat down on a rock, but after a while I got up and with a sigh began the descent. Halfway down, my knees buckled and I stopped to rest; when I looked up I saw the head of the girl against the blue sky. She was sitting where I had sat before. I turned and climbed back.

I worried that she’d be annoyed at that, but when I appeared over the edge she was laughing.

“I hope I’m not being rude,” I said.

“To the contrary,” she answered. “I wanted you to climb back up. I was bored.”

“Why did you laugh?”

“You don’t make a very elegant climber.”

“That’s only because my feet hurt,” I said, offended. “I’ve been on the road for too long.”

“Then sit down and talk to me awhile.”

“Won’t that annoy your father?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t think so.”

I told her about myself. She said little but she listened with a contented air as if to a professional storyteller.

When I announced that I was on my way to Oxford, she asked why.

“It’s my only goal,” I answered. “I carry a letter for the dean of Merton College. Did you know that Oxford was founded by exiles from Paris? That was hundreds of years ago. I like the idea of following in their trail. I’m not going to stay there though. I’m going on to—to everywhere.”

“You must be a rich man.”

I couldn’t tell whether she was being ironic. “I’ve twenty francs on me, and they say it takes ten just to be sailed across the Channel. But that doesn’t matter. I made a discovery some time ago. It’s hard to talk about it.”

“Try,” she said.

“I discovered that more than anything else in this world, I wanted to be free. And then I found I could be. It’s just a matter of daring to. Once I dared, my college, in Paris, no longer seemed a shelter but a prison. Soon after that I wrote a poem for which they threw me out; I had a bad name already for speaking out of turn and thinking wrong thoughts. It suited me perfectly, for I was going to leave in the spring anyway.”

“Free,” she said.

“Do you like that idea?”

“It frightens me. Free for what, student?” She jumped up. “I have to go in,” she said. “But I enjoyed your story very much.”

I stood up too. “What is your name?” I asked.

“Claudia.”

I couldn’t help smiling at her. “What a lovely, poetic heathenish name.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Poetic?”

“How did your father get the Bishop’s consent? It sounds very un-Christian.”

“But not at all. I was born on the fifteenth of January. That’s Saint Maur’s Day. He’s the saint of the lame, and ‘Claudus’ is Latin for lame.”

“Of course,” I said. “Forgive me. You’re a very learned girl.”

She took a few steps toward the house, stood still and looked at me. “Why did you say it was poetic?”

“How old were you on January fifteen last?”

She frowned with irritation, but then she answered, “Sixteen.”

“Claudia is a poetic name,” I now said, “but I wasn’t thinking of a gouty saint; Claudia was the name of a lady of breathtaking beauty who lived in Rome, before Christ was born.”

She blushed.

“Her full name was Claudia Pulcher, and every man in the city was in love with her. ‘Amata nobis quantum amabitur nulla.’ A poet wrote that to her. He loved her most of all.”

“What does it mean?”

“Loved by us both as no woman will ever be loved.”

She didn’t answer any more and walked away.

“But you could be loved that way too,” I said softly.